For You Page 8

  “We should go home.” I looked over at the door. I would have left on my own, if I'd had any clue where in the city we were. Everything still looked the same to me.

  He gathered up the balls, even though we still had fifteen minutes left on our second hour.

  We were both quiet as we walked outside and put on our helmets. It was still bright out, an hour from sunset, but the air had cooled off.

  Gruffly, without making eye contact, Sawyer said, “Did you happen to remember what street you live on?”

  I gave him the address and street number, and he nodded. Surrey had a very logical address system, because both the streets and avenues were numbered, and the house address told you the cross-street.

  Twenty minutes later, we pulled up in front of my apartment building.

  Sawyer said goodbye, but coolly. Like I'd disappointed him. He kept the bike running.

  “I'm sorry,” I said as I stood on the sidewalk.

  “Don't be.” He nodded and drove away, the sound of the engine drowning out my thoughts.

  After a moment staring after him, I came to my senses and let myself into the building. I took the stairs up to the third floor, because the stairs were faster and smelled better than the elevator. The apartment itself was in great shape, but the common areas weren't always in the best state. It was cheap, though, and the owner had been desperate enough to take my uncle's letter in lieu of rental references.

  As I put my key in the door of the apartment, I paused, hearing an unfamiliar woman's voice inside my place. Was I at the wrong apartment? All the floors looked similar. Blue carpet. Dingy white walls and a blue door. Number 3F. My apartment. I pressed my ear against the door.

  The woman was saying, “Why were you in the trunk of a car? That sounds silly.”

  A softer voice answered, but I couldn't hear Bell's words.

  The woman continued, “How long were you in the trunk? Were you scared?”

  My hand shaking, I backed away two steps. They'd found me. Social workers were in there with Bell, and soon they'd take her away.

  I clutched my stomach and doubled over, nearly throwing up. My heart was beating so rapidly, I thought I might die right there of a heart attack. I dropped to my knees, my hands on the blue carpet.

  Then I heard a peal of laughter. I shuffled back to the door and pressed my ear against it.

  The woman said, “Yes, Taylor, you may have a glass of water. Here, let me help you find a cup in here. Looks like Bell's mother is a little behind on the kitchen work, but I'll wash one out for you.”

  With a shaking hand, I unlocked the door.

  A woman with a halo of blond curls and black-framed glasses stood in my kitchen, washing out a glass.

  “You must be Aubrey,” she said. “Your grandmother had to do an important errand.” She gave me an eyebrow-raise to imply there was more information.

  Bell was sitting at the table with another little girl, and they were both coloring in a book Bell hadn't previously shown any interest in.

  The woman nodded for me to follow her, so I did—to my own bedroom. I kicked some dirty laundry to the side as I flicked on a light.

  “Your grandmother had to take your grandfather to the hospital,” she said. “Now, don't worry, I'm sure it's nothing.”

  “He has Parkinson's.”

  The woman nodded. “Yes, that's what she told me. I guess he fell, but he's going to be okay.”

  I pulled my phone from my purse and saw the missed calls.

  Feeling guilty about drinking, and being off with Sawyer when my family needed me, I mumbled, “I must have turned the ringer off to save the battery and forgotten to turn it on again.”

  She gave me a sympathetic smile. “It's okay, honey. None of us is perfect, and it looks like you're on your own.” She shook her head and lowered her eyes. “I'm sorry. That's not right of me to make any assumptions, but I didn't see any men's shoes at the door.”

  “My husband's out of town a lot.”

  “I understand.” She rubbed her hands together in a way that reminded me of one of my favorite teachers, a kind woman who took students snowshoeing on her own time every winter.

  “Thanks for bringing Bell home and watching her,” I said. “Can I pay you for your time? Or… I could watch your daughter sometime, if you'd like.”

  The woman smiled at me. “I'm Natalie. And my daughter is Taylor.”

  I shook her hand. “Aubrey. And you know Bell, of course.”

  “The girls have eaten, but I'd love a cup of tea.”

