Every Time You Go Away

by Beth Harbison

  If he were in a band, The Roxy Drama could be the name of an entire album—he had enough material. Just like Adele’s breakup breakout songs. All he was missing was the band, the musical talent, and interest in making an album.

  The moment he fell asleep, it seemed, he awoke to the jarring cacophony of a relentlessly ringing doorbell.

  Over and over it went. The bell didn’t even make its way from ding to dong once before being rung maybe fifteen times.

  Jamie shot up and bolted to the door.

  “Jesus Christ,” he said, whipping open the door to find her there. Of course it was her. “What the hell, Roxy?”

  “I called you.” Black tears ran down her face and her chest rose and fell like she’d run a mile at Olympic speed. Her hair, at this moment, was a dirty green streak. He knew it would be different in a couple of days … it always was. “I called you about a thousand freaking times and you ignored me!”

  He touched her arm and tried to make his voice soothing. “Lower your voice, Roxy, seriously—”

  She had that look in her eyes like she wasn’t sure yet if she was hopeful at his patient tone or going to pretend to be angry that he’d touched her like that. She could turn that into jail time if she got mad enough.

  He stepped outside into the darkness, essentially moving her and the conversation out of his realm, and shut the door behind him quietly.

  “You can’t pull this shit again,” he said in a harsh whisper. “This is total bullshit and you know it.”

  She glared at him. “Fine. I won’t come to you when I need you. God, you are such a selfish pig. Of course, you’re the best I can do. If I wasn’t so fucking miserable right now, I could probably get a real boyfriend.”

  “Is that supposed to make me, what, jealous? Insecure?”

  She thought for a second and then her chin started to quiver. “I wish I didn’t love you so damn much.” She ran a hand through her long hair. He knew it smelled like cigarettes and her perfume. He used to hate that combination, but now it just smelled like Roxy.

  He got her to sit down. He said the same things he always did. She cried. She apologized. She acted real, like the person he always considered was the Real Roxy. He saw what a product of her circumstances she was. He wished she was strong enough to grow beyond them. He listened to the voice that told him he could help make her stronger.

  They went inside. She kissed him, her cheeks damp from tears still, her kiss desperate, her grip hard on his arm. They fell asleep in his room, her before him. Her breaths went steady and calm with her unconsciousness. Right before he fell asleep with her, he remembered he never sent the essay in for his online class.

  Too tired to move, and not wanting to wake her and experience more wrath, he rationalized that he’d take the late grade instead. He could afford the C.

  The dichotomy between Roxy and his mom was probably no coincidence. A psychologist would have a field day with it. His mother had grown detached, let him do basically what he wanted, and his girlfriend was a helicopter, watching his every move.

  He couldn’t win, between them.

  Finally, he slept and stayed that way.

  Chapter Eight

  Willa

  I stood still. I couldn’t even run after him and talk to him, I was just rooted to the spot. This was impossible. I mean, of course it was impossible.

  The mistake I made was in blinking. Because that’s how long it took for him to disappear. If he’d ever been there at all, that is. Which of course he could not have been. Most of me knew that, but it sure looked like he’d been standing there.

  It felt like he’d been standing there. As in, it felt like his energy had been there. Not like I’d wished him there, or remembered him there, or anything like that. It’s hard to describe, but it left me with a certainty that he was still around.

  This, I thought, must be what crazy felt like. Or maybe it was just longing. At one point does someone’s longing get so intense, so overwhelming, that they actually lose their sanity? Was that what was happening to me now?

  Of course I knew it sounded crazy and that it would have sounded crazy to anyone. And who would that anyone be? The police? What could they do? What could anyone do?

  Who do you call when you’re being haunted?

  On top of which, I was not being haunted. I’d only seen him for a moment. Admittedly the moment seemed to stretch on and on as he walked right out the bedroom door and turned the corner. This was imagination, the thing I’d expected to see, on some level, and so I did.

