738 Days: A Novel

by Stacey Kade

  “Dr. Knaussen can call me, too. I’ll check in with her just like usual.” Amanda sounds confident, but her hand is trembling as she moves it along the railing in her descent. She catches me watching and tightens her grip, steadying it.

  “But small steps, Amanda—” Mrs. Grace persists.

  “Aren’t cutting it, Mom.” Amanda stops at the bottom of the stairs and turns to face her mother. “I’m not making any progress that way, not anymore. And I want to have a life someday,” she says in a softer voice, a quiet plea for understanding. “Besides, you’re the one who keeps saying I should do whatever I feel like I’m ready to do.”

  Except I’m not entirely sure Amanda’s all that ready. As soon as I pull the door open and step out of the way to let her lead, she freezes up, like someone terrified of heights balancing on the edge of the high dive.

  I can feel the tension behind me from Mia, from Mrs. Grace, who are both, undoubtedly, watching this play out.

  Maybe this’ll be over before it even begins. I’m not sure how I feel about that. Relieved, I think. A sign from the universe that it wasn’t meant to be, as my agent used to say. You know, before he stopped taking my calls. “Is everything—”

  “Fine. It’s fine,” Amanda says shortly, tugging her bag up higher on her shoulder, and then, with a deep breath that seems more appropriate for someone about to face a ravenous and rabid grizzly bear, she pushes forward and out the door.

  Oh yeah, she’s definitely not ready. And neither am I.

  This is such a bad idea.

  5

  Amanda

  I just left the house. To stay with a stranger. Overnight.

  My chest constricts painfully at the thought.

  Behind me, the screen door slams shut, and I can hear the sound of Chase’s footsteps on the porch steps and then behind me on the path to the driveway. Is it possible for footsteps to sound reluctant and/or resigned? Because if so, his do.

  I inhale through my nose and exhale slowly through my mouth, trying to count, four in and eight out, and do both the breathing and counting quietly enough so as not to attract even more attention. The truth is, I don’t have time to freak out right now because I’m pretty sure I’ve got about thirty seconds before Chase finds a polite excuse to back out. I need to think this through and come up with a way to convince him this is still a good idea.

  But it’s hard to think when my skin is buzzing. The sun is down, and it’s really getting dark now, the automatic porch lights providing the only illumination. On a bad day, this is usually when my anxiety kicks into high gear, for some reason. Combine that with the unpredictability that comes with being outside—branches moving in the wind like arms reaching out for me and dead leaves skittering at my feet like small crabbed creatures—and I should be a wreck.

  Except this doesn’t feel exactly like one of my tsunami waves of anxiety or even the start of a panic attack. This is more like I’m plugged in, connected in some weird way. Like I’ve taken a leap over the edge of a cliff, and I’m enjoying the fall, for the moment. I’m hyperaware of everything, the scrape of my shoes on the concrete, the faint ticking of the engine cooling in the car on the driveway, the birds chirping and fluttering as they settle in for the night.

  A hand lands solidly on my shoulder, and my heart catapults into my throat. I jerk away violently, tipping myself off balance and nearly landing backward in one of the evergreen bushes that line the sidewalk.

  Chase jumps back from me, his face almost comical in shock. I’m not sure who is more surprised. “Sorry!” he says, his hands up as if he’s under arrest. The light from the porch catches on the car keys in his palm, making them gleam. “I just thought … your bag.” He tips his head toward the bag that’s now hanging from my wrist, the bottom of it dragging on the ground.

  Oh. Yeah. I want to close my eyes in defeat. That makes more sense than some random attacker sprinting up between us and grabbing me, which, of course, is what my brain signaled.

  Again, there’s very little space between stimulus and panic for rational thought. “Sorry,” I say, straightening up and pulling my bag onto my shoulder.

  “No, I’m sorry,” Chase says quickly. He looks toward my house, as if expecting someone to come charging out. He might not be wrong. “I should have realized—”

  “No, it’s okay. It’s just … I’m a little jumpy. When people touch me unexpectedly,” I say, fumbling for the words that will make this not weird. It’s not uncommon for rape survivors to have trouble with being touched, but most people just don’t think it through. Touch is human instinct, an attempt to comfort, even.