  I wanted her to get the hell out of my apartment, but I also liked her, just a tiny bit. I did want to make some friends. Another woman was a much better idea than a guy, because misunderstandings like what had just happened with Sawyer were always bound to happen with guys. He'd tried to kiss me, I turned away, and that was the end of that.

  “Tea,” I said, leading the way back out to the kitchen. “Let me wash a few cups. I don't usually leave all these dishes, but ...”

  I stopped apologizing, because Natalie's face told me she didn't care about dirty dishes, and that she knew bullshit when she heard it.

  We made cocoa for the girls, still happily coloring, and took our tea to the living room.

  No sooner had we sat down than Natalie made a ragged inhaling sound I first mistook for the beginning of a sneeze. Dismayed, I watched as her eyes reddened and spilled out tears. I grabbed her some tissues and sat next to her, feeling helpless and uncomfortable. What the fuck?

  I blew across my tea and sat quietly until she was breathing calmly and apologizing, dabbing at her eyes.

  “Sorry, sorry,” she said again.

  “Don't be sorry,” I said. “I won't tell anyone.”

  “I have to apologize.” She grinned through the tears, which was one of the saddest expressions I'd ever seen. “It's a Canadian thing. You'll see. Live here a while longer and you'll find yourself apologizing to inanimate objects when you bump into them.”

  “We'll see.” I blew over the hot tea and waited, my curiosity rising up. She was clearly upset, but was it my duty to ask her what was wrong? Or was it rude? I didn't like people making assumptions about me, and I didn't like them asking questions.

  She said, “We need to sell the house, and I've been trying to frame this whole thing as an adventure, but the real estate agent came today, and now shit's real, you know?”

  I sipped my tea and kept my face neutral. This woman actually had a house to sell and she wanted me to feel sorry for her?

  She continued, “We were hoping to walk away, but after the commissions, even if we get our asking price, we'll have to cough up more money to cover the outstanding mortgage.” She cast an angry glance across the room, at the undecorated wall. “Screw my life. Dave thought he was Mr. Bigshot. Mr. Big Time. Vacations every year, leasing a new car all the time instead of buying one. And then all the custom wiring for his home theater.”

  “Home theater?”

  She shook her head and turned my way, her eyelids rimmed in red. “The agent says the theater devalues the house. We need to tear out the reclining chairs and rent or buy furniture to put in a proper family room. So people can imagine themselves there. Imagine themselves living their perfect lives in my house.”

  “Hmm.” Part of me wanted to kick the woman out of my place, but another part of me enjoyed hearing about her problems. What's that saying? A change is as good as a rest.

  She kept talking, telling me more about the custom renovations they'd done, and about her husband Dave's obsession with electronics.

  I relaxed, enjoying my stint as a tourist in Natalie's “Horrible” Life.

  Finally she stopped and said, “Screw my life, right?”

  “I would have never guessed, Natalie. I just see you, with your cute little hipster glasses frames, and your nice jeans, and I assume you have it all figured out.” I then said the one thing I hated to hear: “I'm sure it's not so bad.”

  She dabbed her eyes again, quie
t. “Sorry for dumping on you. Most of my friends are so materialistic, and they're too busy planning their next renovation to even imagine having to scale back.” She hugged herself and looked around the room, at the thrift-store furniture I'd prettied up with colorful patchwork quilts, and Bell's collection of plastic toys arranged across the one shelf in the room. “Why don't you have a television?”

  “Because then I don't have to pay for cable.”

  “Oh.” She started to laugh, in an embarrassed, self-conscious way. “Oh my god, I'm so nosy. You must hate me. I barge into your home and set up camp, having a level three meltdown.”

  “That's only a level three?”

  She nodded. “So, what kind of medications are you on? I didn't look in your medicine cabinet, and you don't have to tell me if you don't want to. I have some Valium in my purse for emergencies, but you talked me down.”

  “Me? I don't take anything.”

  “You're a good listener.” She picked up a grocery flyer from the coffee table and flipped it open to a page with holes from the coupons I'd cut out.

