Figure Eight

by Calia Read

  “What happened?”

  He gestures to the wooden chair to our left. “Probably just cut my finger on some wood and I didn’t even notice.”

  I grab the paper towels from the paint-stained wooden counter and clean up the drops of blood on the cement floor. I have a flash of my nightmare—the one where I drown in a sea of blood with Jackson and Mom watching. The very thought of it makes me shiver.

  Noah bends down next to me and helps me clean up. We make quick work of cleaning up the mess. I stand slowly, looking at Noah from the corner of my eye. In spite of our little tête-à-tête about Jackson, I’m glad I came over. He has helped me search for Mom. He encouraged me to call the police. And now he’s keeping me company when two people I love the most have disappeared.

  I’ve been very wrong about him. Would a serial killer act like this? Possibly, but highly doubtful. Is he a sociopath? Once again, highly doubtful. He’s just someone that I grossly misjudged. It’s on the tip of my tongue to apologize. At the last second I close my mouth so the words don’t escape.

  “Why are you looking at me like that?” he asks quizzically.

  Quickly, I duck my head. “I’m not looking at you in any way.”

  “Yes, you were. You looked like you didn’t completely hate being in my presence.”

  At that, I lift my eyes and meet his gaze. His face is inches away. I want to lean forward and…

  God, what am I thinking?

  It’s the alcohol. That’s it, I tell myself. The racing of my pulse says otherwise. I’ve never experienced a love triangle: I’ll leave that to teenage TV shows or the books lining my shelves. Yet here I am feeling something for Noah while I ache for Jackson. If my heart could speak I’m sure it would say. This is fucked up. What are you doing to me?

  And my reply would be: I don’t know. I don’t know.

  I stand up, wadding the paper towels into a big ball, envisioning that it’s my heart I’m crushing. “I’ll throw these away.” I turn toward the door that leads into the house when Noah jumps in my way.

  He smiles thinly at me. “You don’t have to do that. I have a garbage can in here.”

  “What are you hiding there?” I say teasingly.

  “Nothing. Trust me, there’s nothing in there.”

  “Okay,” I draw out slowly.

  Noah extends a hand for the paper towels. I hand them over and watch him hurry over to the almost-full trashcan next to his workstation. I scan the counter and notice the tools lying out: hammer, nail puller, utility knife, chalk line, circular saw. And other items I didn’t know.

  Noah looks over his shoulder at me. “Have you heard anything from the detectives?”

  It’s been only two days since I reported Mom missing. I know that I should give them time but I don’t know how to do that. How can anyone do that when their loved one is missing? The not knowing feels like someone is slowly plunging a knife into your chest.

  “I’ve called that older detective,” I reply.

  “And?”

  “I keep getting voicemail.”

  “I’m sure he’ll call you back soon.”

  “I know he thinks Mom just left of her own free will.”

  “How do you know that?”

  I cross my arms over my chest. “I could just tell by the look in his eyes.”

  Noah turns his back to me and starts to put away some of his tools. “You never know. He might be working on her case as we speak.”

  I walk over to him and watch him carefully. He refuses to meet my gaze. “I hope so; I’m sick with worry. All I can keep thinking about is whether she’s okay.”

  Noah finally turns and fully faces me. He places a hand on my shoulder. “You have to think positively.”

  All I can do is nod; I can feel the tears threatening to drop from my eyes. There’s a second where I wait for his comforting hand to move away from my shoulder. But it stays puts and as the seconds pass so does the friend zone that I thought we’ve been in.

  I stay perfectly still underneath his touch and stare back boldly at him. I don’t know where this is going but I’m curious to find out. So I wait and my heart flutters wildly in my chest like butterfly wings. Noah’s thumb brushes against the edge of my throat. The action is so soft, so quick, that for a second I think I imagined it in my head. But the blood coursing through my veins doesn’t lie. Neither does my body as it subtly shifts closer to him.

