One Foot in the Grave Page 13

  She pushes one bowl over to me. “Enjoy.”

  “Dare I ask what’s in the powder stuff?”

  “Don’t worry, it’s legal.” She grins. “It’s mostly cinnamon and ginger with some brown sugar.”

  “Okay.” I dip my spoon in and bring it to my lips. “If I get high or anything, I’ll come after your ass.”

  She laughs.

  The second the spoon touches my tongue, I moan. My taste buds fall instantly in love . . . in lust.

  “Holy shit,” I say as I savor the different flavors. “This is to die for.”

  “I know,” she says around her own mouthful. “I used to lie and say I was on the rag every time I came to see my grandma. It’s like heaven.”

  “Is it really for cramps?”

  “Yup. Look it up. You’ll find that bananas, walnuts, peanut butter, cinnamon, and ginger are natural remedies for cramps. My grandmother was into holistic medicines, herbs and such.”

  “Well, I’d rather eat this than take a Motrin anytime,” I say.

  She chuckles and looks around the house again. “When you said you lived a couple of blocks away I didn’t know you meant you lived in the rich subdivision in front of ours.”

  “We’re not rich,” I say. “The house belongs to the owner of the funeral home. Free rent is part of the package.” I look around the room and try to see it from her eyes. “Actually, I would prefer your house to this one. This one feels almost like a hospital. White walls, tan furniture, no warmth here.” I scoop up another bite and the bareness of the walls taunts me. “I have some artwork to hang. I just haven’t done it yet.”

  We continue to eat when I realize something. “How did you know where I live?”

  “ESP,” she says.

  I point my empty spoon at her. “Try again.”

  She grins. “I volunteer at the office. I peeked at your file.”

  “Sneaky,” I say.

  “Just curious.” She licks her spoon. “Guess who else is curious?”

  “Huh?”

  She gets a big grin on her face.

  “What?” I say.

  “Jacob pulled me aside in the hall and wanted to know why you weren’t in school.”

  I frown. “You didn’t tell him I was on my period, did you?”

  She frowns. “I might have. But they know about that stuff. He also asked for your address.”

  I drop my spoon. “And you gave it to him?”

  “Of course I did. But you don’t have to thank me.”

  I roll my eyes. “I’m not sure I’m ready for . . . that.”

  She cuts me a sly look. “Are you still hung up on your ex?”

  “No, I just . . .”

  “Then who is he? Because no one would push a hot guy away unless there’s someone else.”

  My mind goes to Hayden. “There’s no one else,” I lie.

  “Say that again and make it more believable this time.”

  I shoot her the bird. She shoots one back.

  We spend the next hour laughing about everything from boys to school. The laughing stops when we touch on the subject of parents, and she tells me about her MIA dad. Her mom claims he was a drunk and a womanizer.

  “How old were you when he left?” I ask.

  “Seven. I remember him. What’s crazy is I don’t remember him like my mom describes him. I remember him playing with me, watching cartoons with me. I’m not saying my mama is lying, but I need to find out myself.”

  “How are you going to find out?” I ask.

  “Before my grandmother died she gave me an address in Austin where some of his family lives. I mailed a letter two weeks ago.”

  “And?” I ask, but the flash of sadness in her green eyes tells me the answer before she does.

  “I haven’t gotten an answer, but when I get a car, I’m going to go there and see if they know where he is.”

  “Does your mom know you are looking for him?”

  “No. She’d freak. And she’d be pissed that Grandmother gave me the address.”

  She runs her spoon around the melted goo in her bowl. “But I want to meet him. Make my own mind up about him.” She looks up. “Is that crazy?”

  “No, not at all. I’d give anything if I could learn more about my mom. My dad never talks about her. And when I ask questions I feel . . . I feel as if it hurts him. I just recently found a picture that looks like a wedding photo.” I bite down on my lip. “Mom looked pregnant.”

  “So?” she asks. “I know my mom was pregnant with me when she married my dad.”