  I said, “I try to stay away from drugs of any kind. Seen them mess up too many people. No offense intended, I'm sure you have a prescription and it's just for emergencies.”

  She rolled her eyes, grinning madly. “Life is not how I thought it would be. And I brought a kid into this world, can you imagine?”

  I popped up from the couch to peek in on the girls, still coloring.

  “Your daughter seems happy,” I said as I sat down.

  “Well, she's seven. I can only hope her childhood lasts longer than mine. I got my first period when I was eleven. Life's been a roller coaster ever since. The ride never comes to a stop anywhere long enough for you to get a nice view and catch your breath, does it?”

  Before I could answer, she also jumped up to go check on the girls, but going over to the table instead of just peeking around the corner as I had. I got up and followed her, feeling one-upped by her parenting concern.

  She said, sweetly, “Taylor, are you sleepy, honey bunny?” To me, she said, “Let me take you for lunch one day soon. I'll let you talk for a change.” She pushed her curly blond hair behind her ear and her trendy glasses up her nose. How old was she? I couldn't tell, because the glasses hid the area around her eyes. Thirty?

  “Sure,” I said. “I work part-time, but my hours change from week to week, so I don't know when.”

  “Today's Thursday. Then the weekend, and all that house-selling business will have me murdering myself or Dave, so let's go Monday.” She started putting her daughter's books and things into a purple, mermaid-covered knapsack.

  Bell put her colored pencil down and blinked up at me. “Murdering?”

  “She's just kidding,” I said, wrapping my arms around her shoulders and kissing the top of her head.

  Natalie said, “Kids this age are so literal, aren't they?” To Bell, she solemnly said, “I'm sorry that I was being insensitive. Sometimes grown-ups say things that can't possibly be true. Like when you were telling me about hiding in the trunk of a car.”

  Bell craned her neck to grin up at me. “That was fun.”

  “You're very silly,” I said, trying to keep my voice calm even as my anxiety rose. What else was she telling people? I'd given her the adult dose of Benadryl to keep her knocked out that night. She'd been murmuring a bit, but slept a full eight hours even after we crossed the border. Yet now she was talking about it?

  To Natalie, I said, “Bell has a wild imagination.”

  “I know your secret,” Natalie said.

  The world seemed to stop, and I held my breath, waiting for something to drop.

  “No television,” she said. “That's the secret to Annabell's wonderful imagination. What do you think, Taylor? Want to donate your little TV to charity? You can still watch your shows on the family room TV, but maybe your play room will just be for drawing and art. I can bring my watercolors in there.”

  “Yes,” Taylor said, swinging her arms emphatically. “We can give it to Bell! She can be charity.”

  Natalie winced and mouthed the word sorry at me while Taylor put on her shoes by the door.

  “Thanks again for coming by,” I said.

  “So, Monday?” She pulled a business card out of her purse and handed it to me. Apparently Natalie was also a rep for a makeup company that seemed vaguely familiar. “You know, if you did want that little television, it has a built-in disc player, and we'll get you some movies as well, then you don't need cable.”

  Bell started to plead with me to say yes, so I did. I had been a single caretaker to a child for long enough that I had learned to pick my battles, and refusing a free TV was not one worth fighting.

  I did not look forward to Natalie prying into my life, but she was too persistent to refuse. Like Sawyer. And Derek's son. Like all the people I should have said no to, no matter how much they flattered me or promised the moon and stars.

  That night, after I closed my eyes. My past caught up to me, bringing back memories that stung like the sharp blade of a knife.

  I'll be sixteen soon. Sweet sixteen. I don't know what that term means, but Derek keeps repeating it to me, like a taunt. He says, “Sweet sixteen and never been kissed,” then he puckers his lips at me, in front of everyone.

  Derek acts like he knows me, but he doesn't know me at all. There's a diary under my pillow in my bedroom, and I know he reads it. I put a hair between the pages—one of Bell's soft, pale baby hairs. The hair always disappears within a few days, and I don't get the feeling my mother would care enough to look, so it has to be him. The pig.