  A pained expression crosses Chase’s face, and he takes a step back, as if I’m a ticking emotional time bomb and might explode in messy tears and gibbering nonsense right then and there.

  Really? I’m the one who lived through it, but he can’t stand to hear me reference it, even obliquely? God. He’s not “my” Chase, and that is so screamingly obvious. But I suppose that’s better than if he were like the people who are eager to hear every detail. There are definitely those, too.

  Still, all my awkward damage is fully on display, and I can feel panic bubbling up in my throat. In a second, Chase isn’t even going to bother with the polite excuse.

  As if he can read my mind, he takes a deep breath and says, “Listen…”

  “Look, I know this is crazy,” I say, cutting him off. “Or weird or both. You don’t know me, I don’t know you. And this is obviously not what you were expecting when you came here…” Shit, I’m babbling. Stop babbling. “But I have a reason, a good reason for asking to come along.”

  He raises his eyebrows expectantly.

  I’m tempted to ask him if he minds waiting to hear said reason until we’re in the car on the way to Wescott. I can feel time, and my summoned-from-nowhere courage, slipping away. I would bet my life that my mother is standing at the picture window in the living room, watching us, waiting for me to retreat and fly back into the house.

  Suddenly, I can see myself walking past Chase, up the stairs, into the house, and to my room, where I lie down again on the floor of my closet and just stay there forever, living on that pile of discarded shoes.

  “You need help. You said so,” I blurt out.

  He stiffens. “That’s not exactly what I said.”

  Good, Amanda, way to put him on the defensive.

  “No, I didn’t mean…” I take a deep breath and start over, borrowing his words. “I don’t know how much you know about what happened to me.” I pause.

  He nods slowly. Someone did research for him. But clearly not enough.

  “Obviously, I’m having some trouble getting back to normal. I mean, I’m doing okay. I have a therapist and everything, and it’s not like I’m suicidal or anything.” I force a laugh, but his eyes go wide.

  Clearly that thought had not entered his mind until I put it there.

  “But I’m stuck. And I need to find some way to fight through. And I thought…” I pause, trying to find the right words, ones that will explain without scaring him away. “When I was in that place,” I say carefully, “I had only one link to home. There was a poster on the wall. My sister had the same one. Chase Henry as Brody Taylor. The one with the black leather jacket and the collar…” I catch myself tugging at my fleece to demonstrate, as if he needs the reminder, and stop, feeling my face heat up.

  Chase’s mouth twitches with a faint smile. “The angry librarian?” he asks.

  “Huh?” I ask, confused.

  He tips his head toward the house, and I realize he’s describing Liza. Perfectly, actually.

  And that makes me relax enough to laugh, a little giddy. “Yeah, that’s her. She was so in love with you.” The words come out in the same teasing tone I used to use with Liza herself whenever she would drag me in to watch Starlight with her and then stand six inches away from the screen so as not to miss so much as a micro-blink from “Brody Taylor.”

  Chase ducks his head, his hand
rubbing the back of his neck, and it’s hard to tell with his face in shadow, but it looks like he’s blushing. And that causes a weird pinch in my stomach.

  “The glasses are fake.” The words pop out of my mouth, and I have no idea why. “She only needs them for reading, but she wears them all the time to make people take her more seriously. Law student and whatever.”

  He nods solemnly. “I see.”

  What the hell is wrong with me? I’m stuck in babble mode. “Anyway,” I say, struggling to refocus on my point. “The poster. It was a link to home, and apparently, according to, like, every therapist in the world, I needed an outlet, a coping mechanism or whatever. So my brain sort of made one, I guess.” This all sounds so crazy. Crap.

  “And it looked like you,” I make myself continue. “Gave me the courage to keep hoping, and the strength to keep fighting.” I’m caught for a second in the memory of “my” Chase whispering in my ear that last morning, pushing me to reach out, literally, to catch the furnace repairman’s attention. “Saved my life, actually.”

