“Sure, ma’am,” the guy whose shirt read Joe said. His skin looked pasty and rough, like instant mashed potatoes.
“And, Joe, I also wanted to mention the couches. They’re real leather, so please make sure they’re not leaning against something sharp, okay?”
A hand patted her shoulder. “Sweetie, they’re professionals. Everything’s going to be fine.”
Lindy shrugged Vance’s hand off and walked to the car, where Conner sat on the hood playing with binoculars. “You have everything you need? Do you have your Etch A Sketch and your DS? We’re going to be taking off soon. Have you gone to the bathroom?”
Conner hopped off and went into the house. Lindy tried to run through her mind what she might be forgetting, while keeping an eye on the movers as the coffee table now wobbled between them.
“Hey.”
Lindy sighed and turned. “What?”
“Why are you in such a bad mood? Conner is nervous about leaving. You’ve got to make this all right for him.”
Lindy crossed her arms, staring hard at her husband. “No kidding. In fact, I spent the whole evening making things all right for him. And you decide to come back home at—what was it—2 a.m.?”
“I had a few things to get from my office, Lindy. And I had to stay at the party. It’s kind of what you do when a party is thrown for you.” His eyes looked tired and heavy, dark circles sinking into the skin under his lower lids. “And you could’ve come, you know. I didn’t ask you to stay home and finish up.”
“Well, someone had to. The movers were coming today.” She turned her glare to the movers. They were picking up the headboard. They seemed so careless. Once she found a place in California, she had fun times to look forward to, finding all the scratches and nicks on her furniture.
“Lindy.”
“What?”
Vance squared his shoulders up to her. “Look at me.”
Lindy begrudgingly obliged.
“This is our new start. I know it’s kind of crazy right now, but you’re getting ready to live your dream. You’re opening your own deli, sweetheart. We’re moving all the way across the country. Together. As a family.”
She stared at the dying grass under her feet. It was what her soul felt like sometimes. “I know.”
“So let’s celebrate this. Everything is going to be fine.” He nodded toward the movers. “I talked to Joe earlier. Not the brightest guy around, but he’s been doing this for twenty years.”
A sound caused them both to look toward the large moving van, bright yellow like a rectangled smiley face. Joe had knocked the bed railing against the side of the truck. He gave an apologetic wave.
Vance was brushing her hair off her neck, but she couldn’t stand it. She stepped away and turned toward him. “What are you not telling me?”
“What are you talking about?”
“I can see it in your eyes. I saw it this morning. I still see it. We’re starting over, but we’re right back to where we were.”
“No, we’re not. This is real.”
“Then tell me what’s going on.”
Vance turned his face toward the wind, his hair blowing up and out, his eyes blinking against it. Except maybe it wasn’t the wind. She knew it wasn’t. This morning his eyes held the same heaviness they did seven years ago, when he shut down and stopped talking about his day, his life, himself.
Finally he looked at her. “All right. I know honesty is important.”
Lindy felt her heart skip. So she was right. There was something. But what? She searched her husband’s eyes, hopeful that he might start sharing something from that awful time. He’d gone to counseling but wouldn’t talk about the events with her. She’d lost her husband. He went inside himself and never came back.
But this new beginning for them . . . it seemed like he had crawled out.
“What’s going on?” she asked, her voice softer.
“Erin called.”
“Erin? This is about Erin?”
Vance’s expression started to harden, and Lindy regretted her tone. She swallowed back all the other words that wanted to escape.
“She heard we were moving. She wanted me to drop by Chicago to see her on my way to California.”
Lindy forced her expression to freeze. He was talking, and that was a good thing. But the last name she wanted to hear was Erin’s.
“What did you say?”
“I told her I would.” He faced the wind again, closing his eyes against it. “It’s been three years since we talked. She’s doing fine in Chicago. Seems to have everything together.”
Lindy took a few steps back, turned, pretending to be interested in the two movers and the lamps they were loading. It would take a few moments for her to grasp this and process it.
Conner came bounding out of the house but got distracted by two huge, empty boxes and disappeared inside one.
Memories crawled over her thoughts. . . . Conner was a one-year-old, and she was about to go crazy, captive in her own house for the eighth straight day. She found an old box, and Conner loved it. It had saved her sanity.
Her hair tickled her face, annoying her as she scraped it off her cheeks. What was she supposed to do? It was an impossible situation. She didn’t want Erin back in their lives, but at the same time, Vance had told her the truth . . . opened up about something difficult. Even as they stood there, she could sense him drawing back into himself.
She turned and touched his arm. “Okay.”
“Okay? You’re okay with it?”
“I’m okay because you told me.” She stepped forward and took his hands, looking him in the eye. It had been getting easier and easier to do. “You’re just going to say hi, right? Just catch up.”
“Yes, exactly,” he said, a relieved smile emerging.
“And maybe this will help you put everything behind you.”
“It will. I promise.”
Lindy pushed out a smile and checked her watch as Conner, still inside the box, scooted across the grass. “We better get going if we want to make the hotel by dark.”