  I write in the diary every week, on Friday night, so there's something there for Derek to read and he doesn't go looking for my real diary, the one I keep hidden inside the ceiling.

  He asks about boys at school and acts like he's protective of me. I don't know why he cares, when he's such an asshole to me most of the time, but he's started acting all fatherly these last few weeks.

  I guess he's been different since he started seeing his son. Damion has spent most of his life with his mother, two states away, but Damion's twenty now. He's not trying to be Derek's son, exactly. They're more like friends. Buddies.

  It's Friday tonight, so I pull the fake diary out from under my pillow. My mother and Derek are out on one of their dates. It's a new thing. Date night. I think they went bowling last week. So stupid.

  Bell has already been put to bed for the night. I tried to get her to use the Big Girl Potty, even reading to her for half an hour, but she wouldn't even pee. I put her to bed with her diaper, which was too small. Derek bought the cheap ones to save money, even though you have to leave gaps at the sides and the sticky tape catches on her baby skin if you're not careful.

  I open up the diary and write the date in round, looping letters. I've heard that you can tell a lot about a person by their handwriting, and I wonder… if I change my handwriting, would that also change how I am?

  My handwriting looks almost exactly like my mother's. I don't want to be like her, so I write for a full page trying out different handwriting. I mostly write about what a cheap bastard Derek is for buying the too-small diapers. I hope when he reads this, he feels like the shit he is.

  The neighbor's dogs start up a ruckus, and then a few minutes later, I hear a truck pulling into the driveway. The neighbor's nearly a half mile away, but the sound travels through the valley and straight through the plywood walls of the add-on that's both my bedroom and the hallway to Bell's.

  Because of the dogs, that means the vehicle didn't come from town, but from the other way. It's not Mom and Derek back early.

  I turn off my light and huddle down inside my bed in the darkness. I hadn't noticed how cold my feet were until now. When your room's always cold, you wear three layers of socks and you try not to stop moving until you're snug in your bed, like a bug in a cocoon.

  Someone knocks on the front door. Please go away, I pray.

  They knock again. />
  Thoughts race through my head. It's the police, and something happened to my mother. There was an accident on the highway, and now she's dead and Derek will ship me off to foster care. My father's dead, and I'm an orphan. I know a girl at school who's an orphan, and she lives with a foster family. The family she's with now is pretty good, but not all of them are good. I've heard stories that make Derek seem not so bad, and that's saying a lot.

  As I listen for another knock, I dig my fingernails into my palms. Maybe it's just someone lost, asking for directions. Ever since I was little, and Mom left me on my own when she went out, she told me not to answer the door. I'm fifteen now, and I don't feel much stronger than when I was ten. We don't have any guns in the house, on account of Derek's record, but there are knives in the kitchen, and an old golf club somewhere.

  There's no more knocking, but the door opens. They have a key. I know I locked the door. I checked it three times.

  Someone walks through the house, in heavy boots that clomp. Heel, toe. Heel, toe. The refrigerator door squeals as it opens.

  “Aubrey?”

  It's a boy's voice. Well, a man, I guess. Damion is twenty. Why's he here? He only comes over when Derek's home.

  The boots come closer, until he's a darker shadow within my dark doorway. “Saw your light on,” he says, and then he turns to the side to drink half a bottle of beer at once. His belt buckle glints in the light leaking around from the hall.

  “Come have a drink with me,” he says.

  “They should be home soon,” I say from within my blankets.

  “I came to see you.”

  A strange type of warmth flushes over me. When he's been here before, he barely even looks at me. I don't know what to say, so I don't say anything. Moving slowly, I push the blankets back and get out of bed, grabbing my housecoat to pull on over my flannel pajamas.

  Damion lets out a wolf whistle as I pull the tie tight around my waist.

  “That's some nightie you got on. What are those, rabbits?”

  I duck under his arm to get past him, and march straight for the kitchen. This part of the trailer is warmer, because of the wood-burning stove. My mother and Derek have been talking about spring arriving, like it's something that happens all at once on a certain date, like turning sweet sixteen.