  So who do you call when you’re going crazy?

  I remembered that old song we used to laugh about as kids, They’re coming to take me away … to the funny farm … It didn’t seem so funny now.

  Well, then, I simply wasn’t going to let this make me crazy.

  Apparently life was going to take over and give me some solid practical stuff to worry about. I went to the family room and picked up my laptop to contact the Realtor. She’d suggested we do an assessment of the place when I first got here, but it was past nine-thirty and my mother had always told me not to phone anyone past nine-thirty P.M. Old habits die hard, so I bypassed the phone and emailed the Realtor, letting her know I was in town and eager to get moving on the sale.

  To my surprise, she answered right away, offering to come first thing in the morning. That worked for me, and I told her so. We arranged for her to come at eight-thirty A.M.

  Only a few hours, I told myself, though it was longer than just a “few,” technically. But it was going to be hard to stay in the house alone, so I needed to keep looking forward. Keep ticking off the boxes, getting things done, until it was all finished and I could move on.

  I went to bed uneasily, spending most of the time awake, staring out the window, which I’d left open because somehow it felt easier to escape if the house felt open.

  Escape. That wasn’t a feeling I’d anticipated having.

  Finally I must have fallen asleep, although when my phone alarm went off at eight in the morning I didn’t feel any more rested than when I’d gotten into bed.

  I was cleaning up the kitchen when there was a knock at the front door. I glanced at the clock—she was right on time.

  My heart deflated. Somehow I guess I’d hoped she’d be late, or wouldn’t show at all. Something to give me an excuse to put off this meeting. It was going to be the single hardest thing I’d ever done.

  With no choice but to soldier on, I went to the door.

  She was older, somewhat heavy, with her brunette hair styled into a ’do she’d probably had since high school in the eighties. Still, I liked the kindness in her eyes and invited her in.

  “I’m Sue Branford,” she said, her voice the entire brass section of a small band. She extended her hand. “Thank you for putting your trust in me, I hope we can get this place sold quickly and for a profit beyond your wildest dreams.”

  It sounded like a line. I guess she introduced herself to everyone like that. I imagined her at a Christmas party. I’m Sue Branford. Thank you for resting your gaze on me. I hope we can get out of here quickly and after having more fun than we’d imagined in our wildest dreams.

  “Come on in, Sue.” I led her to the sofa.

  She followed, sat where I indicated, then took a clipboard out of her distressed leather messenger bag. “Now. Tell me about the place. How many bedrooms?”

  And for the next half hour she asked questions about the layout, the history, and my projected sale price. When I told her that, she smiled like she had a secret.

  “Oh, I think we can do much better than that.” She pressed her lips together, her cheeks growing merry and red and her eyes alight. “Much better.”

  Her words should have thrilled me, but instead I felt dread course through my chest. Why? This was good news.

  “Great,” I forced myself to say, and tried to force myself to believe. “That’s just great.”

  “Now, can I take a look around?” she asked.

&nbs
p; “Of course!” I gave a sweep of my arm. “Right this way.” We started to walk toward the kitchen, and that’s when I saw it.

  She saw it too. “Oh, dear.”

  “What is that?” I went over to the corner and looked up at a large stain on the ceiling and running down the wall. “That wasn’t here last night.”

  “Pipes are leaking,” she said, and made a quick note on her clipboard before adding, “You’d better turn off the water main quickly.”

  Shit! Shit shit shit shit shit!

  “Did you just turn the water on for the first time in a while?” Sue asked me.

  I nodded. “Last night.”

  She gave a shrug. “It happens. I’ve got a guy who can come out and take a look at it, if you’d like me to give him a call?”

  “Yes, that would be wonderful,” I said gratefully, and this time I meant it wholeheartedly.

  She did a few clicks on her phone and then explained the situation to the person on the other end of the line. “Terrific, Dave. Thanks a million!” She clicked off and looked at me, satisfied. “He’s working on a job now, but he’ll come by afterward, maybe forty-five minutes?”

