by Katie Powner
He heaved himself into the old recliner, the quietness in the house now breathing and pulsing in a way he’d never noticed before. This was the silence she’d been living with. This was the bed he had made.
Unable to bear it, he flipped on the TV. Voices. He needed voices. Life. He needed life. Hannie. He needed . . .
He fell asleep thinking about those pretty pink shoes.
CHAPTER
THREE
Rae Walters snapped her biology textbook shut and checked the time. Almost midnight. A long-haired gray cat yawned and stretched on the couch beside her.
“This is the price we pay for straight A’s, Mr. Whiskers.” Not that she would need to know what peristalsis was to become a lawyer. She tousled the cat’s scruffy head. “We’ll go to bed in a minute.”
She paused to listen for any noise. Mom and Dad had gone to bed over an hour ago. In socked feet, she crept down the hall and into the garage, Mr. Whiskers close behind.
He meowed.
Rae put a finger to her lips. “I know, I know.”
She quietly opened the door of her mom’s navy blue Ford Explorer and slipped in. Mom never locked it, which annoyed Dad to no end. But it worked out well for Rae. She reached over and opened the passenger door for Mr. Whiskers, who hopped onto the seat with a quiet dignity that bespoke his thirteen years and unending patience.
She grinned at him. “Buckle up.”
He ignored her. Unimpressed. After securing her own seat belt, she slid an invisible key into the ignition and pretended to turn it. With careful, deliberate moves, she went through the motions of sliding the shifter into reverse and easing her foot down on the gas pedal as she twisted to look behind her.
“All clear, Mister.”
She closed her eyes and visualized it—driving out of the garage, turning onto the street, taking the Explorer all the way to school. Her heart began to pound. What if she forgot to check behind her? What if she ran a red light? What if she bumped another car in the school parking lot? What if—?
Her eyes flew open. Driver’s Ed. started in two weeks. She might not need to know what peristalsis was to become a lawyer, but she would need a driver’s license.
She’d gotten her permit three weeks ago. The small card had felt like freedom in her hand. For about two hours. Then Dad came home from work. In his best lawyer voice, he went over the driving basics with her, waxed eloquent about safety and responsibility, and insisted she drive around the block.
It wasn’t until they got back to the house that her panic set in. She hit the gas instead of the brake as she pulled into the driveway, and in the split second the car surged toward the closed garage door, she discovered what it was like to lose control. And she didn’t like it. She was a boat by the dock whose rope had been cut, with a giant wave bearing down on the shore. Her whole, perfectly ordered world had shifted. Dad patted her on the shoulder with a penetrating look.
“I know I don’t need to remind you how important this is,” he’d said. “Summer will be here before you know it.”
She hadn’t driven since, always finding an excuse whenever Mom or Dad brought it up. Always acting like it could wait.
That was the night the bad dreams had started.
Her knuckles turned white as she gripped the wheel, the inside of the garage suddenly dark and menacing. She blew out a hard breath. Somehow she needed to work up the courage to get back on the road before Driver’s Ed., or she might find out what it was like to be bad at something for the first time in her life.
Maybe that should be what she wanted. Then everyone could stop treating her like she was perfect and only expect the same from her as they did from everyone else. But that wasn’t what she wanted. She wanted to be good at it. She didn’t know how to fail.
Not to mention what her parents would think. The Plan required her getting her license as soon as possible so she could get a job this summer. Dad said work experience would look good on her college applications, so that’s what she must do. She would need every advantage if she was going to get into Columbia and follow in his footsteps.
She visualized herself and the Explorer driving back into the garage, then reenacted putting the car in park and removing the key. Her heart rate slowed back to normal. That wasn’t so bad.
Driving was easy when you didn’t go anywhere.
She unbuckled, scooped up Mr. Whiskers, and shut the driver’s door as quietly as possible.
“It’s a nice night.” She hoisted the obese cat over her shoulder. “Maybe we should walk over to the barn.”