  The real Chase looks taken aback.

  “It wasn’t you,” I say quickly. “I know that. It’s this psychological equivalency thing.”

  “But you think I can help you,” he says, sounding doubtful.

  “Not you, exactly.” I’m struggling to explain something that seemed so clear in my head just a few minutes ago.

  The screen door opens with a distant creak. “Amanda, is everything okay?” my mom calls out into the night.

  I’m running out of time. Sheer surprise and my momentum are the only things that kept my family from mounting a stronger argument, and they’re regrouping—I’m sure of it. “Yes, everything’s fine, Mom. We’re just working out some details.”

  “You should come back inside. We can talk about it some more,” she says, and though the shrubbery is hiding her from view, I can easily picture her rubbing her arms up and down, like it’s winter and freezing out here.

  I ignore my mom and turn my attention back to Chase. “It’s who you represent in my head. It’s like…” I search my mind to come up with something that will make sense of the weird leaps and turns my brain made. “Is there someone you’re close to? Someone in your family or…”

  He shifts a little, shoving his hands into his pockets again. “My grandfather.”

  “Okay, is there a smell that reminds you of him?” God, if he says something like “farts” or “pork rinds,” this is so not going to work. But I’m in it too far now to back off.

  He nods reluctantly. “Pipe smoke. He used to smoke a pipe.”

  “So, when you smell that, um, smoke or tobacco, it reminds you of him, how you feel when he’s around … or how you felt?” I’m not sure if Chase’s grandfather is still alive, and the voice in the back of my head is screaming, You’re messing this up!

  “Yeah,” Chase says after a moment.

  Wow, how very talkative Mr. Henry is. Maybe it’s a good thing he has someone to script his lines for him. “Okay, it’s like that. Seeing you reminds me of the Chase in my head. Gives me that extra push to be strong. And I … I kind of need that right now.”

  Said out loud, it sounds ridiculously juvenile and fantasy-like. Of course the real person would have no bearing on a situation that existed only in my head. And we are total strangers. What on earth gave me the idea that this would work?

  “I have plans,” I blurt out. “I want to go to college, get my degree in psychology, art therapy, maybe. But I can’t, not when I’m like this. And when you explained why you were really here, I thought there could be a mutual benefit.” My face is hot with embarrassment.

  “How do you know this won’t make things worse?” Chase asks with a deep frown. “Like today.”

  I must have really freaked him out at the store. “That wasn’t you, exactly. I get flashbacks sometimes, triggered by various and random things. It’s PTSD, like what soldiers have?” I hesitate, but I figure I might as well be honest. “And I can’t guarantee that won’t happen again. But it won’t be because of you. I was … taken off guard today—that’s all.”

  He stays silent for a long moment. Too long. I can’t read his expression.

  “Please,” I say, holding steady against the urge to squirm. I hate begging. Hate the empty, cored-out feeling it creates in my middle, but I don’t have a choice here. And when I hear the porch door squeak shut, I know my mom has gone in to get my dad. Time’s up.

  Chase stares at a point over my head, his mouth tightening. “All right,” he says finally. “But we can skip the photo ops. That was just—”

  “No,” I say. “Definitely not. That’s what you need, right?” The only thing keeping this from being a complete Amanda Grace freak show is that he’s getting something out of it, too. I am clinging to that with everything I’ve got. But he does maybe have a small point. “If we can schedule something, though, rather than them creeping up on me, that would probably be better.”

  He flinches. “I am so—”

  I cut off his apology. “It’s fine. It’ll be fine. It’s just a few days, right?” I sound confident enough I almost believe me.

  Chase nods.

  “Obviously, if it doesn’t work out, I’ve got plenty of people who’ll be happy to come get me.” And shout, What were you thinking? the entire sixty miles back home.

  Chase is frowning at me again, and I realize suddenly I’m not sure who I’m trying to convince. He’s already agreed.

  I hold out my hand. “So, we have a deal.”

  He pulls his hand from his pocket but hesitates before touching me. He meets my gaze squarely. “Okay?” he asks.

