Sara screamed and ran to the opposite end of the room and jumped on the couch. Jordan turned the vacuum cleaner off.
“Sorry,” he said. She laughed and stepped off the couch, cheeks flushed.
“What are you doing home?” She asked.
“I ... wasn’t feeling well, and I had some pretty horrible thoughts.” He opened his arms, and she stepped into them. He burrowed his nose into her hair and breathed in her scent.
“Me, too,” Sara said.
“I wish I didn’t have to go on this stupid trip to Kansas,” he said. A sales meeting at the corporate office. It was a longer trip. The sales manager decided to have a team building activity after their endless reporting sessions.
“How long will you be gone again?” Sara asked.
“Seven days.”
SARA DROPPED JORDAN off at the airport and drove home feeling heavy and tired. At home, she moped around the house. Whenever he went out of town like this, it made her wish she had more friends. The problem was, even if she had a girlfriend or two to hang out with, she’d rather be home with her worries.
She shuffled around the house, straightening up, rearranging the pillows on the couch several times, pushing magazines into a neat stack, then fanning them out again. Her computer was on in the office with her manuscript open, waiting for her, but she didn’t feel like doing anything. She ended up laying on the couch with a book. Even then, her mind kept wandering to Jordan and the movie.
Seven days.
Her eyes trailed across the page of the book and slowly slipped shut.
Sara woke suddenly, heart pounding. Sweat covered her face, neck, and chest. She grabbed her phone and looked at the time, then dialed Jordan.
“Hey, miss me already?” Jordan said when he answered.
“Yes, of course. From the moment I drove away from the airport,” she said. “I wanted to tell you I love you, one more time.” She smiled and slumped back against the couch.
“I love you, too,” Jordan said.
“Call me when you land.”
“You know I will.”
He hung up. Sara took a deep, shaky breath and laughed. The laugh became a sob. Relief washed over her. He was okay. She was okay. They would be fine.
That’s what the girl in the movie thought, too, and look what happened.
Sara shook her head to clear it of such stupid thoughts, then went to the kitchen to make a cup of tea, more for something to do than anything else. Whenever she drank tea, it usually cooled off too much before she was able to actually drank any of it.
She sat at the table while the hot water heated. Today’s newspaper sat on the table, still furled within its orange casing. She pulled it out but held it firm, afraid to see what might be on the front page. The kettle shrieked. Sara jumped. She got up and poured the hot water over a tea bag full of cinnamon spice tea. The scent soothed her rattled nerves.
The newspaper lay open, but the front page featured the Mayor with a group of children at a youth club. She let out a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding and flipped the paper to the comics section.
Noon came and went. Sara putted around the house. She organized the closet in the office for something to do. Avoidance behavior, she called it. Every time she stepped over to the computer and her open manuscript, the flashing cursor at the top of the blank page for chapter thirteen turned her back around to find something meaningless to do. Like organizing the junk drawer in the kitchen. Junk drawers don’t need to be organized. That’s why they’re called junk drawers.
Jordan’s flight landed at two. Sara sat on the couch and stared at the clock, cell phone in hand. When two came and went and eased into three, she dialed his number.
“I was just about to call you,” he said when he picked up.
“How was your flight?” Sara asked. A nervous energy shook in her hands.
“Turbulent.” His voice told her all she needed to know. “How’s your day going?”
“Oh, you know . . .” She told him the things she did besides work on the Next Great American Novel.
“Avoider,” Jordan said with a laugh. “You have seven days of peace and quiet and a looming deadline. Crack to it, lady.”
“It’s hard to do anything when you’re not here,” she said. “I’m so lonely and sad. All I want to do is crawl into bed and sleep through it.”
“I know. I miss you, too.” An alarm sounded in the background.
“What was that? What’s going on?”
“Just the bag carousel letting us know it’s about to start spinning. Don’t worry.”
“I can’t help it.”
“I gotta go. I’ll call you later tonight, okay?”
“Okay.”
