In Her Wake
Page 16
I need to get some space. No more visits. No more close calls.
But what if . . .
What if she could learn to love again? And what if I’m the one who can remind her what that feels like?
Chapter 19
April 26, 2012
How fitting, that the first warm day of spring is today of all days. It’s perfect, really, since I’ve been sitting on this bench for six hours.
Waiting.
I was here to greet the groundskeeper this morning at eight o’clock, when he eased the cemetery gates open. With flowers in one hand and directions to the tombstones in the other, I made my way through the small Catholic cemetery. It was extremely easy to find where the Clearys were laid to rest. The information was in that thin yellow folder that my dad now keeps at the back of his home-office filing cabinet, along with a number and a receipt for a local florist that will deliver straight to gravesites. My parents, as thoughtful as they are, sent flowers on the first and second and third anniversaries of the accident. Based on the florist truck that’s pulling up near the graveyard now, and the bouquet of flowers that the deliveryman has in one hand, I’d bet money that they plan on doing this every year until they die.
I wonder if Kacey knows who they’re from.
If she even comes.
I can’t believe that she won’t. Then again, I’m not in Rochester to stop by Sasha’s graveyard today.
But they’re her parents.
I haven’t seen Kacey since that night back in January, keeping myself busy at my new condo and with work. There isn’t a day that hasn’t gone by, though, that I don’t think about her, or check in on her email.
Twice, I’ve called her, just to hear her voice.
But I had to come today. You can learn a lot about a person from poignant moments like an anniversary at the grave of someone that person loved. Things you definitely can’t learn through reading email or spying in coffee shops.
And so I sit on this bench, watching from behind my thick aviator glasses as people filter through the cemetery to leave flowers and words of longing to their loved ones. The sun plays hide-and-seek behind billowing clouds, and I absorb the heat from its rays in a way that I didn’t allow myself to for so long.
And I wait for her.
If I thought for a second that she’d recognize me, I wouldn’t be here. But, for all the times she’s seen me, she’s never really looked at me. She’s never so much as made eye contact.
Finally, the navy-blue Camry—the one I recognize as Aunt Darla’s—pulls up. Sliding off the bench, I take six quick steps to kneel before a random stone, offering my apologies to Jorge Mastracci for using his resting place as a cover.
The car is barely in park when Kacey jumps out of the backseat. I can’t really see her face. The top half is hidden behind giant dark sunglasses. The bottom half looks rigid, as usual.
She hangs back like a statue as her sister and aunt approach the twin tombstones, Livie hugging a large wreath of purple flowers, her aunt with a rosary dangling from her fingers, both wearing solemn expressions. Even from this distance, I can see Kacey’s throat bob up and down as she swallows repeatedly. As she fights against the emotions. I know that she’s a fighter. She’s strong. But, after four years, she needs to find a way to let go.
How much longer can she go on like this?
“Are you kidding me?” Suddenly Kacey’s diving toward the graves. Only when she stands up with a bouquet of flowers and tosses them to the side, her mouth pressed in a thin line of anger, do I know.
“Kacey!” her aunt cries out, her mouth hanging open. Livie doesn’t say a word, simply scooping the flowers up and adjusting some of the bent petals. She makes a move to place them back.
“Don’t you dare, Livie.” The iciness in Kacey’s tone as she warns her sister off sends chills down my spine.
“It’s a nice gesture,” Livie argues in a soft, even tone. A tone much too old for a fifteen-year-old to be using.
Snatching the bouquet from her sister’s hand, Kacey marches off.
I bow my head, my heart speeding up with each angry step as she cuts through the grass.
Heading straight for me.
Fuck. Not again.
“Here.” The flowers land in front of me. “I’m sure Jorge could use them.” Without waiting for my response, she spins on her heels and marches back. And I release the air held tight in my lungs.
I check the small tag peeking out, to confirm.
We are always thinking of you. The Reynolds family.
She can’t even handle a simple gesture like flowers from us.
They stay for another half hour, both Livie and Darla talking to the tombs while Kacey stares off into nothing. I keep my head down the entire time, not wanting to attract her attention. Only when they pile into the car and drive away do I get up, settling the flowers from my parents back in between the two tombstones.
I’ve definitely learned something by coming here. That forgiveness isn’t in Kacey’s vocabulary.
Chapter 20
August 2012
Miami?
I give my eyes a good rub before checking my computer screen again. “How long was I asleep?” I mutter, checking the time stamps to the emails. They started at ten last night. Four emails in total between Kacey and a guy named Harry Tanner, property manager of an apartment building in Miami, Florida.
Where Kacey and Livie are apparently moving.
Next week.
