The Secret He Keeps

by Julieann Dove

  A single pillar candle, the one she had lit on her wedding day with Scott, sat on the table beside her. It was the only source of light she could find. It was in a box buried in her closet under a basket of matches she had imprinted with their names and wedding date. She remembered it was either that or napkins, and Scott said people would have more use for the matches. She had about sixty books left to burn. She should’ve gone with the napkins; they would have already been in the landfill by now.

  It was ten o’clock, although it felt more like two in the morning. Midnight seemed so far away; daybreak felt as if it would stretch to next week. She trembled from the dropping temperatures in the house. She had added two extra shirts to the one she had on earlier and she changed from her jeans to worn-out sweatpants. The socks/slippers her mother bought her last year were finally getting some use. More than socks, they were thick, soft, and lime-green, as if they’d been dropped in highlighter ink. Rachel knew once they were washed and dried, they’d never come out feeling like the two puffs of clouds they did right then. Then there was the thought of them looking more like avocados and possibly ruining an already-ruined shirt if she didn’t wash them separately.

  Gus remained at her feet, still donning the coat he wore on his walk earlier that day. Rachel chugged down the last sip of alcohol in her glass before she fell sideways on the sofa. Robert Mondovi’s cabernet always had a way to lull her to sleep, no matter how arctic the air was. Her gloved fingers dropped the goblet to the ground. She didn’t bother picking it up.

  When her legs were sufficiently tucked in a fetal position, she buried her head beneath the covers. Warm, reused air circulated in the small space and allowed her body to drift into unconsciousness. Soon she found herself lying beside Scott in their wrecked car. She pulled at something that was stuck to her tongue. Looking in her hand, she saw it was a clump of leaves. There was silence around her and confusion swirled in her head. How did she get there?

  With only the ability to move her eyes, they darted back and forth from the broken windshield to Scott’s forehead. Bright-colored blood had matted down his hair. Her head ached and her neck felt tight. She was scared to move it. Everything looked surreal around her.

  There was a hissing sound, low and constant, coming from somewhere. She looked back again at his face. His lips were perfect, practically glued together in stillness. His eyes refused to open and her mouth was unable to speak to tell him to wake up. There was a shoe. It was hers and it was beside his head, lying on the dashboard of the car. She remembered having to get on all fours to search for the match to it, before they left that evening. He had told her they’d be late for the party if she didn’t hurry.

  Her stomach was in knots. Had she told him yet? The voice in her head demanded answers. Did he know before he’d gone to sleep in the car, refusing to open his eyes again?

  Suddenly, Rachel broke free from her entrapment of blankets and recurring nightmare. Like a drowning victim reaching the surface, she stood up from the sofa, gasping for air. The sharp coldness of the room filled her lungs, restoring her consciousness. Gus began to bark. Slowly Rachel calmed herself down, feeling for the sofa in the darkness. She sat back down and studied the dark figures in the blackness of the room. Her heart still raced in her ears.

  A chair was over there. The tall thing on the table was a lamp. The coffee table was still in front of the couch. She could see the outline of the wine glasses she meant to carry to the sink earlier, and didn’t. She was still home. The accident was over. It had been over. She counted on her fingers how long ago it had been. Let’s see, it was January when it happened. She remembered because she never got around to putting up a new calendar for the year. That was one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine…ten and a half months ago. She tried remembering the date on the chicken bag she bought for dinner. It was close enough.

  She hoped morning would come soon. The images of the accident still felt close around her. Like in the next room. What happened to the light? The candle must have pooled too much wax and gone out. Maybe it had special powers. It was probably bad luck, lighting an eternity candle for power outages. Like it was only supposed to be lit by the couple again, in synchronization during anniversaries; otherwise, it unleashed bad spirits. Boy, was that a bad one she just experienced.

