Hold Me Close

by Megan Hart

  “You don’t have to go.”

  “I...should get home. My kid...” She didn’t have to pick Polly up from her mom’s until the afternoon, but Mitchell didn’t need to know.

  “Right. Of course.” He sat, a lumpy shadow among all the others. “Let me walk you to the door—”

  “No,” she said quickly. “It’s fine. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

  Mitchell made a soft noise. “I know you didn’t.”

  She wasn’t sure what to say to that. So she simply put her clothes on, feeling him watching her even though she knew he could make out only the shape of her and no details. She went to the side of the bed to kiss him before she left. She did that much, at least.

  “I’ll call you,” Mitchell said.

  She let another kiss drift along his mouth. “Okay.”

  Then she let herself out.

  chapter twenty-two

  Naveen’s gallery wasn’t the biggest around, but he did have two locations, one in New York City and one in Philadelphia, which was as far as Effie ever wanted to travel. He was also fair with his commission, and he put her work in front of the bigger buyers, at least when she had something they’d like. When the phone rang in her pocket with his distinctive ringtone, Effie pulled it out even though it was almost her turn at the cashier and she hated it when people took calls in the grocery store line and held everyone else up.

  “Hello, lovely,” Naveen said without preamble. “Is this a bad time?”

  “For you? Never.” Effie gestured to Polly to inch the cart forward so they could start putting the items onto the conveyor belt.

  “Are you sitting down?”

  She paused, bending to keep the phone pressed to her ear while she rummaged in her purse for her store loyalty card. She handed it to Polly to give to the cashier. “No, I’m in line at the grocery store. Why?”

  “I sold your painting,” Naveen said. “I think you’re going to be very, very happy.”

  Effie laughed. “I’m sure I am. Are you going to tell me for how much, or do I have to get Elisabeth on your case?”

  “She’s not here. You have to settle for me.” Naveen sounded as if he was grinning from ear to ear, a Cheshire cat. “Sure you don’t want to sit down?”

  The woman ahead of her had paid her bill, and it was Effie’s turn. She shook her head to the question of if she had any coupons and gave the guy behind her an apologetic glance even though she hadn’t done anything so far to hold up the line. “Polly, keep unloading the cart, please. Naveen, just tell me.”

  “Twenty.”

  “Twenty...dollars?” Effie paused, confused.

  “Twenty thousand dollars. Twenty. Thousand. Bucks.” Naveen sounded giddy with glee, and could she blame him, hell no, twenty grand?

  “Twenty grand,” Effie breathed and for a second or so wished she could sit down right there on the cool tile floor. Thinking she might have no choice but to at least bend and put her head between her knees, since everything had sort of tipped. “Are you f... Are you kidding me?”

  Mindful that she had an audience, she lowered her voice. Polly gave her a curious look. Effie gave her a thumbs-up. Polly went back to loading eggs and yogurt and crackers onto the belt. Effie wished now she’d sprung for the pricey cereal the kid had wanted. Well, next time.

  “I’m not kidding you. It’s one of my best buyers. Her clients are all richer than Midas and trust her implicitly. Your piece, Effie, I have to tell you...I knew it was going to sell the second I saw it. It’s the best thing you’ve ever done. And I mean that,” Naveen said sincerely. “It was brilliant.”

  “And to think, if I could do a couple of those a year I’d be all set.” Already the buzz was fading. By the time Naveen took his cut and she covered her expenses, there’d still be a respectable amount left over, but it would be whittled quickly into zeros by groceries and new tires and sneakers for Polly.

  Still, it was worth a celebration, and when she disconnected with Naveen, Effie squeezed Polly’s shoulder. “Let’s get out of here, kiddo. We’re going out for dinner to celebrate. I just sold a painting.”

  “Oh, Mom, great!” Polly grinned. “Can we go to the Melting Pot? Can Heath come?”