  “It’s not that I care,” I tell her. “It just feels like a secret that he’s kept from me. And it makes me . . . makes me wonder what else he isn’t telling me.”

  “I’d confront him. Tell him you saw the photo.” She slumps back in her chair. “Well, shit! Listen to me.” She sighs. “I tell you to confront him, but I can’t confront my own mom. So don’t listen to me.”

  I crater then and tell her about my suspicions that Dad is drinking.

  “Oh crap,” she says. “What are you going to do?”

  “I can’t do anything until I prove it. And I’m almost scared to prove it, because if he knows that I know, maybe he won’t feel the need to hide it and he’ll drink even more.”

  “I see your point, but you can’t help him until the truth is out of the bag. One of my mom’s boyfriends was a recovering alcoholic. He went to those meetings three times a week. He was actually a nice guy. I missed him when he moved out.”

  “That must suck, having people come into your life and then losing them.”

  “Not anymore. I learned to never care about them.”

  Which sounds like it sucks even more, I think, but I don’t say it.

  Our conversation moves everywhere. Back to boys, over to best shopping venues, local hangouts, and then some school gossip. Two girls got pregnant last year by the same guy. Carter, a head basketball player, was brain damaged and hasn’t come back to school yet. And the mayor’s son, who was also in twelfth grade, got arrested for drug trafficking.

  We move away from the kitchen and I show her my room. We crash on the bed and I show her pictures of Carl and Shala, and my life back in Dallas.

  She notices the picture of my mom’s and my feet and asks about it. She picks it up and stares at it. “It looks like she loved you. Don’t ask me how a picture of two pairs of feet says that, but it does.”

  Hearing her say that tugs at my heartstrings. “I know. I feel it, too.” Right then I’m glad we’ve become friends. I know school will be out in six months and we might move our separate ways, but for now I have a friend, someone to share with, someone to laugh with, someone to make me feel less like a freak.

  I know that sounds dorky, but I don’t care. After having been friendless for a year and a half, this feels good. Then I realize I’m discounting how Hayden makes me feel. In some ways, I feel even closer to him.

  I push that thought away. Hayden is temporary. That thought is like a paper cut deep into my soul, but it’s something I really need to accept.

  “Oh,” Kelsey says. “Jacob wasn’t the only one to ask about you.”

  Okay, that’s a shock. “Who else?”

  “Your friendly cashier.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Yup.”

  “Okay, that’s it.” I sit up and cross my legs. “She officially freaks me out.”

  “Maybe you remind her of her daughter or something.”

  A thought hits and I change the subject. “Have you made a move on Dex?”

  “Who?” she says, all innocent-like. I give her the stink eye.

  “Fine. He was with Jacob when he stopped me,” she confesses. “He said hello and I was friendly.”

  “How friendly?” I pin her with a look that dares her to lie.

  She makes a face. “I didn’t frown at him.”

  I laugh. “That’s not a move.”

  “It’s all I got.”

  I realize how easy it is to ta
lk to Kelsey. Every now and then, Abby and the whole Evil Bill problem bubbles to the surface of my mind. But when it does, I push it down. I know as soon as Kelsey leaves I’ll have to deal with it.

  With that thought, I feel a chill scurry up my backbone. I sit up and see Abby standing at the foot of my bed. Her shoulders are slumped, and tears are in her eyes. She appears defeated.

  “Did it just get extra cold in here?” Kelsey hugs herself, then she leans her head back. “Is that jasmine I smell?”

  Chapter Sixteen

  “What are you doing?” Hayden’s voice whispers in my ear later that night as I’m sitting on the stairs. Without meaning to, I lean his way, needing his presence, not wanting the loneliness I feel when I think about Dad.

  I look at him sitting next to me on the steps. Some of the ache inside me eases. Being with Kelsey was great, but Hayden has become my touchstone.

  “You okay?” he asks.

  I nod. “Just listening to see if my dad gets a drink.”

  He slips his arm around my shoulders.

