“So Kai got the job because he’s better at the game?”
“Kai got the job because he developed what management believes is a viable plan. Whether or not it will work, only time will tell.”
“A mean, tightfisted, and possibly illegal plan. Do you know he wants to break our guest contracts? Toss our helpless destitutes out the door?”
“I do.”
“And you don’t care?”
“Of course I care. But I have no power.”
“That’s bullshit.”
Bob runs his hands through his hair. “Come on, Ruth. Don’t be naïve. We’ve been bought by a major conglomerate. There are bound to be changes.”
“But Kai’s an idiot. He’s totally incompetent.”
“Possibly. But he’s also your new boss.”
I try not to gag. “As of when?”
“Monday.”
“But what about you?”
“Today’s my last day.”
“You were supposed to stay through the end of the month.”
“Plans change.”
“Well, I’ll . . . I’ll resign before I work for Kai.”
“Can you afford not to work?”
That stops me. I think about my mortgage. About health insurance. About my car. About the credit cards I ran up to pay for Adam’s rehab. “I can get a job elsewhere,” I say. “Peaceful Pastures is hiring.”
Bob shakes his head. “You’d hate it there. They wouldn’t live up to your standards.”
My anger drains like water from an unplugged sink. It’s replaced by a panicky sadness. “But Bob,” I say, my heart thrumming. “The ED position means everything to me. I’ve worked hard to achieve that goal. I’ve worked weekends, overtime. Set aside my personal life.”
“Believe me, I know that.”
“And then some arrogant kid walks in with a couple of untested ideas and he gets the job? It’s not fair. It’s not . . .” My God! I have never cried at work before, and now tears are spilling down my cheeks. I hastily wipe them away.
Bob gets up and comes around the desk and gives my shoulder an awkward rub. “I like you, Ruth. I always have. I’ve enjoyed working with you over the years. You’re smart. You’re mature. You’re a hard worker. You must know if it was up to me, you would’ve been offered the job. Unfortunately, there’s a new sheriff in town, and they have their own ideas. The thing is, if you’re right about Kai, he won’t last six months, and the opportunity will circle back around to you.”
“Impossible,” I say, straightening my shoulders and willing away my tears. “There’s no way in hell I’ll work for him.”
“Think about it over the weekend. I don’t want you to make a decision that you’ll come to regret.”
“You bet I’ll think about it.” I get up and march out of his office with no idea where I’ll go. If I head toward my office, I might run into Kai, and there’s no way I can face him right now. I don’t want him to know I give a damn about the position. That would be the final blow.
Laughter spills down the hallway, and I spot Selena and Nurse Milo strolling in my direction. I look around and then stumble through a nearby door and make my way to the paved path that skirts the golf course. When I reach the path’s end, I pass a cluster of maintenance buildings and keep going until I reach the entrance to the memorial garden. It’s bounded by a soaring Eugenia hedge that creates a private walled space. It’s set a little too far from the residences, so it’s empty more often than not.
I enter the garden and take a seat on the cement bench that fronts the miniature koi pond. On the far side of the pond towers a granite slab etched with several hundred names. As I gaze at the slick black surface, I’m filled with an overwhelming sense of doom. Does anyone remember those guests? Is anyone sad they’re gone? And what about me? Who will give a damn when I’m stuck six feet under? Maybe Alice and possibly Adam. Carlyn? Who else? I don’t really know. My God. I used to have lots of friends. When did my life become so small? I drop my head in my hands and weep until a kindly voice interrupts.
“This is a good place to come when you’re sad.”
I look up to find Ember hovering above me, a smile lighting her damaged face. I swipe at my tears. “I’m fine,” I croak.
“Of course you are.” I wish her away, but she settles beside me, a hint of lemon scenting the air. “I love watching the koi,” she says. “They’re so incredibly soothing. They never argue or fight. Just move through the water like dancers. We can learn a lot from them, don’t you think?”