  Effie, pulling out her credit card to slide it through the machine so they didn’t take up any more time, gave Polly a glance. “Yes, we can go to the Melting Pot. Yes, you can call Heath.”

  She hadn’t spoken to Heath in three weeks, though she knew he texted with Polly regularly and had picked her up from school a couple times to take her for hot chocolate or bowling or some other “Disneyland Dad” activities while Effie worked. She’d been swimming in an influx of orders from her store, last-minute rush orders she assumed were for holiday gift-giving. It was good for her own holiday budget, but it meant long hours of what could only occasionally be considered fulfilling work. She’d been grateful for the extra projects that kept her busy. Less so for the way Heath waited in the driveway for Polly to come out, and the way he wasn’t answering Effie’s calls.

  With a quick stop at home to drop off the groceries, Effie and Polly were at the Melting Pot in less than an hour. Polly had texted Heath, who didn’t answer at once. He called as they pulled into the parking lot.

  “Let me talk to him.” Effie held out her hand for Polly’s phone. “Hey.”

  “Hey.” He sounded taken aback. “I thought I called Polly.”

  “You did. I sold that piece. Naveen called me today. We’re at the Melting Pot to celebrate.” Effie kept her voice light, casual. Not trying too hard.

  “Congratulations, that’s great. I knew you would sell it. It’s an amazing piece.”

  Heath’s voice shifted, getting fainter. She could picture him holding the phone to his ear while he slid behind the wheel of his beat-up Camaro. Effie hadn’t realized how long three weeks was until they’d been without him. She closed her eyes against a sudden burning, twisting in her seat to keep Polly from seeing.

  “So, dinner. My treat? I’ll spring for the four-course meal.”

  “Nah, sorry. I can’t make it. Another time, maybe.” Heath’s voice was as light and casual as Effie’s had been, but his words struck her hard.

  Not in the chest, not in her heart, but in that gag-inducing spot at the base of her throat. Swift and fierce like the stab of two fingers. It hurt to swallow. Effie drew in a breath to keep her voice calm.

  “Polly was looking forward to it.”

  “I’ll see Polly another time.”

  “Heath,” Effie said sharply but with a quick glance at her daughter, who was pretending to be busy with something in her purse, but who gave her mother a sideways look that said she was listening to every word. Effie took another breath and let it out, forcing herself to smile. “Fine, then. Another time.”

  She disconnected without waiting for him to say anything and handed the phone back. Polly slipped it into her purse and gave her mother an expectant look. Effie took her keys from the ignition.

  “C’mon,” she said. “Let’s call Nana instead. I bet she’ll be excited.”

  chapter twenty-three

  Effie wants out of the hospital. There’s nothing wrong with her. Nothing physical, anyway. Nothing they can fix with bandages or stitches or a cast. She’s sure there are pills she could take that would make a lot of the memories go away, but she’s done with drugs. The doctors are concerned about withdrawal. They told her that, without knowing what exactly Daddy had been giving them, they can’t predict how she’ll react to not taking anything. They want to monitor her.

  Heath, they sent home.

  He’s not a minor, and she still is. He doesn’t have insurance, and Effie, through her parents, still does. It’s not fair, she knows that, but she’s not sure if it’s because it feels as if Heath has been set free or shunted aside.
>
  “I want to go home,” she tells her mother, who is fussing and cooing over her until Effie wants to scream. “I just want to go home.”

  “Tomorrow.” That’s the promise Effie’s heard for the past three days, but her mother seems to believe it. She pats and smooths the blankets over Effie’s feet and offers her a drink from the plastic cup and straw and some pudding, and Effie chokes down everything because all she wants is to be out of here.

  She wants Heath, too. They would not let him in to see her after that first day when the two of them, filthy and aching and sick and starving, had been brought in the ambulance with Officer Schmidt there to make sure everything was all right. Her father had told her Heath had been released. Her mother refused to talk about Heath at all.