  His touch feels so right, but I know it’s not. How can I stop this? Then I let myself wonder what would happen if I didn’t stop it. Caught between what feels right and what I know is wrong, my chest gets heavy and tight.

  I stand up and walk into my bedroom. He follows me. I sit in the desk chair, afraid if I get in the bed he’ll join me.

  “Was he drunk when he got home this afternoon?”

  “No. But he looked tired. He barely ate any dinner. Then he said he had a headache and went to bed early.”

  I recall too clearly that he’d started doing that right before he lost both jobs. “I don’t even know if he went to work today.”

  “I’m sorry,” he says. “Maybe you should talk to him.”

  “If I had proof, I think I’d have the guts to confront him.” I hate sounding so pathetic so I change the subject.

  Staring at Hayden, I’m suddenly curious. “Where do you go when you’re not here?”

  “Just around.”

  I’m not sure if he’s lying, or if that’s just what it’s like. I swallow. “You know, if you crossed over, you wouldn’t be alone.”

  “I’m not alone. I have you. You need me. I protected you today, remember?”

  “I know, but . . .”

  He stares at me, then runs a finger over my lips. “Why do you work so hard to make me leave? Don’t you like me?” His smile is crooked, and a bit sad.

  Emotion knots in my throat. “Helping you cross over is what I’m supposed to do, Hayden.”

  “Supposed to do. But you really don’t want me to go, do you?”

  Hell, no. “I want what’s right. For you,” I say.

  “How do you know what’s right for me? I don’t know what’s right for me.” A touch of pain laces his voice. “But when I’m with you, like this, it doesn’t feel wrong.”

  “Crossing over has been right for all the others. You’re in this limbo and it’s–”

  “I’m not like the others.”

  I don’t know what to say. Pumpkin comes slinking into the room, hurries to Hayden, and circles his feet.

  “Have you talked to Abby?” Hayden kneels down and pets the persistent feline.

  “She dropped in for a few seconds when Kelsey was here. She didn’t say anything.”

  He looks up, almost puzzled, and I go ahead and explain. “Kelsey is Bessie’s granddaughter.”

  “Yeah. I know. So she came over?”

  “Yeah, after she got out of school.” I exhale again. “Kelsey felt Abby. She asked me why it had turned so cold. She even said it suddenly smelled like jasmine. So she could smell her, too.”

  Hayden’s eyes widen and he stands up. “Does she have the same ability you do?”

  “She didn’t see her, so I guess not.”

  He walks to the bed where my photo album is still open.

  He’s busy studying my album, and then he asks, “Do you think most people can feel spirits, some way or another?”

  When I don’t answer right away, he asks again, “Do you?”

  I consider his question. “In a book I read, it said a lot of people have varying levels of awareness. Maybe Kelsey senses more than some. I’ve been around other friends who don’t seem to feel anything. Then there’s people like my dad . . . he feels the cold, sometimes.”

  “But I’m not cold, right?”

  “Right.” And that still bugs me.

  The room gets quiet. Too quiet. “Do you think other people can feel . . . the emotions? I mean, could I be making others sad?”

  I feel it then. His sorrow reaches inside me and I want to cry. But then I realize there’s a purpose to his question. “Who are you worried about?”

  “It’s just a question.” His lie is in his voice. In the way, he shrugs. And the way he looks away from me.

  “Hayden . . . ?”

  He points to the photo album. “This is Piney Woods Camp? Did you go there?”

  “Yeah.”

  “So did I!” He smiles. I sense this is a ploy to change the subject, but I play along. “When did you go?”

  “In 2014. I was an assistant counselor to the younger kids.”

  “Me, too. I was there . . .” He stops to think, “in 2014 for the month of July.”

  “I was there in June and half of July that year.”

  “Did you go to any of the group parties on Friday night? Dances and pizza.”

  “A couple,” I say.

  “Do you think we met?” He walks back to me and sits on top of my desk. His knee is brushing up against my arm. I seem to be able to feel him more and more.