I don’t know how to respond, so I rub my Fitbit between my fingers until I think of something to say. “Do you come here often?” I ask.
“Nearly every day.”
“For the quiet?”
“I suppose.” My heart clenches when a single tear slides down the healthy side of her face. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I didn’t mean to pry.”
“No . . . that’s okay. I come here to pray for the ones that I’ve lost.”
“Oh.” I feel sorry for her, but I don’t inquire any further. I am her supervisor, after all. Several moments pass, and then Ember reaches out. “Do you mind if I take your hand?” She doesn’t wait for an answer but settles her cool hand on mine. I’m about to pull away when I feel a strange sensation, like the beating of a hummingbird’s heart. The humming moves along my hand and up my arm and deep into my chest. My shoulders relax. My eyes close. Then I awaken with a start.
“What is that?” I ask, shaking her off. “What are you doing to me?”
Ember’s shoulders have slumped, and she’s turned as pale as a ghost. “I’m healing your hurt,” she says in a whisper. “It’s very deep.”
I get to my feet. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
She eyes me sadly. “I think you do.”
I check the time on my Fitbit. “You better hurry, or you’ll be late for your shift.”
She nods. “Yes. Of course. I’ll be leaving in a moment.”
I turn on my heel and exit the garden and head straight for my office. There I check my Fitbit once again. Quarter past six. It should be safe to move around. Kai is long gone, I hope.
Seven
Friday, June 14
I return home just as the evening shadows are deepening to gray. Change out of my suit and into a baggy shirt and my most forgiving shorts. Measure six ounces of Pinot and settle onto one of the two old chairs that inhabit my back porch. They’re all that’s left of an outdoor dining set Doug and I purchased when we first moved into our home.
The yard is hemmed in by a rotten wooden fence propped up by bug-infested trees. The once green lawn has given way to dirt; the untended roses are yellowed and slumped. The cement fountain is cracked at the base and filled with dirt and weeds. There’s an ancient gate that separates my home from Zach’s, installed when our kids were young. It’s hard to believe there was a time when the lawn had been lush and crowded with children, pets, and toys. I wonder if the sad decline of my backyard mirrors the direction my life will take.
Stop being overdramatic, I order. No more wine for you. I try focusing my thoughts on the mellow guitar notes floating in on a gentle breeze. Zach likes to strum on his back porch in the evenings; he’s actually rather good. Writes his own music—sad and mournful tunes that revolve around heartbreak and loss. Before his life imploded, he played bass in a band made up of first responders. I wonder if his music brings him any comfort or if it’s a reminder of all that he’s lost.
I break my rule and have a second glass of wine. And then break it again and have a third. The evening sky darkens to purple; a trace of pink outlines a cloud. An owl hoots, raccoons chitter, bats dart to and fro.
The wine doesn’t make things better—for me, it never has. Instead, it carries me back to a time I spend most days trying to forget. I flash on how at the age of ten, I broke my arm and kept it a secret for three long days. I suffered alone in misery until my anguish overcame my reserve.
I’ve often thoug
ht about that little girl in my ensuing forty-two years. Why would a child fold into herself? Hide like an animal nursing its wounds? Was it the squabbling between my drunken parents or the need to control my space? Even the doctor couldn’t get me to talk. I begged to be left alone.
In college I met with a therapist to try to make sense of my peculiar past. My parents were dead by then; the years of alcoholism had taken their toll. But as we circled closer to the truth, waves of panic swallowed me whole. I couldn’t admit my parents had never loved me. My secret brought too much shame. So I dumped the shrink and turned to running. The endorphins helped me forget. When an injury ended my jogging days, I took up speed walking instead.
My Fitbit quivers, reminding me I have many more steps to go. I set down my empty glass and head down the stairs and walk in circles around the yard. One, two, three, four . . .
There’s a knock at the adjoining gate; the rusty hinges squeal. “Can I come over for a few?” Zach calls from the shadows.