“Fuck!” Miami is a helluva lot farther than Caledonia, Michigan. “Why?” There’s not much to go on from the email. Kacey answered an ad on an online site, asking for a two-bedroom. When Tanner requested references, she said she’d pay him six months’ rent upfront, cash. The subject line in his responding email said, “Sold!” on top.
And now they’re moving to Miami.
What the hell happened? There’s no way their aunt and uncle are okay with this. Livie’s, what, fifteen? Just starting her sophomore year of high school?
Something must have happened.
I fall back into my chair with a heavy sigh, letting my eyes roll over the two-bedroom condo I bought almost a year ago, the walls still white and without a single picture hung. I just got a couch the other week. Before that, I was watching TV in an armchair. It’s a place to stay, nothing more. It’s never felt like home. And now it feels more like a trap.
How far away is Miami, exactly? I quickly type into Google. “Twenty-one hours to drive.” My stomach sinks. I was actually considering getting a place out by Lansing and renting this out. So I could be closer to Kacey. Then I realized how f**king creepy that is.
Now she’s moving to Miami. But for what?
Maybe to start over . . .
Maybe to let go of her past.
That could mean all kinds of things—good things. Like maybe she’ll be ready to meet some guy. To let herself fall in love.
Unfolding the piece of lined paper that I’ve carried around in my pocket for over two years now, I read the words for the thousandth time and realize that I don’t want her meeting some other guy. Falling in love with some other guy.
I want her to meet me. Trent Emerson. The guy who wants to feel the warmth that I know exists within her. The guy who’s tied to her forever, whether she likes it or not. The one who needs to somehow make things right with her because I made everything so wrong.
Before I can fully think through what I’m doing, I’ve copied Tanner’s email address into my own email and fired off a message, inquiring about an apartment.
By the time I’m out of the shower, I have a response. A one-bedroom is available beginning next week, if I have references.
I don’t. But I have money. That’s the thing about living the way I have for four years. Besides this condo and the Harley I bought three months ago after getting my motorcycle license, I haven’t spent a dime. I’ve got plenty sitting in my account.
Enough to cover six months’ rent.
In a matter of twenty minutes, I’ve secured a furnished one-bedroom apartment in the same building as Kacey Cleary, leaving me spinning. I was afraid this Tanner guy might get suspicious, having another person offer cash in place of references, and the exact same length of time. But if he is, he’s not letting it get in the way of a deal.
Is this really happening? Yes, it is. And she’s not going to ignore me anymore, I decide. I’m going to make her see me. But I can’t rush this; I have to get it right. I’m only going to get one chance.
Chapter 21
I can barely hear anything with the blood rushing into my ears as I watch my new landlord lumber through the common area with Kacey and Livie trailing behind, pink suitcases bumping along the path. It’s not much more than what I came with, given that I rode my bike down, figuring I’d just buy what I need.
For a few days there, I was afraid that I’d just handed Hank Tanner six months’ rent for nothing. That Kacey would have bailed. There was nothing stopping her from backing out. Maybe she hadn’t paid the guy upfront, after all.
But I can breathe now, because she’s here.
Through the gauzy curtains, I see the awkward Tanner thumb toward my apartment and I instinctively take a step back. I’d kill to hear the conversation. Especially if it’s anything like the “no orgies” rundown that he gave me before handing me my keys.
Within minutes, they’ve disappeared into the apartment beside mine.
And so I wait.
Tanner reappears a few minutes later, a fat envelope gripped within his meaty hand.
And . . . what now? Are they going to hang out in the courtyard? Do I just walk out and sit down beside them? No, that won’t work.
After twenty minutes of pacing, I settle back into the desk that I’d strategically pulled up to the window so I could attempt to get some work done. As far as anyone knows, I’m in Rochester, working away in my home office. Luckily my mom doesn’t do drop-ins. I stopped by her place the day before I left and gave her an extra-big hug, so big that I saw anxiety flickering in her eyes. I can’t forget to text her every day.
I don’t think she’ll ever stop worrying about me. Not in the way a mother worries about her child. The way a mother worries about the son who should have died. Twice.
But I’m not going anywhere now, not when I’m sure I can help Kacey. I just need a chance.
And I get that chance. Hours later, after they’ve gone and come back with grocery bags dangling from their fingertips, the door slams shut and a flame of red passes by, a laundry basket with bedsheets in hand.
I dive for my own sheets, gathering them into a bundle, my jug of Tide in my free hand. And I head for the set of stairs that lead down to the laundry room. Machine doors slam on the other side and my heart begins racing. Am I really ready for this?
I can almost hear the note that sits in my back pocket answering me, giving me courage. The courage that I will need if I want to make her smile again. Because it’s all I want to do.
To make her smile again.
