Midnight Valentine
Page 8
I stand on my porch for a long time, Theo’s business card clutched in my hand, the pounding of the surf ringing in my ears. Then I go inside and fire up the computer.
Into Google’s search box I type: Can mute people make sounds?
8
According to Wikipedia, mute people can make all kinds of sounds, destroying my rapidly ballooning conspiracy theory that Theo Valentine can talk but just doesn’t want to.
I read aloud from the webpage. “Inability to speak is not the same as inability to make noise. Grunts, groans, yells, etc. don’t require vocal cords as they can be made by forcing air in or out of the lungs. Depending on the severity of damage to the vocal cords, short words such as ‘me’ or ‘you’ may be possible. If vocal cord damage is total, only primal sounds such as screams are possible.”
Then I glimpse the section titled “Selective Mutism.” It includes a list of symptoms that are familiar: social isolation and withdrawal; difficulty maintaining eye contact; reluctance to smile; difficulty expressing feelings; sensitivity to noise and crowds. There are a bunch of other things that should have Theo’s picture next to them, but that condition usually appears in childhood.
Hmm.
There’s also a condition called reactive mutism, in which a person decides not to speak, usually after suffering some kind of severe trauma.
So it is a thing, but I have no way of knowing if Theo’s problem is with his vocal cords or his mental state.
Or both.
I go upstairs, run myself a bath, get undressed and soak, my thoughts in a jumble, until the water grows cold. Then I climb out, towel off, change into my usual lie-atop-the-covers-and-stare-at-the-ceiling T-shirt-and-boy-shorts outfit, and get into bed.
At 3:00 a.m., I drag myself up, go back downstairs to get my laptop, and return with it to bed. Okay, Mr. Valentine. Let’s see what you’ve got to say for yourself.
To: Theo@hillrise.com
From: Bowie4Evah@yahoo.com
Subject: New Homeowner in Need of Advice
Dear Dr. Valentine,
So I met this man a few weeks ago, and I need your advice. Everyone keeps telling me what a wonderful guy he is, how great his work is, how I should absolutely hire him to do this huge renovation on my house—my dream house, mind you—but there’s a problem.
I cause this individual severe gastrointestinal distress.
If I were a sadist, I would simply hire him and let him stew in his own sour juices while the job was completed, but I have a heart. I want to give this poor man a jumbo bottle of Tums to make him feel better. But the guy doesn’t want my antacid offerings, he just wants to peel the skin off my face with the blistering heat of his dislike.
What do you suggest?
Sincerely,
Confused
After I hit Send, I re-read the email several times. Satisfied the tone is sufficiently tongue-in-cheek, I’m about to close the laptop when the chime announcing the arrival of a new email sounds. Lo and behold, I’ve got a response. That fast.
Is he an insomniac too?
To: Bowie4Evah@yahoo.com
From: Theo@hillrise.com
Subject: Re: New Homeowner in Need of Advice
Dear Confused,
I suggest being up front with him to clear the air. For instance, you could initiate a conversation on the topic during a late evening drive in his car. I’m sure that wouldn’t be awkward at all.
Sincerely,
Dr. Valentine
Ha! The snarky bastard! I break into a huge grin and immediately compose my response.
To: Theo@hillrise.com
From: Bowie4Evah@yahoo.com
Subject: Sadly…
I already did that. Sir Grumpsalot didn’t appear to appreciate my attempts to clear the air of the thick fog of his disgust. I was thinking I could write him a haiku to demonstrate my intellectual charms and win his admiration?
Haikus are poems
That often do not make sense
Hippopotamus
To: Bowie4Evah@yahoo.com
From: Theo@hillrise.com
Subject: Re: Sadly…
#1 – Sir Grumpsalot?! I prefer Captain Crankypants, thank you. Unless addressing me formally, in which case you’d use my proper title of King Crabby Poo.
#2 – That is probably the best haiku ever written. Not only does it perfectly describe the art form, you worked in the word hippopotamus, which, in my opinion, is vastly underrepresented in poetry. Well done.
To: Theo@hillrise.com
From: Bowie4Evah@yahoo.com
Subject: Re: Re: Sadly…
Your powers of observation are astute. I am shocked, sir, shocked that you guessed my original email was about you.
Would it be rude at this juncture to observe that I like you much more in email than in person? Though I must admit, you give good phone too.
To: Bowie4Evah@yahoo.com
From: Theo@hillrise.com
Subject: YES IT WOULD BE VERY RUDE
But your poem and your devotion to the late, great David Bowie have scored you a few sympathy points. (Yes, I noticed your T-shirt, your email address, and the print of the Heroes album cover tacked to your bedroom wall. Side note: what do you think he was doing with his hands? Signaling the mother ship?)
Now if only I could be assured that you have equally good taste in guitarists as you do in singer-songwriters.
To: Theo@hillrise.com
From: Bowie4Evah@yahoo.com
Subject: No need to shout, King Crabby Poo
I scoff at your challenge. It’s too easy. Top 5:
1 – BB King
2 – Les Paul
3 – Eddie Van Halen
4 – Jimmy Page
5 – Jimi Hendrix
To: Bowie4Evah@yahoo.com
From: Theo@hillrise.com
Subject: Wow
How can you expect me to like someone who puts Jimi Hendrix last? I think we’re done here.