He’s the last thing I need at the moment, but it would be mean of me to say no. “Sure. Come in.” I sprint up the steps and slide the wine glass behind a withered potted plant.
Years ago, our families spent evenings together hanging in our backyard. Our kids would careen about like drunk kittens while we adults planned our future lives. We’d chat of dream vacations, preferred school districts, outrageous home improvement projects. Laugh over our favorite sitcoms. Cry over a sad book. We were young and innocent and full of hope, believing our lives would never change.
Zach lumbers up the steps and settles beside me, giving his bad knee an extrahard rub. He first hurt it the night Tina died. Got drunk and drove his car into a tree. He smells of soap, so he’s freshly showered, although he still reeks of despair. My darkness grows a little darker. My shoulders sag with his weight. “Know what today is?” he asks.
“Friday?” A warm breeze rustles the leaves, and a burst of jasmine scents the air. Zach is quiet, and then he says the words I never want to hear.
“It’s the anniversary.”
“Oh. Yes. Sorry.” Somehow that skipped my mind. “You doing okay?”
“Best I can.” He runs his hands through his shaggy, gray hair. “I wish things could’ve turned out different.”
“Don’t we all.”
“I mean, if only we hadn’t . . .”
I give my Fitbit a quick rub. Do we have to do this again? “It was an accident, Zach. A terrible accident. Let’s leave it at that.”
“An accident based on stupidity.”
“Don’t go there, Zach.”
“I don’t have a choice.”
“Yes, you do.”
He rocks back and forth, his hands clenched tight. Then he mumbles something I can’t hear.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You sure?”
“I don’t know what I’m sure of. I feel like I need to talk to someone. Anyone.”
“Then talk to me.”
“I mean, I want to tell someone.”
Panic clutches my throat. “You can’t do that, Zach. I mean, why would you after all these years?”
He works his eyes with his fisted hands. “Guilt is an awful thing. It eats at me every day. And I can’t be the only one having that problem. You must feel the weight of it too.”
I try to speak forcefully. “What’s done is done. We made a horrible mistake. Why relive it now?”
“It might help me,” he says with a shaky breath. “And it might help you too.”
“I don’t need any help,” I say firmly. “I’m fine the way I am.”
He stops his rocking and gazes at me. “You have any friends?”
“Of course.”
“Well, I never see anyone hanging around anymore. Not Carlyn or your kids.”
“My children lead busy lives, and Carlyn . . . well, you know what’s going on there.” I get to my feet, feeling shaky. “It’s late, Zach. I’ve had a long day.”
Zach stands and turns to me. It’s grown so dark I can barely make out the ruins of his face. “Truth is,” he says, “I think you’re as messed up as I am. Only you’ve dealt with things in a different way. I drank myself into oblivion, and you’ve pushed everyone out of your life.”
“What are you? My therapist?”
“Our secret has hurt us, Ruth. And I know it’s messed with Adam’s head. He deserves to know the truth.”
“Our secret has nothing to do with Adam. His problems started with Doug’s affair.”
“You’re sure about that?”
“Absolutely.”
“Then you won’t mind if I tell him.”
“You can’t!” Adam and I may not be speaking, but this revelation would only make things worse. Adam would tell Alice, and Alice would hate me. Then they’d tell their father, and he’d think he’d been absolved. No. That can’t happen. I need to do something, and I need to do it quick. I comb my mind for a solution, but my thoughts are running slow. Then a trace of an idea begins to take shape. “I think you have too much time on your hands,” I say in an almost calm voice.
“That’s an understatement.”
“You spend every waking moment focused on your past.”
“I like it there.”
“But it’ll kill you sooner or later.”
“Maybe that’s the point.”
“Come on, Zach. You’re only sixty. There’s got to be something you still want in life.”
“Yeah,” he says in a dull voice. “I want to go back and start my life over. I want to erase our mistake.”
