Make You Mine

by Louise, Tia

  My phone lies silent on the mahogany wood, and I pick it up, studying the face, allowing it to pull me back to my own emotional wound.

  Tapping on the screen, I go to where his number is saved and pull it up in my messenger app. The last text I ever sent him waits, unanswered. I’d sent it a month after the funeral, when my dad sank farther into alcoholism, and I wasn’t sure I could keep going. I wasn’t sure I could put one foot in front of the other for one more day.

  I can’t do this. I need you here. Please come home.

  The note it was delivered sits below it.

  No reply.

  He ghosted me just as sure as he became a ghost himself.

  The only way I knew he was alive was through the list of soldiers who escaped the ambush. Not because he came back and told me himself in person what happened. Not because he was here for Danny’s funeral.

  “Ready?” Ruby’s voice jumps me out of my unexpected trip down memory lane. She taps on the door before sticking her head inside. “Come on—I’ve got to hurry. I’ve got a date tonight.”

  “On a Wednesday? More Hookup4Luv?”

  “Judgment from the girl who never dates? Yeah, I’m ashamed.” Sarcasm drips from her tone as she waits for me to pack my laptop and notepad. “How was Hunter? Still convinced Mrs. Green is the real Deep Throat?”

  “Russian spy.” I pause to lock my door before walking with her down the short hall of the clinic. “He talked about Martha Mitchell syndrome today.”

  “I don’t have my DSM…”

  “Simply put, even paranoids have enemies. In his mind he’s telling the truth, and I don’t believe him.”

  She spins her car keys and laughs as we climb into her lime green Subaru. “Do you?”

  Ruby got her master’s this year and just started with me at the clinic. She’s assisting while she waits for her licensing exam, sitting in with certain patients, and slowly building her practice.

  “The Watergate conspiracy is a framework he uses to protect himself against unpleasant confrontations.”

  “So you don’t believe him.”

  “I don’t believe Mrs. Green is stealing yard ornaments and fitting them with government surveillance chips.” My eyes drift out the window.

  We pass Mack’s garage with the closed sign still firmly in place. Mack left two years ago to stay with his sister in Delaware. She’d fallen ill and had no one to take care of her. He went and never came back.

  Another ghost.

  “I heard he died,” my friend says as if reading my mind.

  “What?”

  “Mack. My mom read about it in the newspaper. Last month or something. I meant to tell you.”

  “Your mom is the only person in America who still reads the newspaper.” The houses grow larger as we approach my parents’ place. “Did it list his survivors?”

  “Don’t know.” We’re quiet a moment, and I know she knows what I’m thinking. Besides the sister, Gray was Mack’s only relative as far as we know. “So Mrs. Green stole my Dachshund sculpture? That ole klepto better bring him back. I miss my wiener.”

  She stops in the circle driveway of our enormous redbrick home with the massive white front entrance. Good thing it’s mostly brick to hide how badly it’s in need of repairs.

  “Sounds to me like you get plenty of wiener.” I grab my case and purse.

  “Jealous much? I’ve tried to get you in on the game, but you won’t play.”

  “No thanks. See you in the morning.” I close the car door and step back as she zips out of the driveway, always going too fast for this neighborhood.

  Walking slowly up the long side drive that leads to the back, I pause at the garage where the old Jaguar is covered in a thick canvass tarp. It hasn’t been driven in years. I’d sell it and buy something more practical, but I’m pretty sure that would be the final nail for my dad.

  I leave my bag and coat on the hook at the back door and take the narrow hallway that leads into the gourmet kitchen. It opens to a large living area with dark wood floors and white, wainscoted walls. The furniture is neat and the pillows are fluffed on the window seat. The fireplace is dark and empty, and the large flat screen television is black. No sign of life down here.

  When I was a little girl we had housekeepers, but my dad’s continued drinking and failure to return to work burned through all the money to pay them. Now it’s just him and me.

  My job keeps us fed and clothed and the lights turned on, and I spot-clean on the weekends. It helps that he hardly leaves his room, and I’m a relatively neat person.

  Climbing the wooden stairs, I tap lightly on the oversized door leading to his study. He sits in a leather armchair looking out a massive window over the field behind our home. Off to the left is the fence separating our land from the creek where we used to play. It’s the same one I sneaked away to when I met Gray for the first time, years ago.

  “Hey, Dad, I’m home.” I walk slowly to where he sits, holding an empty highball glass in his hand.

  The ice cubes are still formed, but the whiskey is gone.

  “Hm?” He stirs, looking up at me. “Good evening, Andrea.”

  His words are slurry, and I know he’s more than half way to drunk.

  “Have you eaten today?” I take the glass from his hand and set it on the side table. His blond hair has turned silver, and his blue eyes are lined and world weary. He’s a shell of the person he was when I was a child. Or maybe everything just seemed bigger back then.

  “I’m tired. I’m going to lie down.”

  “Did you go to your meeting?” After I got my degree, I thought it would make him listen to me more about attending Alcoholics Anonymous meetings, going to counseling sessions, taking control of his life.

  It didn’t.

  “There’s no such thing as anonymous in this town,” he complains. “Everybody knows everybody.”