“You’ve got everything you need? Conner’s got his Etch A Sketch?”
“Yeah. We’ll be fine. Just keep your cell phone nearby, okay?”
Vance pulled her into a hug. “Deli, here we come.”
“I bet the guys were giving you a hard time about it last night, weren’t they?”
Vance smiled. “You have no idea.” He grunted as Conner jumped out of the box and onto him, piggyback style. “Buddy, it’s time for you and Mom to get going.”
Conner sighed and slid off his back. “Why can’t you come too?”
“I’ll be right behind you. You guys are going to find us an awesome place to live.”
“It can’t be small,” Conner said, his face wound up with seriousness. “I have to have a room that can fit all my toys. All of them.”
Vance laughed. “I know. Top priority. I promise. You have all the toys you want in the car?”
“He’s got enough toys to keep him busy all the way to Japan.”
Vance wrapped them both in his arms, and Lindy leaned her head against his chest. As frustrating as the last few years had been, they were starting to come out of it. It felt good to be in his arms.
Conner climbed into the backseat and hung out the window. “Bye, Dad! I’ll be praying for you!”
Vance looked at Lindy.
She shrugged. “He’s on this kick again. I’m trying not to make a big deal about it. Maybe it’ll just go away.”
Vance opened the car door for her, and Conner scrambled into the front seat. Lindy pitched a thumb for him to move into the back.
“Dad,” Conner said, “talk some sense into her.”
“Backseat, buddy. It’s the safest.” He closed the door but leaned in when Lindy rolled down the window. “Drive safe. Call me every time you stop, okay?”
Lindy nodded. Vance kissed her, then stepped away and gave a short wave as she slowly pulled out of the drive.
“I guess.”
Lindy stared at the house and all her belongings shrinking in the rearview mirror as she drove away. A new beginning awaited her, but she knew that new beginnings didn’t always mean happiness. Especially if this deli thing didn’t work out. The deli thing really, really needed to work out.
As Conner settled quietly into the backseat, she started making up sandwiches in her head. Nothing relieved stress like building an imaginary, out-of-this-world sandwich that might actually make it on the menu someday.
* * *
Lindy’s black Camry disappeared around the corner of the neighborhood, Conner waving from the backseat. Vance felt relieved to be able to decompress a little. He’d tried to keep up an excited spirit around Lindy. He knew how much this meant to her and how much hope she’d put into their new beginning. She’d spent years working as a caterer—and making good money at it—but her dream was her own restaurant. Deli, to be precise. And she had this amazing talent for sandwiches. That was the first thing she’d made him when they were dating. Double-decker fried bologna sandwich with melted blue cheese and olives. He thought it was the grossest thing he’d ever seen but tried it to be polite.
After the first bite, he knew he’d found the woman of his dreams.
So much of her unhappiness stemmed from him, and it was a guilt that weighed him down constantly. But he knew she couldn’t fathom what he bore. He’d wanted to tell her. Tell someone. But he never did. He never would.
Vance stood and watched the movers as they loaded the final boxes. He stepped to a nearby tree and leaned against it. He liked shadows and sturdy objects. After all these years, he still hated standing in open spaces. He still hated gas stations or walks in the park.
He’d seen car wrecks and burn victims and small children drowned in his years on the force, but the days of the snipers . . . it had felt like it would never end.
More memories. They’d vanish for a little while but come back. More often these days. He figured it was just stress.
He stared at his house, trying to shake the image of the slate gray parking lot and the fifty-five-year-old man slumped on top of its concrete, his hair lifting in the wind.
Suddenly Joe, the mover, was in front of him, holding a clipboard. “All right, Mr. Graegan. Looks like we have everything loaded in. You’ve read the contract?”
Vance blinked. Contract?
“I gave it to your wife to read and sign.”
“Um . . . I’m sorry. I don’t know what we did with that. My wife might still have it.”
“That’s no problem. I can get another copy. Hold on.”
Vance followed Joe to the truck, where the man dug around between the seats for a moment and emerged with a fistful of documents. He clipped them to his board and handed it over. “There’s one copy there for us and one for you to hang on to. Make sure you fill out the last page that gives us all your contact information. We’re scheduled to arrive in California in four days, and the way the missus explained it, you don’t have a place yet, other than knowing what city you’re landing in.”
“My wife is headed there now to find us a residence.”
“All right. We’ll be in contact when we arrive in California, and then we can make arrangements to get it over to your new place.”
Vance flipped through the twenty-page contract. He checked the rates and the arrival date, everything he was sure Lindy would check. “You’re insured, correct?”
“Yep. That’s on page 9. Everything’s covered. But haven’t needed to use the insurance one time in my career.” He grinned, revealing two teeth, gray like petrified wood, clinging to purple, swollen gums. He checked his watch and said to the other guy, “We’ll be cutting it close for the next stop. Get on the phone and tell them we may need a couple of extra hours.”