  I take in his blue eyes, his good looks. “I think I’d remember you.”

  “I don’t know. It took a while for me to get this good looking.” His smile is real now. “Wait. I remember I danced with a blonde with light blue eyes. I don’t remember her name, but—”

  “I don’t think it was me.”

  “You’re probably right, because you’d have remembered me. I stepped on the girl’s feet and she fell.”

  I chuckle. “Wasn’t me.” But I get up to look at my album. I have several group photos from camp. I flip through the pages to find the images. Hayden comes behind me.

  “There I am!” he says and points to a picture of everyone waiting to get in canoes.

  I look closely and I chuckle. “It is you.”

  “Where are you?” he asks.

  “Taking the picture.”

  He eyes me. “You sure it wasn’t you I danced with?”

  “I never danced with anyone,” I say.

  “Why not?” he asked.

  I face him. The truth sounds too pathetic, so I lie. “I don’t know how to dance.”

  “Obviously, neither did I, but it didn’t stop me. I’ll bet you broke my heart when I asked you to dance and said no.”

  I shake my head.

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “I wasn’t asked to dance.”

  “Bullshit.”

  I laugh and just say it. “I was fourteen, gangly, had braces, and . . .” I glance down at my chest, “the girls hadn’t come out to play yet.”

  He starts laughing and then he moves in. “Dance with me now.” His smile is contagious. He puts his hands on my waist.

  “I just told you I don’t know how.”

  He holds on. “All you have to do is sway. And get close.” He moves in. I feel his breath on cheek.

  “By the way,” he whispers. “Your girls came out to play real nice.”

  I slap his chest. He laughs and moves closer. So close the girls are pressed against him.

  His feet start shifting. I rest my head on his chest, and inhale his earthy, verdant scent. I feel his hands circling my waist, a tingly light touch. I dance with him, moving slowly around my bedroom. Is it wrong? Probably, but for just a few minutes I allow it.

  Or I do until his lips try to find mine. I pull away.

  Disappointment brightens his
eyes, but I see him push it back. He looks at me. “Your black eye is almost gone.”

  Lightheaded from being so close to him, I can only offer him a nod.

  The silence falls on us like snow. It becomes awkward really fast. “What did you tell Kelsey when she said it was cold?”

  “The only thing I could think of. That the heater is on the fritz.”

  Reaching out, he tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. He smiles and leaves his hand against my cheek. I know it’s a test. A test to see if I’ll push him away again. I hate tests. And this one, I know I’ll fail.

  “Did she believe you?”

  The temptation to close my eyes and let him keep touching me is so strong. “I don’t know. I still don’t think she believes me about the letter, so . . . who knows.”

  “Is she still asking about that?”

  “Not today, but . . . I could swear she was thinking about it.”

  I step back and his touch falls away. He tucks both his hands into his pockets. “I’ve been thinking . . .”

  “About what?”

  “About how you could get Abby’s ring and get that creep arrested.”

  And with that, the sexual tension in the room vanishes. “How?” I ask.

  • • •

  Dad’s not in the living room or the kitchen when I go downstairs the next morning. I look at the clock. I’m running late, which means he’s really running late. Considering he might have already left, I check to see if his car is in the driveway. It’s there. Parked. And I get an ugly knot in my stomach.

  It’s happening again.

  I knock on his door. “Dad? You up?”

  He says something, words I can’t make out, and I try to convince myself this means nothing. Everyone’s allowed to sleep late once or twice, right? Moving into the kitchen, I pour some cereal. I sit at the table, pulling pink marshmallows out of my bowl, and dropping them at my feet for Pumpkin. Several times I look at the door, waiting for him to rush out.

  I try to figure out what I’m going to say to him. But I can hardly think. That ugly knot gets heavier.

  Exhaustion pulls at my mind. Last night I tossed and turned while I considered Hayden’s plan of getting Evil Bill arrested and getting Abby’s ring back to her family. I don’t particularly like the idea, but I don’t have a better one, so I’m going for it.