  He has a point. “We could find another group. Maybe something in Timmons?” I follow him onto the landing. “You can’t keep living this way, Dad.”

  “Suits me fine. The sooner my body gives out the better. I’ve waited long enough.”

  It’s not technically a threat of self-injury, still I don’t like the implication of his words. As it is, I simply worry, nag, and try to distract myself with work. I’m a healer, but I can’t heal him. I think of the reason I went into this profession, and I feel like I’ve failed.

  “I’m ordering Thai food. I’ll let you know when it’s here.”

  “If I’m asleep don’t wake me.”

  The door closes, and my shoulders drop. I walk over to where he was sitting in the chair, and look at the framed photo on the end table. My mother was so pretty, with raven hair and black eyes. Her cheekbones were high and her smile knowing. This particular photo has always reminded me of Natalie Wood.

  Neither Danny nor I got her dark features. We got her olive skin tone, but otherwise, we were both fair like my dad. Now it’s only me. Stepping to the window, I place my palm against the glass. If I strain my eyes, I can see the tops of the marble monuments in our family cemetery over the hill and down a bit.

  It’s where he lies now.

  We didn’t know we’d lost Danny until weeks after it happened. I was at school when the soldiers came to the house with a flag and a letter signed by the President. I’m surprised my father even answered the door—he usually doesn’t.

  Stoicism is how he responded.

  He smiled tightly, took the flag, accepted their condolences.

  We organized the funeral with the help of the officers. They spoke, talking about my brother’s stellar record of service. They presented us with his medals, and all I could think of was the carefree joker who loved to call me Drew Poo and who never stopped singing the Righteous Brothers.

  How could someone so alive be dead?

  I sat in that black dress on the front row next to my silent father feeling like a cannonball had been blasted through my chest. I didn’t cry until Ruby’s mother came
to me with tears in her eyes.

  She was so sorry she hadn’t prayed to Jesus and the Buddha that day for my brother’s protection. She had planned to do it as soon as she got home from volunteering as church secretary. She felt so guilty.

  I didn’t have the heart to tell her my belief in such things had been blasted to kingdom come along with my brother’s body.

  Along with my heart.

  The clouds glow neon pink in the setting sun and the pale blue sky stretches for miles over the trees, over the ocean.

  I would text Gray every few weeks after it happened. When I was angry, I would demand to know why he wasn’t here. How could he not come home when I needed him? When the pain felt like it was too much to bear, I would text him the simple words, I miss you.

  My mind drifts to the earlier text I read, and with my forehead against the cool glass, I whisper, “How could you disappear on me, Gray? You promised…”

  Three years I dreamed of him. One year, I sank into despair. I can’t seem to let go. Maybe Ruby is right. Maybe I’m no different than my patients, cloaking myself in a failed relationship to save me from finding something new and real.

  It sounds good.

  God, is it time to move on? Is it possible I could do such a thing? My head says I should try. The only problem is my heart can’t let him go.

  Something in me knows he’s coming back.

  The feeling grows stronger with each passing day.

  I’m simply waiting for it to happen.

  And when it does…

  Chapter 6

  Gray

  St. Margaret’s smells like Lysol.

  Not the pine-scented spray—don’t get crazy. No, this place smells like that old-school concentrate in the little brown bottle. The kind that burns the shit out of your nose so it’s impossible to name the fragrance other than hospital.

  “She’s having a good day today.” Sister Constance wears a plain blue skirt and vest over a long-sleeved white shirt. Her hair is covered in a matching blue habit. “She told me about her first dance. She said it was with Timothy DuPont.”

  My aunt is lying in the bed with her eyes closed, and she doesn’t appear to have moved in days.

  “I guess it could’ve happened. How would we ever know?”

  I came here from the reading of Mack’s will. My heart is heavy, but I’m trying to focus on the good. His long battle with lung cancer is over, he’s no longer gasping for breath, no longer in pain.

  He left me the garage, and I came here to check on a woman I barely know before heading south to face the past. My insides are twisting in knots. I’m agitated and impatient with this current errand, but it’s time.

  “Even if it didn’t, her eyes lit up with joy. The way you look when you’re in love.”

  My brow furrows as I glance at her. I guess it’s possible nuns can be in love before they join an order.

  “I brought this.” I hand Constance a bouquet fragrant plants for fall, pine and tea olive.

  “How lovely. You’ve been such a gift from God to her. And your uncle. You should be comforted he’s at peace now.”

  She makes me sound more charitable than I feel. When I was honorably discharged with a purple heart and a medal of valor, I couldn’t go back to Oakville. I was too broken. I’d wake in the night fighting, yelling, covered in sweat. I’d pass a man on the street and involuntarily recoil as if he’d left a bomb in my path—what they think might have happened on that road.

  The road that changed my life.

  After the accident, I stayed in the desert while they treated my injuries. I helped identify the men we’d lost. I attempted to recreate what happened. After six months, once everyone was gone and the base had been shut down, I came here to Dover.

  My phone was destroyed in the blast. Uncle Mack was never one to use technology anyway. He sent me a letter telling me he’d closed the garage and moved back to take care of his sister. Her husband died, and she had dementia. He didn’t tell me he was in the final stages of lung cancer.