Vance came to the back page of the movers’ copy and put his cell phone number and Lindy’s. He signed at the bottom and handed it over.
Joe smiled again and offered a hand. “We’ll take good care of your things, sir. Have a safe trip to California. Driving or flying?”
“Driving,” Vance said. “Not looking forward to it. You guys are probably used to it.”
“I’ve been a trucker since I was twenty-three. Seen every part of these states.” He signaled for his partner to clear the ramp and close the back door of the truck. “If you have any questions, just call the number on the bottom there. Especially if there’s going to be a delay. There is a fee for holding it over the time agreed upon in the contract.”
“Understood.”
Joe climbed into the rig and started her up. The engine roared to life like a dragon waking from a deep sleep. Exhaust clouded the driveway and choked out the clean, suburban air. The truck slowly rolled forward, its air brakes negotiating the steep driveway of their home. Vance watched it rumble down Pheasant Street, monstrous next to the mailboxes and tricycles lining the sidewalk.
He’d never actually parted with every one of his belongings all at once. It was strange to know that they were traveling apart from him. But he didn’t have time to dwell on it. There were several things left to take care of before he started toward California. Electricity and gas had to be cut off. Bank accounts needed to be closed. He felt in his pocket for the list Lindy had made him. He scanned it, trying to decide what to tackle first.
Inside, the bedroom that had once been a source of many fights now looked barren, as if no soul had ever dwelled between its walls. And it smelled different. It used to be sweet, like a Popsicle. Now it smelled of wood, like the stick after the Popsicle is gone.
His suitcase lay in the middle of the floor. It had tipped over at some point. He knelt down and opened it. From underneath the clothes and the toiletries, he retrieved a large yellow folder wrapped in rubber bands.
With the bright daylight flooding in from every direction, he sat down on the carpet and undid the rubber bands. The folder, ripped almost in half from the weight of its contents, spilled open like it had entrails.
Vance spread the articles apart, fingering each one. Some were from magazines, others from newspapers and reports he’d printed off the Internet. The vibrant colors in the pictures were now starting to fade, and though it seemed like yesterday to him, the evidence proved otherwise.
There was something strangely comforting about revisiting the articles over and over. He never understood why. Lindy didn’t know they existed. Nobody did. They’d been hidden for years.
The last article he’d put in was from the day that John Muhammad was executed. It should’ve closed the chapter for him. He expected it to. But it didn’t.
He walked to the living room, carrying the armful of papers. The dark pit of the fireplace called his name.
Outside, neighborhood sounds seemed clearer, maybe because all the drapes were gone. Their neighbor’s dog, Woodstock, was barking furiously at something. Probably the squirrel that liked to terrorize all the neighborhood pets.
Vance flipped a switch, and the fire appeared instantaneously. One by one, he fed the fiery mouth each article. He’d kept the obituaries of every victim of the snipers and all the articles on the recovery of those who managed to live through being randomly shot. He’d even kept all the stories about Chief Moose, his book deal, and subsequent humiliation over the sniper case.
It seemed impossible, but in less than five minutes, a lifetime’s worth of nightmares was burning to ashes. He had to find a way to put this all behind him. To find healing and peace. His wife and son depended on it.
Surely, from three thousand miles away, the sounds of that rifle could not be heard.
The fire crackled, consumed, and devoured.
This part of his life was over. He wouldn’t look back. He would put away his deepest regrets.
He was going to become a different person. He wasn’t sure if he could return to the life he knew before t
he snipers, but he was certain that he could live without their long shadows cast across his path.
One last stop in Chicago and then a brand-new life.
3
Vance’s legs ached and his back begged for a good stretch, but he was stuck going five miles an hour on the 94 expressway. He’d pushed himself longer than he should’ve, but he was anxious to get to California. Lindy and Conner would arrive sometime today and start house hunting. He hated missing that.
His car crept slowly toward the towering Chicago skyline until he finally reached Lake Shore Drive, where the day instantly seemed brighter. The sun sparkled against the blue waters of the lake, and the traffic became decongested at the very place he wanted to drive slowly.
The road, embraced between clear sparkling water and shiny silver skyscrapers, wound lazily northward. Taxis still honked. But on Lake Shore, nobody seemed to seethe. He found his way to Navy Pier, where Erin wanted to meet. He’d been hoping to see her station, but she was on her days off and didn’t want to go in. He could appreciate that.
It took him thirty minutes to park and find the restaurant. A familiar tension coiled through his body, and he tried to shake it. This was the closing of a chapter, and he should expect good things.
It had been years since he’d seen her, and three years since they’d even talked. It felt strange not to have talked to her for that long, but he expected, like good friends do, that they would pick up where they left off. If they could get past the shadow of awkwardness that cast a constant chill over them.
“About time.”
Vance looked up from his thoughts. She stood by the steps of the restaurant in the same bomber jacket she’d worn for years, the one her father gave her. His own was similar, a gift from her for his thirty-fifth birthday.
Possession Page 2
