Figure Eight Page 14

I cross my arms “That’s it?”

  “That’s it.” He gives me a once over. “You were expecting more, weren’t you?”

  “Of course I was! I thought that they would start canvassing the area. Asking the neighbors, putting up fliers. Like they did for that little girl who disappeared over a month ago!”

  “But your mom’s not a nine-year old little girl who was snatched from the playground. She’s a grown adult,” Noah points out.

  “She’s been missing for days, though.”

  “In their eyes it hasn’t been that long.”

  Suddenly I turn around and throw my hands up in the air. “So. That’s it? I give up and wait?”

  “No one said that.”

  “But that’s how you make it sound.”

  Noah approaches me very slowly. His hands curl around my arms as he lowers his head so our eyes are level. “Look, I’ll help you keep searching for your mom. That hasn’t changed. All right?”

  With a shaky breath I nod.

  “What did you mean earlier about you being okay with your mom being put in an insane asylum?” he asks.

  Gently, I extract myself out of his grasp. I’d been so worked up I forgot I said a word about Mom’s past stints. I sigh, debating whether I should tell him the truth or not.

  The truth prevails.

  “In early January, the neighbors called the cops on my mom a few times for roaming the streets.” I stare at a picture of Mom with Aunt Ruby when they were children. “They said she was scaring the children. She’s been in and out of St. Mary’s and that’s what brought me back home. I had to look out for her. Protect her. The doctor told me that if the cops were called on her again they were going to admit her into DMH.”

  “Like, the hospital?”

  “No, like Decatur Manor Healthcare.”

  His eyes light up with understanding. “A place for the mentally ill.”

  “Yes.”

  “And that’s why you were hesitant to call the police.”

  I take a deep breath. “Yes. But you’ve talked to my mom. You understand that she can’t go there, right? She has her struggles but she’s not crazy.”

  Noah becomes silent.

  “She’s not crazy,” I insist a little bit louder this time.

  “It’s okay. It’s okay. I believe you,” Noah says softly.

  He opens his arms up to me and because Jackson won’t answer me, because I feel so alone, I go willingly.

  I believe that there are levels of affection, so impossible to discern you’d miss them if you blinked. But if you catch them they can be revelatory. People think sex is complicated but affection is the thing that’s dynamic and oh-so confusing. With a friendly kiss on the cheek there’s a healthy distance between your bodies. But with a passionate kiss, for example, you can’t get enough of that person. Hands are everywhere. You are ravenous.

  The hug between Noah and I starts out friendly. Meant to comfort and console, but in that moment when both of us should pull away, we don’t. There’s a small step forward and I feel Noah tighten his grasp. His hands are splayed directly below my shoulder blades, making my skin prickle. And I’m no better, slowly and hesitantly curling my hands around his waist.

  I hate myself. Hate that I need this affection more than anything.

  See? Levels of affection. To know them is to love them. And to love them is to hate them.

  I’VE ALWAYS FOUND the color of blood a fascinating thing.

  Two things happen when people see it: some jump into action, grabbing towels, rubbing alcohol. Or, in more dangerous situations, they call 911 for help. Others stare at it, transfixed by the color, the metallic scent.

  I’m the latter.

  Blood gives you life. It courses through your veins and lets you cry those endless tears for your mom. It allows your wild imagination to think of all the sick ways your mom could possibly be dead. You know it’s demented that you think that way. But you’re only human and you’re trying to protect yourself from the worst possible outcome.

  You’ve always been a heavy bleeder. I remember a time when you were in Home Economics in high school and you became too impatient opening a box of pasta. You used a steak knife and cut your left middle finger. (Look down, right now, at your hands and you’ll see the small scar near the knuckle.) Blood was everywhere. You’d think you’d lost a limb.

  I remember I froze. I couldn’t move. I just stood by and watched the blood pool over the cut before it trailed down your skin and dropped to the floor. The teacher jumped into action. Students stepped back and some moved in to help clean all the blood up. After a few minutes, it was cleaned up. It was just a minor nick.