  I went from the desert sand to this lush, green city to try and get my head on straight. Then I nursed Mack until he was gone. Now I’m preparing to leave my Aunt Genevieve to the care of these ladies.

  The nuns assure me she’ll be fine, she has no idea where she is. I’m not sure she even remembers me. Looking down at my hands, I decide to confess. She is a nun, after all.

  “I won’t be coming back for a while. I have to go back…” Is home the right word? “I have to check on my uncle’s business.”

  I should say my business now.

  Constance nods gently. “I guessed a man of your age would have unfinished business.”

  She says it as if she knows something.

  “My uncle left his garage in my name. It’s been sitting vacant for two years. I need to check on it and decide whether to keep it or sell it.”

  “You owe me no explanations. Do what you need to do.” She goes to the window and slowly rolls up the blinds. “We’ll take good care of your aunt.”

  “I’m not abandoning her. I’ll be back. I just need to do this.”

  “I’m sure your friends are eager to welcome home a hero.”

  I’m not so sure. “I’m not a hero. I did my duty, the same as anyone would’ve done in those circumstances.”

  She gives me a placid smile. “I’ve found the greatest heroes are often the ones least interested in accepting the title.”

  I clear my throat, rubbing the back of my neck. “Anyway, I’m leaving for the airport now. If you’ll let me know if she needs anything, I’ll take care of it.”

  “She will be fine, and I will keep you informed.” She hesitates, lifting a hand toward me. “How about you. Did you find the help you needed here?”

  She’s referencing my treatment. Constance was the first to diagnose my PTSD, and she referred me to a physician for meds, which I’m trying to stop taking.

  “I’m… better.” Not whole.

  The woman nods. “I’ll pray for you.” Compassion is in her eyes. “Remember, it’s not a sign of weakness to ask for help. It’s a sign of strength.”

  Twenty minutes later, I’m going through the TSA pre-check line. My entire body is tight, every muscle wound to the max. Seeing Danny’s grave is something I’ve needed to do for a long time, but it doesn’t lessen the dread I feel at returning home.

  The trauma counselor said it was normal not to go straight home after what happened to me, but as time passed, it felt more and more like pressure I couldn’t escape.

  I have to go back and face it.

  I have to face her.

  I’ll never be able to accept it wasn’t my fault. I’ll never have peace with what happened. It was my job to clear the road the day before we pulled out, and on top of that, I was driving the truck. I was one of the few surviving passengers.

  “It’s not your fault,” they say over and over.

  I’m not sure she’s going to see it that way.

  The silver step-side rumbles as I pull into the garage and kill the engine. The moon is out, and the town is quiet. I open the door, and the first thing that hits me is the smell—gasoline, oil, old rags, grease… The memories are close behind. God, I remember this place so well—the shame, the pressure, always being an outsider.

  This garage was the only safe place.

  This garage and her arms.

  People call me a hero. I have my degree and my military training, my pension, and I own this shop. Mack said I could sell it if I wanted. He left me a small inheritance, but money’s not on my mind.

  I know what it means to have some kind of connection, some kind of name in this town. I might be returning in the dark of night, but I’m a different person all the way around from when I left.

  Going to the garage door, I pull it down and close it. I take the closed sign out of the window. I called a few days ago and had the utilities turned on. After everything that’s happened, maybe focusing on something simple, internal combustion,
would be therapeutic.

  With a heavy sigh, I drop the plastic sign on the ground. Tomorrow, I’ll sort out what happens next.

  Inside the house, nothing has changed. The old linoleum table is against the wall under the window. The tiny kitchen is behind a half bar attached to the wall. It’s a small place, a straight shot to the back bedroom. A bathroom is off to the side.

  It smells dusty, but the lingering scent of Dawn dishwashing soap remains. It’s the only thing that would take off the grease staining our fingernails.

  Looking at my hands, I realize the telltale black smudges have been absent for eight years. I left for college thinking I’d never come back to this line of work. Now I don’t want to do anything else.

  Fixing cars feels like the perfect escape.

  I’ll put out a help wanted sign tomorrow.

  I walk to the back of the house, dropping my bag on Uncle Mack’s old bed. As a kid, I slept on a cot in the living room. It’s not there anymore, much like all of Mack’s clothes and pictures. All the mementos are gone.

  He knew when he left he wouldn’t be coming back here. He left the place clean for me. The bed is neatly made.

  I pull the blanket off and the sheets. Even if he left it clean, it’s been years. Everything is covered in dust. I’ll wash these and see about getting a housekeeper in here to clean up.

  Slowly, I take out my clothes. I put the jeans in the empty dresser, followed by socks, shirts, boxer briefs. I carry my few toiletries and my toothbrush to the bathroom across the hall. I don’t have a lot of baggage.

  At least not visible baggage.

  I plug the phone I bought a few days ago into the wall. They were able to give me my old number back, but everything from before had been lost. I’ll have to start all over. All I have left from before is the piece of paper and the photograph I had in my pocket. It’s tucked safely in the family Bible my uncle gave me before he died.