Jordan hung up. Sara took her tea cup and headed to the kitchen. He was off the plane. That gave her a little relief. Once he was out of the airport and safely in his hotel she would feel even better.
Sara stepped off the carpet, onto the linoleum in the kitchen and slipped. She landed on her rear with a sharp pain that jarred up her spine. Then, she screamed.
Blood everywhere. Smeared across the floor like someone mopped the linoleum with a bucket of it. Red fingerprints smeared the cupboard doors. The sink bubbled, filling with crimson fluid from a backed-up drain. Sara looked at her hands, covered in the sticky stuff and screamed again.
When she dropped her hands, the blood was gone from the room. She looked at her hand again. A shard of ceramic was lodged in her palm. The wound dripped onto her lap.
It’ll need stitches, she thought.
The girl in the movie needed stitches. Look what happened when she went to the hospital to get them. That’s when it all started.
Sara got to her feet and grabbed a wad of paper towels. She held them against her palm and made her way to the bathroom for the first aid kit, the kitchen covered in blood completely forgotten.
After pulling the shard of tea cup from the wound and cleaning it, she applied five butterfly strips across it to hold it shut. Her dad would have sealed the cut with super glue, but she didn’t have any. Besides, she’d likely glue her hands together if she tried that. She wrapped a roll of gauze around her hand and taped it off, then opened the medicine cabinet to find adequate pain killers. Tylenol was all they had. She shook two into her uninjured palm and closed the cabinet.
In the mirror, Jordan stood behind her. Sara jumped again, almost smiled, but he looked so strange. His mouth opened and closed like a landed fish. His eyes were sunken and red-rimmed. The slit across his throat dribbled blood.
Sara whipped around, but no one was there. She let out a whimper. A sad, terrified sound. Blood in the kitchen, Jordan with a slit throat. She looked at her hand. Blood had already seeped through the gauze. She took a deep breath, but her lungs wouldn’t fill. She looked in the mirror again, but before she could see if Jordan still stood there, her vision flashed with black spots and down she went.
JORDAN DIALED SARA’S cell, hoping to catch her before either of them went to bed. She didn’t answer. He tried the house phone. No answer. He left a message at both numbers and crawled into bed. Maybe she’d gone to bed early.
Wouldn’t she have called first?
SARA WOKE TO THE PHONE ringing. Not her cell. The jangly kitchen phone. A leftover of the previous residents, the yellow, corded phone sat across the kitchen by the refrigerator plugged into an old answering machine. Sara hauled herself up, using the toilet, then the counter, for leverage. She squinted her eyes against the bright bathroom light, against the pain in her cheek where she must have struck the toilet on her way to the floor.
She stumbled down the hall and stopped just shy of the kitchen door. The knock on her head didn’t strike the memory of blood everywhere from her mind. She sidled to the entry and peeked inside. No blood. It had all been cleaned up.
It was never there.
She crossed the kitchen just as the old answering machine picked up. Sara and Jordan’s cheery voices informed the caller they we
ren’t home, then the recording began.
Heavy breathing came through the line.
“Help . . . me . . .” Jordan’s voice groaned. An electric jolt prickled Sara’s skin. “Help.” The line went dead.
She grabbed the phone and dialed his cell. Three tones beeped in her ear, extra loud.
We’re sorry, your call cannot be completed as dialed.
She tried again. Same result. Maybe it was the landline. She turned and frantically tried to remember where she’d left her cell phone. The living room.
Sara ran to find it, aware of the throbbing in her head. Her phone showed two missed calls from Jordan. She pushed the phone icon and called him back. The phone rang. And rang. And rang. After twenty rings or so, the line died. Call lost. She called him again, panic shuddering its way up her abdomen. Her breathing turned into gasping. A sharp pain dug into her gut.
Every time she called him she got a different result. Three tones. Crackling. The line never connecting. Finally, Jordan’s groggy voice answered.
Sara burst into tears.
“Sara? What’s wrong? What happened?”
“Oh my god,” she whispered.