Taking a deep breath, I push through the door.
But what if . . .
What if she could learn to love again? And what if I’m the one who can remind her what that feels like?
Chapter 19
April 26, 2012
How fitting, that the first warm day of spring is today of all days. It’s perfect, really, since I’ve been sitting on this bench for six hours.
Waiting.
I was here to greet the groundskeeper this morning at eight o’clock, when he eased the cemetery gates open. With flowers in one hand and directions to the tombstones in the other, I made my way through the small Catholic cemetery. It was extremely easy to find where the Clearys were laid to rest. The information was in that thin yellow folder that my dad now keeps at the back of his home-office filing cabinet, along with a number and a receipt for a local florist that will deliver straight to gravesites. My parents, as thoughtful as they are, sent flowers on the first and second and third anniversaries of the accident. Based on the florist truck that’s pulling up near the graveyard now, and the bouquet of flowers that the deliveryman has in one hand, I’d bet money that they plan on doing this every year until they die.
I wonder if Kacey knows who they’re from.
If she even comes.
I can’t believe that she won’t. Then again, I’m not in Rochester to stop by Sasha’s graveyard today.
But they’re her parents.
I haven’t seen Kacey since that night back in January, keeping myself busy at my new condo and with work. There isn’t a day that hasn’t gone by, though, that I don’t think about her, or check in on her email.
Twice, I’ve called her, just to hear her voice.
But I had to come today. You can learn a lot about a person from poignant moments like an anniversary at the grave of someone that person loved. Things you definitely can’t learn through reading email or spying in coffee shops.
And so I sit on this bench, watching from behind my thick aviator glasses as people filter through the cemetery to leave flowers and words of longing to their loved ones. The sun plays hide-and-seek behind billowing clouds, and I absorb the heat from its rays in a way that I didn’t allow myself to for so long.
And I wait for her.
If I thought for a second that she’d recognize me, I wouldn’t be here. But, for all the times she’s seen me, she’s never really looked at me. She’s never so much as made eye contact.
Finally, the navy-blue Camry—the one I recognize as Aunt Darla’s—pulls up. Sliding off the bench, I take six quick steps to kneel before a random stone, offering my apologies to Jorge Mastracci for using his resting place as a cover.
The car is barely in park when Kacey jumps out of the backseat. I can’t really see her face. The top half is hidden behind giant dark sunglasses. The bottom half looks rigid, as usual.
She hangs back like a statue as her sister and aunt approach the twin tombstones, Livie hugging a large wreath of purple flowers, her aunt with a rosary dangling from her fingers, both wearing solemn expressions. Even from this distance, I can see Kacey’s throat bob up and down as she swallows repeatedly. As she fights against the emotions. I know that she’s a fighter. She’s strong. But, after four years, she needs to find a way to let go.
How much longer can she go on like this?
“Are you kidding me?” Suddenly Kacey’s diving toward the graves. Only when she stands up with a bouquet of flowers and tosses them to the side, her mouth pressed in a thin line of anger, do I know.
“Kacey!” her aunt cries out, her mouth hanging open. Livie doesn’t say a word, simply scooping the flowers up and adjusting some of the bent petals. She makes a move to place them back.
“Don’t you dare, Livie.” The iciness in Kacey’s tone as she warns her sister off sends chills down my spine.
“It’s a nice gesture,” Livie argues in a soft, even tone. A tone much too old for a fifteen-year-old to be using.
Snatching the bouquet from her sister’s hand, Kacey marches off.
I bow my head, my heart speeding up with each angry step as she cuts through the grass.
Heading straight for me.
Fuck. Not again.
“Here.” The flowers land in front of me. “I’m sure Jorge could use them.” Without waiting for my response, she spins on her heels and marches back. And I release the air held tight in my lungs.
I check the small tag peeking out, to confirm.
We are always thinking of you. The Reynolds family.
She can’t even handle a simple gesture like flowers from us.
They stay for another half hour, both Livie and Darla talking to the tombs while Kacey stares off into nothing. I keep my head down the entire time, not wanting to attract her attention. Only when they pile into the car and drive away do I get up, settling the flowers from my parents back in between the two tombstones.
I’ve definitely learned something by coming here. That forgiveness isn’t in Kacey’s vocabulary.
Chapter 20
August 2012
Miami?
I give my eyes a good rub before checking my computer screen again. “How long was I asleep?” I mutter, checking the time stamps to the emails. They started at ten last night. Four emails in total between Kacey and a guy named Harry Tanner, property manager of an apartment building in Miami, Florida.
Where Kacey and Livie are apparently moving.
Next week.