  It felt like a mortuary in her house. As if a machine were pumping in coldness through the floor vents. She doubted outside felt quite as cold, as she touched her nose. She knew it was still on her face; after all, she was breathing. But she couldn’t feel it anymore. Along with her hands. The wool encasement of her gloves was not helping defend her fingers from the bitter coldness in the air.

  Her eyes had finally adjusted to the darkness of her house. She walked to her kitchen, only her head sticking out from the coat of blankets she dragged behind her. All of them were accounted for. The crocheted one, the flannel one, even the one Peggy gave her on the day of her wedding. “It’s a wedding ring quilt. One of my customers special made it for you.” Rachel had found it in the same box as the candle.

  Trying to channel some type of MacGyver plan to survive the remaining early morning hours, Rachel remembered her stove was run by propane. Quickly she grabbed the book of matches from beside the candle. The moon through the back window managed to squeeze out enough light for her to make out the simple things in the room.

  After turning a burner on, she struck a match and watched a blue flame surround the circumference of the black plate. Ha! She still knew how it worked, seeing she hadn’t lit it in, what did she count? Ten and a half months. By now, her stomach wouldn’t know what to do with a home-cooked meal anyway.

  She turned the other three knobs to the on position and waited for the heat to defrost her hands. With outstretched fingers, a smile released the tension from her face. With the accompaniment of the warmth, Rachel slid down the front of the stove and fell back asleep.

  ***

  It was early when John parked his truck in front of Rachel’s house. He and Rick rode the whole way over from the motel with the heat on high. It didn’t look as though the sun was going to break out of its cloudy captivity that day, either.

  “Man, this sandwich is barely what you could consider food,” Rick said, holding out what the guy handed from the drive-through window.

  “I told you not to order that. Who eats fish in the morning?” John threw his empty wrapper in the bag and put on his gloves.

  “It was a fish filet omelet, and the picture made it look really good. And you know Amanda doesn’t like seafood. I get it when I can.” He threw the un-eaten portion in the bag and took a drink of his coffee. His protruding Adam’s apple bobbed up and down like a buoy in his neck.

  He put his cup on the dusty dashboard of the truck and bent over to tie his boots. He had come out of the bathroom that morning to find John was already out front in the truck, waiting for him. He had slipped his boots on and grabbed his coat on the table before slamming the door shut behind him.

  “Any reason why we’re parking here? The crew is up there. We’re going to be hooking up the transformer today.”

  “No reason. I didn’t want to jam the street with a bunch of trucks, that’s all.” He tried to ignore the truth of why he picked Rachel’s house to park in front of. “Let’s get to work.”

  John jumped out of the truck and looked toward Rachel’s house, wondering whether she was awake yet. It was still early and he imagined she was sleeping in. He looked up at the chimney, wondering how much wood she managed to split with her tiny-framed body. There was no smoke coming from it. His eyes scanned to where the other guys had congregated. The street was quiet, other than their voices echoing against the brick homes.

  A dog barked in the distance. More than persistent, it seemed to be yelping. He looked to Rick, who was still finishing his coffee in the warm truck.

  “What?” Rick said on the other side of the glass. It sounded as if he were talking from inside a well.

  John s
hook his head never mind and walked in the direction of Rachel’s porch, where the barking seemed to be coming from. He strained his head forward and squinted to see a little black-and-white dog at the sidelight of her front door. Its paws seemed to be throwing punches at the glass. John walked closer to the porch.

  Kneeling, he examined the dog closer. Its tongue lay over the bottom side of his opened mouth. This wasn’t just a “walk me” tirade. John put his finger up to the glass. “Hey, buddy. You’re going to wake someone up. What’s wrong?”

  The dog stopped barking and laid down, his head resting on his front paws. That was weird. Suddenly a pair of legs outstretched in the back came into focus. John cupped his hand to the window glass to look more closely. The legs were perfectly straight; the toes pointed up. Something about it was very disturbing. He looked back to the truck before he knocked on the door. He watched the legs as his hand continuously struck the wood. They refused to move. Not even a twitch.