  Out of the corner of my eye I see my house and the living room lights and it’s like a bucket of cold water has been dumped over my head. I should be home. I don’t have my phone with me and what if Mom calls? If I missed it, I’d never forgive myself.

  Very slowly I take a step back. The cold air instantly greets me, making me regret my decision. But it has to be done.

  “I should be getting back,” I say quietly.

  Noah’s hand drops heavily to his side. He nods. “All right.”

  I take a small step back because I want to stay and I want his warm hands around me. “Thank you for keeping me company.”

  One more step back.

  “You can come over anytime.”

  “I might take you up on your offer,” I tell him.

  I say those words at the same time my heart is shouting violently inside my chest, Don’t do it! We’re barely surviving Jackson’s absence. If you think you can survive Noah, then you’re sorely mistaken.

  I swallow loudly because I know my heart is right. “Good night,” I say to Noah.

  “Sweet dreams,” he replies.

  At that I smirk and turn around and walk back to my house. The back of my neck tingles and I know Noah is watching me the whole time. When I reach the front door I turn back around and sure enough, he’s still looking at me. I wave at him. He waves back.

  I close the door behind me, flip the lock and walk into the living room. And even though the blinds are closed I swear I can still feel Noah’s gaze on me.

  MOM WASN’T ALWAYS a messy person.

  Growing up she kept a pretty clean house. Items were allowed to be out of place. And the dishes didn’t always have to be washed the second you were done with a meal. If the bed wasn’t made first thing in the morning it wasn’t the end of the world. She was normal.

  She started to let things go downhill when I left for college. Every single time I’d come home for a visit, I’d see more things in the house. Items that she had no business buying—like baby diapers, or twenty cans of Spaghetti O’s.

  “You never know when someone might come over with a baby, Selah.” Or, “You know how easily snowed-in we get in the winter, Selah. I’m just stocking up on canned goods!”

  The excuses were endless.

  “It’s empty nest syndrome,” Sam once told me. “She’s trying to compensate for you leaving and shopping is her only comfort.”

  I always defended her, but now, as I stand in her room, I realize that Sam probably had a valid point.

  Maybe the key to finding Mom is hidden in her belongings. But where? In her room, the king-sized bed is headquarters central. She’d eat in bed. Sleep in bed. Read in bed. Watch TV in bed. And if she could’ve figured out a way to bathe in bed she would’ve done it.

  There are bookshelves to my left. I run my fingers along the spines. A heavy layer of dust coats my fingertips. I pull out a few of her favorite books and flip through them, hoping to find a secret document that might reveal new information about her. But all I find is a photo of me on my eighth birthday. It’s of Sam and me. I’m proudly standing in front of my cake. Sam and I have our arms wrapped around each other. Other kids move around in the background.

  I put the photo on the bookshelf and move to the other side of the room toward the mountain of clothes so high it covers the windows. I start throwing the clothes behind me. And when I find nothing, I move to her end table. I open the drawer. There’s a pad of paper, some pens, batteries, chapstick, bobby pins. Basically nothing of interest.

  For the next few minutes I move around the room. I
go through every drawer. I look under the bed. I even pull back the mattress and still come up empty-handed. With my hands on my hips, I take a deep breath and look at the mess I’ve made. From the corner of my eye I see the door to the walk-in closet is half open. I do a double take and hurry toward it.

  I open the door wide and flip on the light. It’s a complete disaster in here. The rods holding her clothes bow in the middle—one item away from completely collapsing. The top shelves are filled with boxes of shoes that probably still have the tags on them. I step deeper into the closet, trying to ignore how claustrophobic I feel in here. I rifle through the hangers, kicking the piles of shoes that lay on the floor.

  I’m close to giving up when I hear a whirring noise. Holding my breath, I focus on where the noise is coming from. It’s in the closet; that much I know, but where?

  I pull apart the hangers to touch the surface of the wall and that’s when I see the small child-sized desk shoved up against the wall. An overheated computer modem is whirring. But that’s not what has my attention. It’s the lone computer screen showing four black-and-white images from a security camera. One is directed at the front door. Another by the garage. The other two are aimed at the backyard near the gate and the back door.