“Fuck!” Miami is a helluva lot farther than Caledonia, Michigan. “Why?” There’s not much to go on from the email. Kacey answered an ad on an online site, asking for a two-bedroom. When Tanner requested references, she said she’d pay him six months’ rent upfront, cash. The subject line in his responding email said, “Sold!” on top.
And now they’re moving to Miami.
What the hell happened? There’s no way their aunt and uncle are okay with this. Livie’s, what, fifteen? Just starting her sophomore year of high school?
Something must have happened.
I fall back into my chair with a heavy sigh, letting my eyes roll over the two-bedroom condo I bought almost a year ago, the walls still white and without a single picture hung. I just got a couch the other week. Before that, I was watching TV in an armchair. It’s a place to stay, nothing more. It’s never felt like home. And now it feels more like a trap.
How far away is Miami, exactly? I quickly type into Google. “Twenty-one hours to drive.” My stomach sinks. I was actually considering getting a place out by Lansing and renting this out. So I could be closer to Kacey. Then I realized how f**king creepy that is.
Now she’s moving to Miami. But for what?
Maybe to start over . . .
Maybe to let go of her past.
That could mean all kinds of things—good things. Like maybe she’ll be ready to meet some guy. To let herself fall in love.
Unfolding the piece of lined paper that I’ve carried around in my pocket for over two years now, I read the words for the thousandth time and realize that I don’t want her meeting some other guy. Falling in love with some other guy.
I want her to meet me. Trent Emerson. The guy who wants to feel the warmth that I know exists within her. The guy who’s tied to her forever, whether she likes it or not. The one who needs to somehow make things right with her because I made everything so wrong.
Before I can fully think through what I’m doing, I’ve copied Tanner’s email address into my own email and fired off a message, inquiring about an apartment.
By the time I’m out of the shower, I have a response. A one-bedroom is available beginning next week, if I have references.
I don’t. But I have money. That’s the thing about living the way I have for four years. Besides this condo and the Harley I bought three months ago after getting my motorcycle license, I haven’t spent a dime. I’ve got plenty sitting in my account.
Enough to cover six months’ rent.
In a matter of twenty minutes, I’ve secured a furnished one-bedroom apartment in the same building as Kacey Cleary, leaving me spinning. I was afraid this Tanner guy might get suspicious, having another person offer cash in place of references, and the exact same length of time. But if he is, he’s not letting it get in the way of a deal.
Is this really happening? Yes, it is. And she’s not going to ignore me anymore, I decide. I’m going to make her see me. But I can’t rush this; I have to get it right. I’m only going to get one chance.
Chapter 21
I can barely hear anything with the blood rushing into my ears as I watch my new landlord lumber through the common area with Kacey and Livie trailing behind, pink suitcases bumping along the path. It’s not much more than what I came with, given that I rode my bike down, figuring I’d just buy what I need.
For a few days there, I was afraid that I’d just handed Hank Tanner six months’ rent for nothing. That Kacey would have bailed. There was nothing stopping her from backing out. Maybe she hadn’t paid the guy upfront, after all.
But I can breathe now, because she’s here.
Through the gauzy curtains, I see the awkward Tanner thumb toward my apartment and I instinctively take a step back. I’d kill to hear the conversation. Especially if it’s anything like the “no orgies” rundown that he gave me before handing me my keys.
Within minutes, they’ve disappeared into the apartment beside mine.
And so I wait.
Tanner reappears a few minutes later, a fat envelope gripped within his meaty hand.
And . . . what now? Are they going to hang out in the courtyard? Do I just walk out and sit down beside them? No, that won’t work.
After twenty minutes of pacing, I settle back into the desk that I’d strategically pulled up to the window so I could attempt to get some work done. As far as anyone knows, I’m in Rochester, working away in my home office. Luckily my mom doesn’t do drop-ins. I stopped by her place the day before I left and gave her an extra-big hug, so big that I saw anxiety flickering in her eyes. I can’t forget to text her every day.
I don’t think she’ll ever stop worrying about me. Not in the way a mother worries about her child. The way a mother worries about the son who should have died. Twice.
But I’m not going anywhere now, not when I’m sure I can help Kacey. I just need a chance.
And I get that chance. Hours later, after they’ve gone and come back with grocery bags dangling from their fingertips, the door slams shut and a flame of red passes by, a laundry basket with bedsheets in hand.
I dive for my own sheets, gathering them into a bundle, my jug of Tide in my free hand. And I head for the set of stairs that lead down to the laundry room. Machine doors slam on the other side and my heart begins racing. Am I really ready for this?
I can almost hear the note that sits in my back pocket answering me, giving me courage. The courage that I will need if I want to make her smile again. Because it’s all I want to do.
To make her smile again.
Taking a deep breath, I push through the door.