  You might not know this but your mom is a bleeder, too. It could be for a multitude of reasons, from fragile blood cells to something deeper like cirrhosis, but it’s something that you two have in common.

  It’s not the only thing you have in common. You become easily depressed for days. But if I told you that you wouldn’t believe me.

  Right now you are too focused on finding her. You put in calls to the police, but they won’t answer you. You rack your brain thinking of your last moments with her.

  You’re searching too hard. Just look around you; I keep trying to show you the clues. Blood has the ability to stain fabric and seep into porous material. There may be no visible traces of blood but it’s there.

  It’s always there.

  So lift your head. Stand up. Let that blood flow and listen carefully to the walls. They’ll start to whisper to you and if you’re lucky those whispers will transform into screams. You’ll hear the honesty and truth that you need.

  All because of the color of blood.

  MY DREAMS ARE smeared with the image of Jackson.

  It always starts out sweet. The two of us together and so happy, surrounded by people. But then he starts to distance himself, like a car slowly moving in reverse. I cling to him even though I know it’s desperate because all I can think of is how happy he makes me and I can’t lose that when I have nothing else.

  But he keeps moving farther and farther away. He becomes a small, black in a dot in a sea of people.

  “Fuck you,” I say. At least I think I do. But he never turns my way. It feels as if someone has my heart in their hand and is squeezing it as hard as they can. “Look at what you’re doing to me!” I shout at him.

  He hears my words. Feels my pain. I know he does. But he just shakes his head and laughs as if I’m making a joke. Then he starts to speak and even though he’s so far away, I still hear his words as if he’s whispering them directly into my ear.

  “I’m sorry,” he says.

  I want to feel sad for him. But I can’t.

  I want to be angry with him. But I can’t.

  I run after him to get answers. I start to catch up to him. I reach out for him and just when I go to grab ahold of his arm, I wake up.

  It takes me a while to realize that it’s all a dream and I’m in my room with the TV. A sitcom is the only thing keeping me company. I stare at the screen and watch as the show goes to commercial. Light from the screen flashes across the room.

  After a minute or two I calm down and grab my phone. I type in my passcode and pull up Jackson’s phone number. I hesitate before I press call. I can’t remember the last text or call I’ve received from Jackson. It’s been at least a week. Not once has he called back. Why?

  Is he okay? Did he get into a wreck and now he’s laid out on the side of the road, injured? Or is it something more simplistic, something that I just simply refuse to believe? Like, he just doesn’t want to be with me anymore.

  To anyone outside of the relationship, I’m sure the signs of him breaking up with me were there. He’d been distant. Snippy. But he was trying to stay clean and just lost his job—factors that would stress anyone out.

  Never did I think he would completely cut off all ties of communication. It seems like a coward’s way out of a relationship. And Jackson never seemed like someone to end a rela
tionship like that. My conversations with Sam and Mom come rushing back to me. Maybe they were right. What did I really know about him?

  “Fuck it,” I mutter and press call. It rings once before a female, automated voice says, “We’re sorry; you have reached a number that has been disconnected or is no longer in service. If you feel you have reached this recording in error, please check the number and try your call again.”

  I hold the phone away from my head and frown down at the screen. The message starts over. I quickly hang up then re-dial Jackson’s number and just like before the automated voice comes back on.

  He purposely turned his phone off.

  “What an asshole,” I whisper to no one.

  I force myself out of bed and walk down the stairs with only my misery to keep me company. At this time of night the house is eerily quiet. I can hear the grandfather clock ticking in the dining room. The sound of the fridge in the kitchen. I know it sounds crazy but I feel eyes on me. I want to run back up the stairs and hide in my bed like a fucking four-year old but I continue forward because the pain of being ignored by Jackson outweighs my childish fears.