  Rick walked in his direction. “What are you doing, man? Are you crazy? You’re going to wake someone up.”

  “She’s not moving. Something’s wrong.” The relaxed face he just had while singing to Luke Bryant on the way there was now frantic with worry.

  “What do you mean? Who’s not moving?” He jogged to the porch.

  “Rachel—she’s not coming to the door. See, there. Her legs are still.” He pointed in the window and continued to slam his hand repeatedly on the door.

  Rick squeezed in beside him and looked in the window before he ran back to the truck. John’s yelling began to wake up the neighborhood dogs. Distant howling in the back alerted there was a problem.

  Rick came back holding a tire iron. “Cover your eyes.” He broke the glass.

  It shattered; some of the shards fell inside and some sprayed onto the outside concrete. Rick fished his hand easy through the hole and unlocked the deadbolt and doorknob. John pushed it open and ran toward Rachel, kneeling and shaking her shoulders. “Rachel, wake up.”

  Her body was wrapped in blankets; her head fell from side to side from his persistent shaking. She was not responding.

  “Man, it smells like gas. Get her out of here.”

  John picked her up, her head falling sideways before resting on his shoulder. Rick scooped up the staggering dog and they headed out to the front lawn.

  “Call 9-1-1, Rick.” John gently laid Rachel on the grass. Dew clung to the sharp blades like perfect spheres of water droplets. She still wasn’t moving, looking eerily peaceful. He ran his hands through his hair; his chest heaved heavily up and down through the opening of his coat. He hadn’t managed to button it yet. He could feel the dampness of the grass soak through to his knees.

  Rick was on the phone, looking for the address to her house. He ran out to her mailbox. “8213 Hanover Street, I think. I don’t know—I’m not from here, dude. I’m just here to restore the power.” He looked at John, who seemed to be shell-shocked. “Do CPR or something,” he yelled, holding the phone to his ear.

  “Man, I’ve never done CPR. What if I do it wrong?” His voice shook as he said it.

  John touched her arm. It was cold and her face was pale white. The only color was on her lips. They were a hue of purple, as if she just sucked a piece of grape candy.

  “You’ve seen enough movies. Just do it! Do something—pump her chest and breathe into her mouth.” He flailed his arm while he held onto his cell phone. “Like that movie with that firefighter we just saw.”

  “Are you freaking kidding me, man? That was a movie!”

  “Just do it!” Rick yelled.

  John tilted her head back and pinched her nose. He covered her slightly opened mouth with his. Her lips tasted like wine. After blowing three short breaths into her mouth, he laid one of his hands over the other and pressed with quick thrusts on her chest. There must have been three or more layers of clothes that cushioned his compressions.

  He waited. Nothing.

  “Rachel,” John yelled. “Damn it, Rachel, wake up.” He shook her shoulders, her head moving slightly from his movement.

  Slowly, she opened one eye. Her pupil floated back, fluttering, before it shut again.

  “No, wake up. Wake up! I can’t do this. I don’t know how. Don’t die. Damn it, why isn’t she waking up?”

  John held her face in his hand and smoothed her hair back. She was so still. How did he get here? To her house? Who else knew she was here and was doing nothing to help her? This lonely girl wearing neon socks, multiple shirts, tasting of wine, and still keeping her husband’s shoes by the front door. He made a deal with God, right then. If Rachel’s life was spared, he would return Kelly’s calls and tell her he forgave her. Last night, she sounded as if she was crying when she left the message, begging his forgiveness. The thought never crossed his mind that he promised God something a few months ago, too. If he could get over Kelly, he would stop going on Saturday nights drinking, so he could get up Sunday mornings and go with his pop to church. He had yet to make good on it.

  He heard Rick in the distance, yelling and waving his hands to the approaching ambulance. The medics had finally arrived. Within seconds, they were out of the truck and on Rachel’s front lawn, covering Rachel’s face with an oxygen mask.