“What? What is it?” She could see him sitting up in a strange bed in a strange room. Would he get the next flight out if it was serious enough?
“I couldn’t reach you,” she said. “I passed out in the bathroom. There was blood everywhere. You were dead or dying.”
“Blood? Where? Did you cut yourself?”
“No.” She looked at her hand where the blood soaked the bandage. “I mean, yes, I did, but—” But what? Did the knock on the head rearrange the facts? “I was . . . just scared. I guess.”
“We’re getting a dog when I get home. A big one.” He laughed, but it was mirthless. “You said you passed out. Are you okay? Did you eat today? Drink enough water?”
Sara nodded. “Yes. I just—after all the blood—I-I guess I got woozy.”
“How bad is the cut? Send me a picture.”
Sara took her cell from her ear and snapped a picture of the bloody bandage and sent it in a text.
“Jesus Christ, Sara. You probably need some stitches. How did this happen?”
“I can’t get stitches, Jordan,” she said in a steady, stern voice. “That’s how it’ll all start.”
“What—Oh.” He swallowed audibly. “The movie.”
Sara nodded. “I put five butterfly sutures on it. It’ll be fine. I just need to hold it above my head and apply some pressure. I couldn’t do that when it first happened because I passed out, but now I can.”
“Okay. Well, if it starts to look weird, go to the doc, okay?”
“I will.” They said their goodbyes. Sara had completely forgotten to ask him about the weird message he left on the answering machine. She went into the kitchen and pressed play.
“Hey, Sara. Just calling before I go to bed. Early day tomorrow. I love you. Call me back if it isn’t too late when you get this,” Jordan’s voice said.
Sara stared at the machine. She pressed play again. Listened hard for any harsh breathing, groaning, like what came through the line before. It was always Jordan’s cheery voice.
THE NEXT DAY, SARA woke with incredible pain in her face. At first, she thought it was from hitting the toilet on her way down to the floor, but her nose was stuffy, too. Sinus infection. A heavy grogginess held her head in a vice-like grip. She could hardly open her eyes. When she did get up, it was only to use the bathroom or to refill her glass of water. She avoided looking in the mirror.
Jordan called her a couple times. Their conversations were brief. He only had a few minutes during the breaks in the sales meeting. In the evenings, he went out to dinners with the executives and clients. Glad-handing and networking. He told her he’d called every night before going to bed, but Sara didn’t have a single missed call on her cell phone.
He wouldn’t lie to her, would he? He knew she didn’t like it when he drank out on the town without her. It’s not that she didn’t trust him, she just didn’t trust other women.
Sara slept through most of the following day as well. She woke at 11:00 p.m. with a face that felt like it had swelled to five times its normal size. She touched it and found it was the same face she always had.
Movement in the corner of the dark bedroom caught her eye. She peered into the darkness.
“Is someone there?” she croaked.
“Sara.” Jordan’s voice came in a harsh whisper. “Why’d you do it, Sara?” His voice was pleading. A regretful cry.
“Jordan?” She squinted her eyes, opened them as wide as they could go, which still seemed like just a squint. “You’re not supposed to be home until Monday.”
How long have I been asleep?
“Why’d you do it, Sara?” He asked again. This time with accusation.
“What? What did I do?” She fumbled for the lamp on the nightstand and clicked it on. “I don’t unders—” She turned his way and screamed. “No, no, no,” she cried, eyes wide, unable to look away.
“Sara . . . why?” Jordan stood at the end of their bed. His neck dribbled blood onto their white comforter. He reached toward her with a gory hand, and his head tumbled from his shoulders. It landed between her feet, rolled once, and settled at her knees.
Sara took in a breath, then another. She seemed only capable of breathing in, not out. When she finally let go of the breath, it came out in a shrill scream. A scream worthy of an Oscar. Except she wasn’t acting. She tore back the covers and ran from the room, tripping and almost falling down the stairs. She ran out the front door and onto the lawn. She looked up at the house, at the lighted window, at the front door, waiting for Jordan’s headless corpse to follow her out into the chilly night.