  Without a second thought I start to rummage through the pantry until I find what I’m looking for. I grab a glass from the cabinet and a Coke from the fridge. I pour myself a shot of Svedka. I kick it back and chase the burn with some Coke but my lips still pucker.

  Give it up, my mind hisses. There’s a reason his phone is turned off.

  My heart says differently. It tells me that can’t possibly be the reason. Jackson was someone good. Someone I had a true connection with. Kismet, some people would call it. Yet look at me now. I’m relentlessly contacting a person who has no desire to speak with me. If Jackson did want to talk to me, he would’ve told me that he changed his phone number. He would make an effort.

  “Screw him,” I say out loud. I pour myself another drink and raise my shot glass in the air and invisibly toast myself.

  I look at the clock on the oven. Eleven. I’d only been in bed close to an hour, but if dreams of Jackson are the only thing waiting for me in my sleep then I’d rather stay up all night. I take another shot, feeling the warm liquid travel down my throat.

  I walk out of the kitchen and move toward the living room; the house is too quiet. I need the TV on. I find the remote and see that a sitcom is playing. I slowly lower myself onto the couch and numbly watch the show. It used to bother me how Mom would just sit here day in and day out and do nothing. But now I miss her presence so acutely it’s like a gaping wound, open to the elements, begging to be closed shut.

  I hear a loud sound coming from outside. I twist around and peek through the blinds and see that Noah’s garage door is open. Light spills out, illuminating the patches of ice on the concrete.

  What is he doing outside at this time of night?

  My curiosity gets the best of me. I stand up and slip on my jacket, step outside, then quietly shut the front door behind me. The sky is nothing but a blanket of stars. I take my time walking toward Noah’s house, making sure to avoid any ice. I exhale and notice the way my breath appears inches in front of me like fine mist.

  Everyone on the cul de sac is indoors for the night. Lights are off and cars are parked in garages. In a few of the second-story windows I can see the glow of TV’s flashing every few seconds. I’ve been filled with anxiety and sadness all day, but knowing that there’s someone up at this hour, that I’m not alone, makes me calm down.

  When I step onto Noah’s driveway he finally lifts his head from his workstation. He has on a Carhartt jacket and there’s a black beanie on his head. Day-old stubble covers his face. He looks a good ole farm boy. I know he’s anything but. There’s a radio on the rough wooden counter behind him, softly crooning the latest country song.

  I tuck my hands in my coat and take a tentative step closer.

  “What are you doing up?” he asks, surprised to see me.

  “Uh… it’s eleven o’clock at night. Not that late. Besides, I could ask you the same question.”

  Noah smirks. “I was working on an article and had writer’s block. I needed to clear my head so I came out here.”

  “I’ve heard of people taking bubble baths to relax. Or reading right before they go to bed. But carpentry? Not so much.”

  Noah shrugs and blows the sawdust off the smooth layer of wood. It scatters onto the table. “I fell in love with carpentry in high school when I had to take workshop during my sophomore year. There’s something gratifying about using my hands to build something. Makes me feel useful and accomplished.” He looks my way. “Ever felt that way?”

  My mind instantly replays the years of teaching and all the children I’d met. There were rough days. But the good far outweighed the bad. Nothing was more gratifying that watching a child blossom underneath my tutelage. I look him in the eye and nod. “Yes. I have.” I walk slowly around the piece placed on a waist-high narrow wooden table. “So… what’s this?”

  “A bench.” He takes off his work gloves, puts them in his back pocket and arches a brow at me. “You’ve heard of a bench before, haven’t you?” he asks teasingly.

  “Of course. I just never pegged you as someone who made them.”

  “Well, I do.”

  “So you’re a journalist by day and moonlight as a carpenter. What’s next? You’re a chef at a five-star restaurant?”

  “Nope.”

  “Pity. I was starting to think you were a jack-of-all-trades.”

  Noah walks around the worktable and grabs a tape measure. “What brings you here, Selah?”

  “I couldn’t sleep. Looked out the front window and saw you were out here.”