To: Theo@hillrise.com
From: Bowie4Evah@yahoo.com
Subject: Re: Wow
I never said the list was ranked in order. Check your assumptions, KCP.
And while we’re on the topic of assumptions, would it be safe for me to assume if I hired you to renovate my house, THIS version of Theo Valentine would appear? Because this guy I can handle. This guy I like.
I wait for the blinding-fast response he’s been giving me, but it doesn’t come. After five minutes, I decide he must’ve taken a bathroom break or something, but at fifteen minutes, I’m afraid I won’t hear from him again until the morning—if at all. Maybe his sense of good humor only lasts for a twenty-minute window starting at 3:00 a.m.
But then an answer comes through and stuns me with its honesty.
To: Bowie4Evah@yahoo.com
From: Theo@hillrise.com
Subject: This guy
I want you to like me, but you shouldn’t. I’m not stable. I’m not even sure if I’m sane. You said something in the car about that moment in a romantic comedy where everything could be solved if the people having problems just talked, but what I’d have to say if we talked about the problem wouldn’t be romantic, or funny.
It would be scary as hell.
Let me be clear: that isn’t a threat. I’m not a danger to you, or anyone. I’m just…fucked up. The kind of fucked up that doesn’t have a cure. The kind of fucked up that hears voices and sees ghosts and sometimes can’t tell what’s real and what isn’t. Especially at night, when all the monsters I can usually keep locked up during the day refuse to be contained.
Which is why I don’t sleep. Which is why I’ve tried every available medication from antipsychotics to pot. Which is why I stay away from people, except when I’m working, the only thing that keeps me grounded in reality.
Which is why we can never be friends, Megan. We can never be anything.
I want to work on the Buttercup because I love it. I love it in a way that couldn’t make sense to you, and still doesn’t make
complete sense to me, but that house feels like an anchor to me. Like an island in the middle of a huge, black ocean.
Like the needle on a compass pointing true north.
If you decide to hire me, even after this ridiculous confession which I shouldn’t have sent but had to, I’ll kill myself making that house perfect. (Not being literal, but you know what I mean.) If you decide not to hire me, I understand. Craig is a solid guy. He’ll do a good job.
Theo
I sit in bed with my mouth hanging open, reading the email again and again. Finally, I close my laptop and lie back down, my head buzzing and my nerves jumping like I’ve had ten cups of coffee.
We can never be friends, Megan. We can never be anything.
I stare at the ceiling until the sun slips over the horizon and floods the room with light.
Then I compose an email to Craig at Capstone telling him I’m looking forward to getting his contract on Monday and asking how soon he’d need the first payment of cash.
* * *
For the rest of the day, I’m unsettled. I can’t stop thinking about Theo’s email. I read it about a dozen times, trying to understand what he could have meant by the problem is “scary as hell.”
Logic tells me to keep away from him. I’m too old for this kind of drama. But the mystery of Theo Valentine is one my curiosity finds irresistible.
I decide not to call Suzanne. I’m still angry at her, and I know I’ll pester her for more details about Theo, which is the last thing I should do. I’ve got my own problems to deal with. I don’t need to add his to the pile.
I order takeout again and eat it standing up in the kitchen over the sink, then take a bath and go to bed.
During the night, a storm blows in. The rain pounding the roof sounds like gunfire. Thunder booms in the distance, and flashes of lightning illuminate the room in sudden, bright white light.
I fall into a fitful sleep and dream of endless fields of purple sweet peas swaying under the summer sun.
When I get out of bed at 8:00 a.m., the sky is a dull, heavy gray, which perfectly matches my mood. I stumble downstairs in my robe, my head thick and my eyes bleary from hours of tossing. I get the coffeemaker started and stand there yawning as a cup brews. When the phone rings, I answer it absentmindedly.
“Hello?”
“You’re not going to believe this!”
I yank the phone away from my ear, because Suzanne’s excited shout just pierced my eardrum. “A little warning would be nice before you break the sound barrier, Suzanne,” I grumble, reaching for the mug.
“I just saw on the local news that Capstone Construction’s headquarters was destroyed last night!”
I freeze. “Destroyed? What’re you talking about?”
“It was hit by friggin’ lightning! Can you believe that?”
My brain is having trouble processing her words. I squint at the coffeemaker, not entirely sure I’m not still upstairs in bed, dreaming. “Lightning,” I repeat slowly.
“Yes, lightning! You heard the storm, right?” She doesn’t wait for me to answer before plowing ahead. “Apparently a big-ass bolt of lightning hit the building and started a fire, which destroyed pretty much everything before the fire department arrived and put it out. Turn on the news and check out the pictures—the building is a smoking pile of rubble!”
By now, I’m wide awake, adrenaline acting much faster than coffee could. “That’s awful! Was anyone hurt?”