“You should be indoors, young lady. You’ll catch your death out here in that getup.” The neighbor lady, Rosalind, was outside with her small rat-looking dog. Sara shivered in the sweaty tank top and shorts she’d worn the past few days. Her head throbbed. Rosalind shuffled to her front door, threw a grimace at Sara, and stepped inside.
“Wait,” Sara whispered. “I need help.” She gasped and sobbed and hiccupped. Goose flesh broke out over her entire body, hardening her nipples. Her teeth chattered. She finally gave in and went back inside. She turned on every light in the house. Even the basement light. She considered staying on the couch for the rest of the night, but a part of her had to see.
She slunk up the stairs and peered into the bedroom. No headless husband. No decapitated head. No blood splatters on the comforter. All was as it should be.
Even so, she took her pillow back downstairs and slept on the sofa.
SUNLIGHT FILTERED IN through the windows. Birds chirped outside. Somewhere in the distance a dog barked. Not the annoying yap of Rosalind’s rat.
Sara opened her eyes. Her hand throbbed. Her head throbbed. She peeled back the bandage on her hand and winced at the raw redness. At the smell.
She fumbled for her cell phone on the coffee table. Noon, Saturday. Jordan would be home tomorrow. She called him to leave him a message.
A woman’s voice answered. A cold stone dropped into Sara’s gut.
“Uh, is Jordan there?” Sara asked.
“Oh, honey, you have the wrong number,” the woman said.
“This isn’t 303-555-2625?”
“Yes, but there’s no Jordan here. This is a battered women’s shelter.” The woman paused. “Say, do you need help? Are you pretending? I heard about a woman who called 9-1-1 to order a pizza once—”
“No, no. I’m fine. Thank you. Sorry to bother you.”
Sara hung up. She stared at her phone, at Jordan’s contact info. She dialed again. Maybe the wires got crossed. The same woman answered. Sara hung up, dully aware she was gasping air in and out. Hyperventilating.
In the movie, the woman went crazy and saw dead people who weren’t really there, but maybe they were. Based on true events, supposedly. How much of it was true?
Sara turned on
the TV and DVR. She scrolled through and found the Seven Nights of Fright, found day seven.
The Grudge.
“No,” she said in a firm voice. “It wasn’t The Grudge.” She scrolled through days one through six. Maybe they’d watched the wrong night. She knew they hadn’t, but she had to check. None of them were the right movie.
Jordan’s dead.
The thought popped into her head.
The movie was based on you.
“He’s at a sales meeting,” she said in a weak voice.
That’s what you told yourself to believe.
“No,” she said again. “You don’t know anything.” A chill shuddered through her body.
His cell phone number is no longer his.
The thoughts kept coming, filling her head until all she heard was the static of a crowded room. She covered her ears and squeezed her eyes shut against the noise.
The movie title glared at her from the TV screen.
“It wasn’t the fucking Grudge!” She threw the remote at the television and screamed. Her cell phone rang. Jordan’s name popped up on the screen. Relief flooded over her. Tears, always threatening to build up and fall this week, trickled from her eyes. She answered.
“Jordan?”
“Hi, ma’am?” It was the woman from the battered shelter. “I thought I’d ask, since you called us, if you wanted to donate any blankets or food or anything to the shelter. Anything would help.”
Sara dropped her hand.
“Ma’am? Are you there? Ma’am?” The woman’s small, distant voice jabbered on. Sara ended the call.
“I killed him,” she said aloud. “I killed him and all this time I’ve been living in a dream. A lucid dream.”
She drifted to the kitchen and numbly took a bottle of whiskey from the cupboard. She hated whiskey. She unscrewed the cap and took a swig, winced at the immediate sharpness, then sighed as the liquid warmed her belly. She coughed.
He was gone. How long? A week? A month? Years? He’d just been there what seemed like days ago. He’d just been there hugging her, soothing her after that horrible movie.
LUMP Page 11