  “You sure do look out that front window of yours a lot,” he replies as he turns back to the bench and measures its front right leg.

  I shrug. “What can I say? My life is miserable and I’m desperately searching for company.” I try to smile. I really do, but I can feel my lips slightly quivering because my words aren’t a total lie. I am miserable, but I’m more than that. I am terrified. I am scared. I am alone.

  Noah stares at me for a long second. His sharp green eyes betray nothing. Finally, he clears his throat and gestures to a patio chair placed in front of some unopened boxes. “Sit. You can keep me company.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Positive.”

  “Where’s Duke?”

  “Inside. Not being a good guard dog. Obviously.”

  I stand up. “Look, if I’m being a pain in the ass, I can leave.”

  “No, no, no. I’m just kidding. Sit down.”

  Because I’m lonely as all get out, I sit back down. At least that’s what I tell myself. Noah gets back to work and for the longest time I just watch him methodically working on the bench, only stopping to make measurements. His dark brows slant low over his eyes. His lips form a thin line. I watch as his tongue snakes out to lick his lips. My stomach twists at the action.

  I veer back and cross my arms over my stomach. Mom’s gone and I don’t know if she’s coming back. The same can be said for Jackson, and yet here I am staring at Noah like a starving woman. What the hell is wrong with me?

  I swallow loudly. “You’re really good,” I say out of nowhere.

  He lifts his head and grins. Another twist in my gut. “You seem shocked,” he says.

  “I guess I am,” I reply.

  Noah gives me his full attention. He leans against the counter and gives me a once over. “I know you’re lonely but what really brought you here?”

  “Didn’t you just answer your own question? I’m lonely.”

  “Yes, but you were lonely when I moved in and this is your first visit.”

  A sarcastic retort is on the tip of my tongue but at the last second I say, “My boyfriend Jackson isn’t answering my calls. I’m concerned.”

  He frowns and stands to his full height. I tilt my head back slightly. I forgot how tall he is. “Your boyfriend Jackson,” he repeats slowly.

  I no
d anxiously and sit on the edge of my seat. “Yes. We’ve been dating for a short while.”

  “How long is a short while?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe a month.”

  “And he’s stopped answering your calls?” He gives me a look that says, That doesn’t sound good.

  “It sounds bad. I know that. But it’s completely unlike him.”

  “So your mom goes missing and now your boyfriend.”

  He’s stating the facts but they still sting against my fresh wounds. “I don’t know if he’s missing.”

  “Then confront him. Go to his place.” I hesitate and Noah sighs. “Where did you meet this guy, Selah?”

  “Online,” I say through gritted teeth.

  “You’re a smart girl. I never pegged you as an online dater.”

  “I didn’t plan on meeting someone online. It just happened.”

  “So you’ve never been to his place?”

  I nod.

  “But you have seen him in person?”

  I nod. “Of course. He’s been here a few times.”

  At that, Noah looks skeptical. “Really?”

  “Yes, really,” I snap.

  Noah is silent for a long moment, staring down at the garage floor. “Is there any other way for you to contact him?” he asks quietly.

  “No, there’s…” I start to say, but then I stop short because that’s a lie. I never checked JustWrite. My eyes widen. “We met on a writing site. I haven’t checked there!”

  “Even if you do go on there and contact him, do you really want to stay with someone who’s ignoring you?” Noah says. There’s the golden question. One that I’ve been thinking about constantly. “If he’s not talking to you, Selah, then perhaps you should let it be. It’s his loss.”

  I try to read his face, but his head’s down, focused on the bench in front of him.

  I go to say thank you when I notice that his left hand is bleeding. Alarm sweeps through me. I stand up and move next to him. “Hey. You’re bleeding.”

  He glances down at his hand. The blood is now dripping onto the garage floor. He doesn’t look shocked to see it. Just slightly annoyed.

  “Shit.” He snatches a roll of paper towels and wraps a few pieces around his palm.