  Another day passes with tests and probing and being woken in the night to have her blood pressure checked. Effie is exhausted. She’s gained a pound, which seems to make the doctors happy enough to send her home. She has to sit in a wheelchair, although there’s nothing wrong with her legs. Hospital policy. When her father pushes her through the doors and out into the unexpectedly bright sunshine, Effie looks up at the sky and sneezes, hard, four or five times.

  Her father laughs. “There’s my girl.”

  All Effie wants to do is to stand under the shower in her own bathroom until the hot water runs out. Then she wants to put on clean pajamas and crawl into bed and sleep until she can’t sleep anymore. Yet not even that simple desire is meant to be fulfilled, because as they pull up to the house, she sees too many cars. And there are people outside in the front yard. Balloons. A sign.

  Welcome Home!

  Oh, no, Effie thinks as she looks out the car window. Oh, no. There’s nothing she can do about it, though. Her father has invited the neighbors. Family. And, once she gets inside, there are a few strangers who’ve made their way into the kitchen to stand with plastic cups of punch beneath the balloons. Strangers who want to ask her questions that Effie refuses to answer.

  Her father throws them out, but it’s too late by that point. Effie has broken into tears and screams, retreating to her room to slam the door in the faces of everyone who wants to point and stare. The only person she really wants to see, needs to see, was not invited.

  All she really wants is Heath, but though he promised he would never, ever leave her, he is gone. Her father sits on the edge of Effie’s bed and pats her shoulder awkwardly. In the past, he would have hugged her tight, but there’s a distance now between them, and Effie knows why. She’s not his little girl anymore. He thinks things happened to her in the basement, and he’s right, of course. Things did. But it shouldn’t matter to him, and it does. Maybe he thinks Effie would push him away, or that she doesn’t want his comfort, but she does, desperately.

  When she tries to lean against him, her father’s stiff posture and the hesitant cough pushes her back an inch or so. She draws her knees to her chest and rests her chin on them. Her hair, wet and clinging to her face, annoys her, so she leans to reach in her nightstand for a hair tie. There were a whole bunch of them in the drawer before she was taken, and they’re still in there.

  That starts her crying again. Everything in her room is the same. The house, mostly the same. Her parents look older, and they, too, are mostly the same.

  Only Effie seems to have changed.

  “He’s my friend,” she says. “You don’t understand.”

  “I understand that the two of you formed a special relationship. But your mother and I think that it’s better for now if you have some time here, with us. To readjust. If he’s truly your...friend...he’ll understand.”

  “You filled the house with people I don’t want to see. And strangers,” Effie said. “Journalists.”

  Her father looks so sad that Effie wishes she hadn’t said anything. “I’m so sorry, Effie. They must’ve found out about the party somehow and showed up. Believe me, I would never have allowed them in. I thought family and friends would make you feel more at home. I thought it would help.”

  “Heath would help me.”

  His shoulders sag. He sighs. Her father knuckles his eyes, pressing so hard for a moment that Effie’s sure he must be seeing stars. Then he takes the phone from its cradle on her nightstand and punches in a number he must’ve memorized. At her look, her father gives Effie a sad, broken smile.

  “He called every day while you were still in the hospital and left this number for you to call him back. So call him. If that’s what you need. Call.”

  Effie would hug him, but something in the way her father stands keeps her from it. “Thanks.”

  Effie talks with Heath on the phone for three hours. Much of the time, they say nothing, but the soft sound of his breathing is enough to calm her. When at last they disconnect the call, Effie feels as though she can bear to venture from the safety of her bedroom and go to the kitchen for something to eat.

  Does she imagine the warmth on the carpet outside her door, as though one or both of her parents had stood there, listening? Their bedroom door is cracked open, the soft murmur of a late-night talk show familiar as a lullaby. She considers knocking softly on their door, but in the end does not. Her mother will want more than a simple good-night, and the day has been too long already.