  That he remembers to ask—granted, it was only like two minutes ago that it first came up, but still—sends a weird little flutter through me. “Yeah,” I say, “it’s just when I don’t see it coming.” Which isn’t exactly true. I tense up, even at the most casual contact, unless I’m really distracted. But that doesn’t happen nearly often enough.

  I steel myself for the brush of his skin against mine. But he takes my hand in his in one quick motion and shakes it firmly, with no attempt to linger and zero bone crushing. His palm is dry, and his touch is kind of … pleasant.

  “Deal,” he says, releasing my hand immediately. Then he steps around me and leads the way to the car, letting me follow at my own pace with no worries about anyone behind me.

  Huh. One thing I’ll give the real Chase Henry: he’s a quick learner. Not maybe as fast as “my” Chase, but that version lived in my head. This Chase probably deserves a little more credit for figuring out as much as he has.

  Or maybe he’s just as eager to get out of here as I am.

  6

  Chase

  I’m going to hell for this.

  I’m pretty sure I was headed that direction anyway, but now? There’s no question.

  Chase Henry Mroczek, latest designee for the lowest circle of fiery damnation, where all people who do crazy-stupid things for fame go. Not that it’s fame I’m after, exactly.

  I buckle my seat belt—it takes two tries to click, stupid rental car—as Amanda, who already has her belt in place, pushes her bag into the backseat through the gap between us.

  “Everything—” I cut myself off from asking her, yet again, in one more way, if she’s all right. “Ready to go?” I ask instead.

  She nods, tugging her sleeves down over her wrists and using her fingertips to hold the cuffs in place.

  God, there’s nothing more awkward than being trapped in a car with a complete stranger. Except maybe being trapped with someone who sort of knows you, or knows a version of you. And in this case, that’s both of us, I suppose. Amanda knows “Chase Henry,” the public persona, and whatever idea she has of me in her head. And I’ve got pretty much the same thing for her.

  Worst first-date-that-is-not-a-date ever.

  I fumble getting the car into reverse. The gearshift has a weird notch cut out between park and reverse. Who’s the genius responsible f
or that? If it’s not a standard H stick shift, do we really need to get fancy for a fucking rental car?

  The silence on Amanda’s side of the car is deafening. “Sorry, it’s a rental,” I mumble. “Elise … my, uh, former publicist took the car and the driver.” I’m lucky she bothered to drop me off at the local Hertz. When Elise commits to an idea, she really commits.

  Amanda lifts her shoulder. “It’s fine. Better than I could do.”

  “Not used to shitty cars?” I ask, trying to make a joke.

  “No license,” she says.

  Duh, Chase, because when she was sixteen, she wasn’t exactly in driver’s ed, and driving lessons probably weren’t her first priority these days.

  “Sorry,” I mutter. I can’t seem to speak more than ten words to her without shoving half my leg down my throat.

  “It’s okay,” she says, her gaze fixed forward.

  I move my arm to brace my hand against the passenger-side headrest, standard position for reversing out of a driveway, but I catch the almost imperceptible flinch from Amanda.

  Shit. Right.

  I snatch my arm back, though that makes me feel lopsided and dangerously close to taking out one of the millions of evergreens that line their property with my side of the car.

  Add to that my absolute certainty that Amanda’s huge father is going to come barreling out after us at any second, and we’re lucky to make it out to the street without damage.

  But we do, and the road is silent and still. No photographers. No angry dads. So that’s something, at least.

  “Are you warm enough?” I ask after a few minutes, hoping for something to do, to say. I could drag out adjusting the temperature into a few conversational exchanges.

  “I’m fine,” Amanda says.

  Guess not.

  I tap my fingers on the wheel. Can I turn on the radio? Or would she consider that rude? I have no idea. We’re in this together … sort of, but not really.

  The only sounds in the car are the distinct non-purring of the engine and the rush of the tire treads on the road, and every second of silence that ticks by just makes me more and more uncomfortable. The next sixty miles are going to be brutal. No, forget that. The next twenty-four hours. That’s probably the quickest turnaround that I can manage while still getting what I need out of this mess.