“Not according to the news. But that building is toast. I hope Craig had good insurance.” Her tone is gleeful. Obviously, she hasn’t forgiven Craig for his diss at the restaurant. “Way for the universe to help with your decision on who to hire to rebuild your house, right? It’s like it was fated! What a fluke!”
A strange sensation comes over me, a dark kind of déjà vu. I recall something I thought when Theo came out and showed me his Buttercup Inn book, and I was so overcome with emotion.
It’s not fated. It’s a fluke. It’s just life, doing what it does best.
An army of goose bumps marches up and down my arms. Distracted, I murmur, “Fated and a fluke are two different things.” Then my attention snaps into focus, and I get practical. “I’m sure the fire won’t have that much of an effect on Craig’s ability to do business. Maybe temporarily, sure, but he’s probably got all his files and everything backed up remotely, and the actual work is handled by subs—”
“Capstone hardly uses any subs. Craig handles most everything in-house, with dozens of specialists certified for everything from electrical to A/C. All those guys are employees, and he owns all his own equipment. Owned, I mean.”
That takes a little wind out of my sails. “Oh. Well, he’ll just have to find a location for a new headquarters. How long could that take? A few weeks?”
“Are you kidding? The market for commercial real estate in Portland is tighter than the Pope’s asshole. I did an extensive search only last week for a client and something the size of what Craig had is practically nonexistent.”
I’m starting to get irritated because Suzanne is taking way too much pleasure in the demise of poor Craig’s business. “Then he can buy or rent something smaller until a bigger place becomes available. He seems like a very capable guy. I’m sure he’ll land on his feet.”
“His size-sixteen feet,” she says in a new, throaty tone. “Did you see those puppies? They were like skis—”
“Were you drinking before you came to pick me up Saturday night?”
A brief silence follows my question. “Hello, awkward segue.”
“Hello, awkward beatdown of my real estate agent if the answer is yes.”
More silence. “I only had one glass.”
“Bullshit. You were way too wasted by the time dinner was finished to have had only one glass before you left. Correct me if I’m wrong.”
Suzanne’s sigh is a long, pained exhalation that doesn’t sound nearly as contrite as it should. “It was only a few miles to the restaurant, Megan, and I was totally under control. You would’ve noticed if I wasn’t in shape to dri—”
“My husband was killed by a cop who only had one drink in his system before he got behind the wheel of his squad car, Suzanne,” I interrupt, my voice hard. “Don’t you dare talk to me about control.”
Now her silence sounds shocked, and I’m damn glad. I let it stretch out way past the point of uncomfortable, because it’s her turn to say something—and that something better include an apology, or I’m never speaking to her again.
She begins haltingly, her voice shaky. “I’m…I’m so sorry, Megan. I didn’t…I had no idea.” She draws a breath. “I don’t really know what else to say except I apologize. Truly. It won’t happen again.”
I’m still angry, but at least she sounds sincere. I scrub a hand over my face. What a way to start a day.
Then Suzanne says something that stops my heart dead in my chest.
“That’s what happened to Theo too.”
All the hair on the back of my neck bristles. “What?”
“I don’t think I ever got around to telling you on Saturday. Theo was on his way home from his girlfriend’s house when his car was hit by a drunk driver who blew through a red light. T-boned in an intersection. Theo’s car was totaled. My nurse friend said that when he arrived at the hospital, he didn’t have a heartbeat.” She makes a small, uncomfortable laugh. “Obviously, they got it restarted.”
Thump. Thump. Thump. My heart throbs to life with a sharp, painful beat that reverberates through every nerve in my body. My head swims with memories, terrible, black memories. I’m so dizzy, I have to clutch the counter for support.
“Are you still there?” Suzanne asks when I’m silent too long.
T-boned in an intersection. Car was totaled. Didn’t have a heartbeat.
What are the odds?
“I’m here,” I rasp. But I’m not really. I’ve traveled back in time, back to an intersection in the middle of the night in Phoenix, where I’m on my knees
on the asphalt, sobbing and screaming for help, holding my dying husband in my arms, listening to the last thing he’d ever say to me.
I love you, sweet pea. I’ll love you till the end of time.
I breathe shallowly, my palms sweating, my hands trembling, the room closing in until I can barely draw a breath.
I recognize the signs. I’m about to have a panic attack.
I drop the phone and run through the house until I reach the French doors leading to the back patio. I burst through them, gulping air, my eyes tearing, the cold morning air a slap on my hot face. I run across the patio and down to the beach, stumbling over my feet, and head straight for the water.
It’s freezing cold as it hits my shins, but it’s the shock of reality I need. I stand knee-deep in the ocean, shivering violently, my arms wrapped around my body as waves rock me, the gentle morning surf murmuring soothing things to cool my boiling mind.
I close my eyes and breathe deeply, sucking air into my heaving lungs.
Air scented of blood on asphalt, and the haunting, honey-like perfume of sweet peas.
9
When I finally get myself together and trudge back inside, a half hour has gone by, and I’ve missed four calls from Suzanne on my cell.
I text her back that I can’t talk and we’ll touch base later. Then I change into dry clothes, turn on the TV in my bedroom, and watch the local news with a feeling of cold disbelief.