  My heart races as I bend down to peer closer to the screen. When did Mom have this installed? And why didn’t she tell me?

  “Surprise!” someone shouts.

  Startled, I stand up suddenly. Someone is inside the house. The voice sounds familiar. My first thought instantly goes to Mom. I run out of the room and hurry down the stairs, my heart pounding in my ears. But my hope is short-lived when I see that it’s Sam. I freeze in my tracks.

  “How did you get in?”

  “You have the spare key in the same place it’s been in for the past twelve years.”

  “Oh,” I mumble.

  She takes off her tan trench coat to reveal a black wool blazer offset with a white turtleneck. “Well, I try to avoid Decatur like the plague but someone—” she pointedly looks my way, “won’t answer their phone.”

  “No one’s called me,” I argue.

  “Yes, I have,” Sam replies patiently, before she snatches my phone sitting in my lap. She groans as she stares at the screen. “Yep. Just as I thought. You have the damn thing on silent.” She tosses the phone and leans against the doorway, slowly scanning the living room. Her mouth slowly parts. Not much longer and she’ll start to resemble a codfish.

  “What?” I ask a bit defensively.

  Sam holds her hands in the air. “Nothing, nothing!”

  I scoot over on the couch, pick up the empty bag of Doritos and flick away the crumbs before I pat the seat for Sam to sit in. She doesn’t move from the doorway.

  “So you came all the way from Chicago because I didn’t answer a few phone calls?” I ask as I grab some of the fast food wrappers scattered about and head to the kitchen.

  Sam follows behind me.

  It’s not uncommon for Sam and I to go a few days, hell, weeks, without talking. It’s a given that when we do talk we instantly pick up where we left off and typically spend a good two hours talking about everything that we’ve missed out on. But traveling for hours—one-way—because we haven’t said a word to the other? That’s never happened.

  Something is up.

  When we enter the kitchen I practically groan because I forgot to take the trash out so now it’s overflowing and I probably don’t have any trash bags beneath the sink. If Sam thought the living room was messy she’s going to love the kitchen.

  I walk toward the trashcan and shove down as much of the trash as I can with the wrappers. It works. For now.

  “Oh, God.” Sam screws up her face and plugs her nose. “What is that smell?”

  “What smell? I don’t smell anything.”

  Her blue eyes swing in my direction. “That’s because you’re nose-blind to the stench. Seriously, Selah. This place is a disaster.”

  If I step back and really look at things, I can see Sam’s point.

  The house is a fucking mess.

  I’ve devoted so much time to searching for Mom and Jackson that making sure the dishes are done, the trash is taken out, or the clothes are washed hasn’t been a top priority. A stack of dirty plates in the fridge heavily leans to the left, resembling a Jenga tower seconds away from collapsing. The floor hasn’t been swept in… shit. How long has it been? I should know that. Countertops are caked with breadcrumbs, spilled coffee grounds, and eggshells. The only open areas at the kitchen table are directly in front of my and Mom’s chair

  And now that Sam’s mentioned it there is a smelly miasma lingering around the overflowing garbage can. Disgust at my own laziness sweeps over me. How did I let it get this way? I’m starting to act like Mom.

  “I know it’s been really bad but I’ve been busy,” I murmur.

  Sam kicks at the trash bag next to the back door. “Doing what?”

  “Well, for starters, trying to find a new job.”

  She’s my best friend. I should explain to her what’s going on with Mom. But at the same time, I know how she feels about Mom. Plus, Sam isn’t one for the sympathetic talks and hugs. For a long time Sam has thought that Mom should live with my Aunt Ruby.

  “She’s lonely, Selah,” she’d told me while I was in college. I’d waved off her words but now I see how right Sam was.

  “And since the job part isn’t panning out so well I’m trying to keep my head above water,” I say. Sam remains in the kitchen doorway. I roll my eyes and point to Mom’s seat. “Come on. Sit.”