I almost scream in frustration. “You know we can’t do that.”
“Then for God’s sake, get that woman out of my head.”
“What woman?”
“Or give me a dose of dementia. Or Alzheimer’s. A nice little brain disease.”
“Zach . . .”
“Or a bullet to the head.”
“Zach!”
“All right then.” He turns away and kneads his hands and stares out into the night. “Why don’t you tell me how I’m supposed to move forward? How I’m supposed to get on with my life.”
I carefully tender my idea. “What about a job?” I ask. “That would keep you busy. Help you move on to something else.”
Zach mumbles a few words, and then he’s quiet for the longest time. “Maybe you’re right,” he finally says. “But how’s that going to happen? I haven’t held a real job in years.”
“There’s an opening for a security guard at Serenity Acres. It’s the evening shift, but the schedule’s not bad. You work four tens a week.”
“They’d hire me with my pitiful work record?”
“I’d hire you, yes. And besides. It’s not so pitiful. You used to be a detective.”
“A lifetime ago.”
“Still . . .”
“What about my bum knee?”
“Can you outrun an eighty-year-old?”
“I guess.”
“Then you’ll pass the test with flying colors.”
“You set a low bar.”
“It’s not easy to find employees in this town. At least not with your experience.”
“I don’t know . . .”
“Come on, Zach. It’s better than sitting at home picking apart the past. And if you stay long enough, your insurance will kick in, and you can do something about your knee.”
“Maybe.”
“Promise me you’ll think about it.”
“Yeah. Sure.”
“I need to know by next week. Friday at the latest.”
“All right.”
When the gate clicks shut, I breathe a sigh of relief. Then I get up and begin another round of laps until my heartbeat slows to my steps.
II. SLOTH
The way of the sluggard is blocked with thorns, but the path of the upright is a highway.
—Proverbs 15:19
The Angel
I wake to the scent of smoke and ash. The nose-biting, teeth-
crunching, lung-burning ash that sifts through the air when the wildfires burn. I check on the local news feed, but alas, it was but a dream.
My thoughts drift back to the Thomas Fire, which spewed incense for weeks on end. It burned through hundreds of thousands of acres on its march along the coast. When it reached the hillsides above Santa Barbara, the residents scattered like frenzied ants. They knew the devil had been set upon them; fear bloomed in the Promised Land.
On those marvelous winter evenings, I’d prepare a proper picnic and stroll to the far end of the wharf. I’d take a seat on my favorite bench and hold my crossing journal close. Would the flames engulf the city? Would the inhabitants be forced to move? Would they trade their lives for their secrets? Would those secrets be enshrined in my book? Just the thought brought on tremors of ecstasy in a way no lover ever could.
It’s no coincidence I settled in a town named after one of my all-time favorite saints. The Holy Great Martyr Barbara died a virgin’s sanctified death. She was a woman of unsurpassed beauty who refused the hand of every marriageable man. Insisted on saving herself for her maker, which provoked her pagan father’s rage. For her love of Christ and the Trinity, her father thrashed her with his sword. He then starved and tortured the girl before tossing her to a savage crowd.
Her body wounded with bloodied hooks, she was led naked through the streets. When an angel attempted to cover her shame, her father beheaded his virgin child. The wrath of God was swift and immediate; the man was felled by a lightning bolt. Was he unaware of the Lord’s penchant for vengeance or just a sinner filled with contempt?
I like to visit the statue of Saint Barbara displayed at the downtown historical museum. Examine her exquisite features and imagine the secrets she might have told. Was there a sin that was never uncovered, an illicit lover in her past? A penchant for greed or gluttony, self-adoration for her face? I’ve begged her to speak to me, share a confidence or two. I’ve promised to never tell; it would be forever locked away. For what is a truly great secret if not a window into a soul?
ZACH RICHARDS
One
Friday, June 14
What She Never Said Page 5