  In the kitchen, she’s startled to find her father sitting with a glass of amber liquid in front of him. She’s not sure how much he’s already had to drink, but since she can’t recall ever seeing him drink alcohol, even beer, the very fact he has a bottle of Scotch in the house is enough to set her back a step. He smiles when he sees her.

  “Hey,” her father says. “Effie.”

  “I came to get something to eat.”

  “Good. Good.” Her father gestures at the fridge but doesn’t get up. “We have a lot of food left. From the party. It was a stupid idea. I’m sorry.”

  Effie can’t tell him she forgives him—she’s not sure it would matter, and she’s not positive she does. She pulls a platter of lunch meat and cheese from the fridge and goes to the drawer where her mother always kept the bread. It’s full of club rolls and sliced bakery loaves, the fancy stuff.

  Faced with this reminder of once again how everything is very much the same while she is vastly different, Effie puts her hands on the countertop to keep herself from shaking. She breathes in. Out. Her fingers curl on the slick Formica. When she looks at her father over her shoulder, thinking she will need to make some excuse for her behavior, she finds him staring instead at the glass he is turning around and around in his hands.

  Effie makes a sandwich, inspecting each slice of meat, cheese and bread before layering it. No mayo or mustard. Of course she doesn’t expect that the condiments in her mother’s kitchen would be spoiled, but the thought of it, the slippery slimy taste of mayonnaise that seems fine but which has gone horribly bad...she can’t do it. The sandwich is dry and yet is also the best thing she has ever eaten in her life.

  “That boy,” her father says quietly, then stops.

  “Heath.”

  “Yes. He’s not going to have it easy.”

  Effie’s not sure what to say to that. She takes another bite. Chews. Savors the food. Swallows.

  “If you want to talk about what happened...” Her father pauses. The amber liquid spins slowly when he stops turning the glass, then settles. He doesn’t drink. He looks at her.

  It’s an offer to listen, yet he can’t quite force himself to make it. Effie thinks she understands. Her parents don’t really want to know about what happened to her.

  “Even the bad things make you into the person you are,” her father says. “Never be ashamed of who you are, Effie. That’s all I really want to say.”

  Then they are quiet together until Effie finishes her sandwich and her father gets up to pour the booze down the sink. He pauses to squeeze her shoulder as he passes. Effie waits until he’
s gone upstairs before she puts her plate in the dishwasher. She drinks a glass of cold, sweet water, then another because she can. She goes upstairs. The noise of the television is still coming from her parents’ bedroom. Effie pauses with one hand on the wall just outside her bedroom door, her eyes closed, breathing in the quiet of the house. The smells. The soft carpet beneath her toes. The safety.

  She’s home.

  chapter twenty-four

  “Hey,” Effie said into her phone from the comfort of her blankets and pillows. She’d already turned out the lights. “How are you?”

  Mitchell sounded pleased. “Effie. Hi. I’m good, good. I was just thinking about you.”

  “Oh. Good. Is that good?” She laughed, stretching a little in the cocoon of warmth.

  “Very good,” he assured her. “What’s up? How’ve you been? Haven’t heard from you in a while.”

  It had been less than a week since the night she’d fucked him, and he hadn’t called or texted her, either. It was not the first time he’d let a week pass without getting in touch with her, and she’d remembered that, just as she remembered that small green circle next to his name.

  “I’ve been busy. Work. Kid. That sort of thing. I’m...sorry I didn’t call you before now?”

  Her voice tilted up at the end, a question, not a true apology. The sound of it curled her lip. Jesus, she sounded like every wishy-washy girl she’d ever disdained.

  “Ah. Busy. Yeah.” He paused. “About what happened...”

  Oh, shit. He wanted to dissect the sex. Effie braced herself.

  “Just wanted to make sure you were okay with it,” Mitchell said.

  “Oh. Yes. I mean, sure, it was fun. It was great,” she added, thinking of his terminology.

  He chuckled softly. “It was great. But then I didn’t hear from you...”

  “Maybe we were both busy,” Effie said more gently than she thought she’d be able to manage. “It happens.”