  She hesitates and glances at the chair with abject horror. Finally, she gives in, but not before she takes off her jacket, folds it in half and uses it as a makeshift cushion.

  “Bit dramatic, don’t you think?”

  “No offense, but I wouldn’t be surprised if you have an influx of mice and gnats.” She picks up a bill from one of the stacks and opens it up. “You’re living like one of those people on Hoarders. All you need is a village of stray cats and you’re golden.”

  I snatch the bill out of her hands. It’s a final notice for my car. If I don’t pay the outstanding late fees in addition to the actual car payment they’ll repo the car. Even though it’s terrible, part of me believes that it’s not that terrible. It could be worse. It could be the electricity being turned off or the bank taking the house and short-selling it. If that didn’t work it’d go into foreclosure and then Mom and I would be homeless.

  When I think like this, I can feel the weight of my stress start to balance. I can regroup and close my eyes and when I do I can step back from my ever-growing problems. I can keep my focus ahead and try to tackle one issue at a time. This exercise has been working for a while now. But lately it’s getting harder and harder.

  “Where’s that one book I made for you?” Sam asks.

  “What one book?” I reply, using air quotes.

  She waves a hand in the air. “The finance notebook where you can keep track of everything that’s coming into your account and everything going out.”

  “Uhh…” I rack my brain trying to think of the ‘finance book’ Sam’s referring to. When I first moved back home and explained my stress in trying to find a job, Sam happily volunteered to help me keep track of my finances. At the time it sounded really good. Made me feel like I had the upper hand on everything. But things just continued to slide downward. God only knows where that book is.

  Sam impatiently taps her fingernails against the dirty table. “See-Lah,” she draws out my name in annoyance. “Don’t tell me you lost it.”

  “I lost it,” I tell her point blank.

  “Damnit. You said you would use it.”

  “Yeah. Well. I had other pressing matters,” I retort.

  Sam closes her eyes and stares up at the ceiling for a few seconds before she rocks her head back and forth, like she has a nasty kink in her neck. A few seconds later she drops her head into her hands, looking more human than I’ve seen he
r in well… ever.

  It’s eerie.

  “This is why I don’t like visiting. I turn into a raging bitch,” she admits, her voice heavy with defeat.

  “It’s fine.” I want to reach out and comfort her but I know that’ll just make it worse.

  Sam’s head shoots up. Her eyes are bloodshot and her perfect blonde locks are a mess from dragging her hands through them. “It’s not fine. None of this—” she gesticulates at our surroundings, “is okay.” Her hands fall heavily onto the table. She takes a deep breath. “I really worry about you. I hate that you’re living like this. You tell me that everything’s okay but clearly it’s not. Can you at least admit that maybe you’re in over your head?”

  My fingers curl around the coffee cup in front of me. I have no plans to drink it considering it’s probably been out for a few days, but it keeps my hands busy. I can squeeze that damn cup as hard as I want.

  “Promise me you’ll think about moving closer to me. I’m really worried about you,” Sam says softly.

  “I promise,” I say through gritted teeth.

  “Don’t just say it to get me off your back. Really mean it.”

  “I’m a grown adult, Sam.”

  “Really? Okay, then. What’s today’s date?”

  “Uhh…” I pause, frantically trying to think of the last time I looked at a calendar. Quickly, I glance at the calendar near the fridge. But that’s useless because the last date that was marked off was March 6th and I know that can’t possibly be it.

  Sam gets up, walks to the calendar, and stabs a finger on a date in the middle of the month. “March. It’s March 16th.” She drops her hands and sighs. “This is no way for a person to live.” She stares at me like I’m a child who’s done something wrong, and you want to be mad at them but you just can’t because they don’t know better. “How about we get out of here? Go shopping and get some fresh air. Hmm?”

  I narrow my eyes at her. “What kind of shopping?”

  “Grocery shopping. We’ll go to the Kroger down the road.”

  When I say nothing, she quickly speaks up. “I promise that’s all we’ll do. Groceries and come back.”