  It wasn’t like I had any pressing plans. “Perfect.” I glanced back at the water stain and wondered if it was my imagination that it looked kind of like the outline of a man. The thought made me shudder.

  “Shall we finish the tour?” Sue asked.

  The leak was so upsetting to me that I couldn’t imagine how she could look at the rest of the house objectively, but if she was ready to, far be it from me to object.

  Fortunately there were no more catastrophes awaiting in the other rooms—a fact for which I thankfully knocked wood—and then we returned to the front room to discuss her to-do list.

  It was extensive.

  “You’re going to need to paint the whole thing, of course.”

  Of course? I’d thought it looked good. “Are there rooms in particular you think need it?”

  “Yes. All of them. People love the smell of fresh paint! It’s like that new-car smell they put in used cars. Makes the buyer feel like they’re getting a deal.”

  I wondered if there was some sort of Lysol Fresh Paint Scent I could spray around, but I could already tell it wouldn’t fool Sue.

  “Plus it needs to be lightened up. These sage greens and gold beiges might be fine for living in, but for selling they’re just too specific.”

  “Oh.”

  “No offense, of course,” she said, only then introducing the idea that maybe I should be offended. “People want to imagine their own lives in a new place, not yours.”

  Who could blame them? “Well, that’s fine, I’m not that eager for people to imagine my life.” Talk about specific. “That reminds me of something, though.”

  Sue looked up from making notes and raised her eyebrow. “Do we need to go back to the disclosures?” She started riffling through her papers.

  “No, no,” I said, and she stopped. “At least, I don’t think so.”

  She started again.

  “My question is this. My husband … well, unfortunately, my husband passed away here. Three years ago. He was…” This was all coming out so clumsily. “Well, he was the last one here before I got here yesterday. Is that the kind of thing that needs to be disclosed?”

  “I am sorry for your loss,” Sue said, returning her stack of papers to rights. “But no, that’s not a material factor in selling. At least not in Maryland.”

  “Oh, okay.” I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. “Good.” But not good for the reasons she would have thought—not good in the way she undoubtedly thought. I wasn’t relieved that I didn’t have to deliver such “ugly” news to each and every prospective buyer; it was more that I wanted to keep it private and let Ben’s end be its own thing and not just some weird fact that freaked strangers out.

  “Now, if you had a ghost…”

  I stiffened. “Then what?”

  She looked startled, and I realized my question must have been sharper than I’d realized. “Do you have a ghost?” she asked, her voice taking on the lilt of one about to disclose excellent gossip.

  But she wasn’t going to disclose anything; she wanted me to, she wanted a good story, and all I could give her was pretty convincing evidence that I was a crazy person, so I decided not to say anything. “No ghost,” I said, spreading my arms wide and forcing a little laugh. “Just everything you see.”

  She looked slightly disappointed but returned right back to work. “Which brings us to the furniture.”

  “What about it?”

  “There’s too much of it.”

  “Too much furniture?” I looked around. It looked like a normal sitting room to me.

  “Not for daily life,” she hastened to correct. “Just for showing. The place would seem much bigger with less in it.”

  “I see.”

  “That piece, for example.” She pointed to a weird little cabinet by the front door. We’d never known what to call it, so Ben and I had taken to referring to it as Burt. As in, “Where are the playing cards?” “In Burt, behind the tapers.” “You don’t need that here,” she went on. “It interrupts the energy flow.”

  “Okay.” I wondered how much a storage unit would cost.

  “And the love seat. No need for that and the sofa. The sofa gives sufficient seating.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Oh, my, yes, I’m afraid you’ll have to weed out every room if you want to give the place an open, spacious feel.” She eyed me. “And you do, believe me. A big place like this right on the beach could go for quite a pretty penny.”