  “Sir, how long has she been unconscious?” asked the paramedic, holding the mask. He had a buzz haircut and his nametag read Minter. A dispatcher was reporting loud codes from the CB attached to his shoulder. He turned down the volume on it.

  “I’m not sure. I just got here. But the house smells like gas. Maybe it’s a leak somewhere.” John backed away, giving them room to work on her.

  “We need to get her to the hospital to check her CO levels,” he said to the guy with the mustache.

  Within a few minutes, Rachel’s eyes began to open. Firetruck sirens blared from a street away, coming to assess the gas levels in the house because Rick notified them what he smelled. John paced as the medics checked her thoroughly, noting different things on an electronic notebook. He stopped wearing a footpath in her yard long enough to peek through their shoulders to see her. Her eyes were droopy, looking at the strange faces surrounding her. One of the guys signaled to him she was going to be fine. He let out a long sigh of relief and unlaced his hands from behind his neck.

  “Miss, you had a near-death experience. It’s a good thing your friend here found you when he did.”

  Rachel looked up at John, past the medic who was holding up her head. With helplessness in her eyes, she didn’t unlock her stare.

  Two of the younger-looking guys had gone to the truck and pulled out a gurney. They rolled it to where Rachel was lying on the yard. A crisp white sheet was wrapped tightly around the plastic foam mattress.

  “We would like to take you to the hospital to check you out properly. We aren’t sure how much toxic gas got into your bloodstream,” said the guy who seemed to be in charge of the crew. The crease in his pants and shiny boots seemed to indicate he was the most serious of them.

  She pulled the mask away from her face. With slurred words, she said, “I’m fine. I’ll come later if I feel sick.”

  “Ma’am, you can’t drive yourself. It’s my professional opinion that you go get checked and we can drive you there now. We need to check your CO levels.”

  Rachel’s eyes rolled back. “Fine.”

  The medics helped her to the bed, and she never looked at John again. She had a kill-me-now expression on her face. He wasn’t sure how pissed she was at having been coerced to go and he didn’t care. She needed to get checked at the hospital and there was no other way around it.

  The last of the firemen were leaving when John walked her dog back in the house. Dressed head-to-toe in their gear of dirty yellow and black pants and coats, they pulled off their head gear. The house seemed to be okay; it only needed to be ventilated for a few hours. They had shut off the gas and opened most of the windows. Without electricity, there was no danger of it igniting from an electric shock. As one of the men wa
lked past John, he heard his comment to his co-worker, “I wonder how accidental this one was.” John looked at him, wondering what he meant.

  He found a study to the right of the front door and looked inside. A tiny green dog bed was pushed up against a large wooden desk. Thick volumes of books were laying open on top, stacked on each other. Papers were scattered across it. A blue coffee cup with a larger than usual handle sat underneath a desk lamp. It looked as though someone had been busy at work in there. He placed Gus inside, shut the double doors behind him, and walked out of the house, closing the door behind him. He figured he’d find something to secure the broken glass for her before he left.

  ***

  Rachel felt someone staring at her. Slowly, she opened her eyes. The image was blurry at first. “Dane?”

  “Rachel, you need to rest.” He came closer and put his hand on hers.

  The sight and touch of him made her hyperventilate. What happened? Was this after the car accident? Would he tell her Scott was dead? No, she somehow already knew that. She grabbed her head. Damn, it hurt so bad. Stabbing throbs of pure pain. She pulled the sheet over her chest and tried pulling herself up in the bed. Her head rotated side to side, gathering in clues to what was going on. It was all very murky, like wiping mud from the windshield, trying to see where you’re going. She jumped when the curtain parted. The loud sliders screeched down the metal rod as the doctor pulled on them.

  The five-foot-two man wore a white jacket and had only a puff of salt-and-pepper hair on the top of his head. It looked like a cotton ball that had been pulled apart several times, someone looking for something underneath it. He stood at the edge of the room, pumping hand sanitizer onto his hands, peering at both of them through the glasses that sat on the end of his nose.