  And a pretty penny would be nice, I had to concede. I made enough to support us, and had a decent amount invested from the insurance, but with a kid about to go off to college, it would certainly be nice to have a big cushion to pay for incidentals.

  There were always incidentals.

  Sue went on with her list of things that needed to be done. Windows cleaned (“and then we’ll see if we need to replace them”), whole house power washed (“it’s almost cheaper to buy a power washer than to hire someone to do it for you”), floors waxed (“though sanded and refinished would be better”), garden spruced up (“you cannot underestimate the value of curb appeal, both front and back”), and a list of about twenty other things, both large and small, that needed to be done before we could put it on the market.

  She was confident about it selling, which begged the question of why not just put it on the market “as is” and let the buyers battle it out, but Sue seemed to think that the difference in price would be significant if I just “put a little elbow grease into it.”

  And, truth be told, I could use some hard physical labor and a feeling of accomplishment at the end of the day. I wasn’t fooling myself that this would be fun, exactly, but I did think it would be rewarding.

  But one thing I knew for sure: I was going to need help.

  Chapter Nine

  Willa

  The plumber showed up about half an hour after Sue left.

  He looked just like I expected: medium height, medium-brown hair, middle-aged, with skin that showed he probably didn’t believe in sunscreen. I couldn’t tell what color his eyes were because he was wearing those adjustable sunglasses I hate and they were a 1970s yellow on him as he stepped through the doorway.

  “I’m Dave. Where’s the leak?” he asked briskly.

  “I think it might be in the upstairs sink pipe,” I said, a bit proud of myself for having done the math on this and figured it out.

  “What room?” he asked.

  “Oh.” He didn’t care what my assessment was. “Over here.” I led him to the corner of the living room from the direction of the kitchen. “See? It’s spread even since this morning when we called.”

  “You need mitigation, after I’ve found and fixed the leak,” he announced.

  Mitigation? Wasn’t that a legal term? I wasn’t in some sort of trouble, was I? “What do
you mean, mitigation?”

  “Got to pull down the drywall and put a fan in to dry it out before we can repair it.”

  “Take out the drywall?” Suddenly this sounded way more expensive than anything I’d anticipated. “Won’t it just dry?”

  He shook his head. “Ruined.” He took out a telescopic metal stick and poked it at the ceiling. I saw dents behind where he’d touched it. “We’ll probably need to replace the whole ceiling,” he said, and I think we both heard the cha-ching of cash registers in our heads.

  “There’s no way to patch it?”

  He shrugged. “I’ll check it out. Where are the stairs?”

  “This way.” I led him around the corner to the steps and started up. “Like I said, I think it started in the bathroom, because that’s directly over that part of the living room. I think.”

  “Mm-hmm.” He clunked along up the stairs behind me.

  I turned the corner and stepped back, indicating the bathroom. “So. There.”

  “Okay.” He went in and started tinkering with the pipes behind the sink. After a moment, he looked at me. “You don’t need to wait here.”

  “Oh! Oh, I’m sorry. Right. I’ll just go downstairs and … work. On some things. Work on some things. You can give a shout if you need anything. My name’s Willa.” I was yammering helplessly. “Do you want a water or coffee or beer or something?” Oh, sure, the guy was going to ask for a beer while he was on the job. It was probably insulting even to offer.

  But for the first time he actually gave a hint of a smile. It made him look nicer, and my shoulders relaxed fractionally. “I’ll be fine here,” he said. “You don’t need to offer me anything. Lady, you’re like a cat on a hot tin roof. No need to be so nervous.”

  “I’m sorry.” Why was I apologizing to this guy? Because that’s the kind of person I am. If you tell me I apologize too much, I will apologize for apologizing too much. It’s a vicious cycle. “You just go ahead and let me know if you need … me to see anything or sign or whatever.”

  He gave a nod and turned his attention back to the sink.

  I was ridiculous. Honestly, sometimes it was terribly embarrassing being me.