Mr. Whiskers purred in her ear. He loved visiting that old barn as much as she did, and on such a mild evening, she couldn’t resist. Walking to her favorite place under a moonlit sky would be much better than freaking out about her driver’s license.
“Let’s go in and get my shoes.”
The door groaned as she slipped back in the house. Her sneakers were in her bedroom, and a sweatshirt wouldn’t be a bad idea, either.
She set Mr. Whiskers on the kitchen table. “Wait here.”
With practiced stealth, she tiptoed down the hall. As she passed her parents’ bedroom, muffled voices slipped under the door. She stopped. That was different. They never stayed up this late.
“You’re not being fair.” That was Mom. “My mother needs me.”
“And you’re not being reasonable.” Dad’s voice had an edge. “I’ve worked too hard to—”
“You’ve worked hard?” Mom’s voice rose. “You?”
“Keep your voice down. We’ve all made sacrifices.”
Rae strained to hear as Mom lowered her voice to a tense whisper. “What have you sacrificed?”
“That’s enough.” Dad’s tone transformed from lawyer to judge.
“I’m not one of your clients.”
Rae leaned closer but couldn’t make out her father’s response. What were they talking about? She held her breath and listened but heard only the creaking of their bed and quiet footsteps.
Uh-oh. Time to make herself scarce.
She resumed her tiptoeing, praying their door wouldn’t open. Five paces to her room. Four. Three.
“You still up?”
Rae spun around.
Mom leaned against the doorframe of their bedroom, a forced smile on her face. Eyes red. “You been studying this whole time?”
Rae dug her big toe into the carpet. “Um . . .”
“I’ve never seen a kid so dedicated.” She closed the distance between them and gave Rae’s shoulder a small squeeze. “Time for bed, though.”
“Okay.”
Rae waited until her mom shut the bedroom door before creeping back to the kitchen.
So dedicated. Well, she had to be. There was no room in The Plan for anything less.
She picked up Mr. Whiskers from the table and buried her face in his fur. “The jig is up, Mister.” She settled him in her arms and headed back to her room. “We’re not going anywhere tonight.”
Another meow.
“I’m disappointed, too. Maybe next time.”
Mr. Whiskers made himself comfortable at the end of her bed while Rae changed into her pajamas, her forehead furrowed. Why had Mom said Dad wasn’t being fair? Something strange was going on. And what did other moms do when they caught their children wandering the house in the middle of the night? Probably not assume they had been studying. Other kids didn’t live their lives beholden to The Plan.
“There’s nothing wrong with being responsible.” She switched off the light and slid under the covers. “If other kids want to text their lives away, that’s their problem, right?”
Mr. Whiskers inched closer to Rae’s pillow, ignoring the end-of-the-bed rule.
“I’m going to stick to The Plan. Even the driving stuff.” Rae burrowed deeper into her blankets, unsure who she was trying to convince. “Are you even listening to me?”
Her loyal furry friend didn’t answer.
Rae squeezed her eyes shut. Mr. Whiskers didn’t u
nderstand how important this was. She’d been following The Plan her whole life, and she was on track. She had the highest GPA in her class. She was a member of the National Honor Society. By senior year she would be its president. The tiles were all falling into place—tink, tink, tink—forming the shape of her future.
All she had to do was hold on.
RAE’S ARMS JERKED, but she couldn’t get them to move where she wanted. To grip the wheel. To turn the car. It kept going, speeding out of control. Careering down a hill, faster, faster toward two dark figures transfixed in the middle of the road. The brakes wouldn’t work.
She cried out and awoke, sitting up in the dark, heart pounding. Mr. Whiskers lifted his head from where he lay on her pillow and sniffed, then went back to sleep.
She rubbed her face with her hands. It was a dream. Only another dream.
But why had it seemed so real?
CHAPTER
FOUR
The morning sun crept across the floor and tapped on Gerrit’s feet. He awoke with a grunt. Morning? What time was it?
He strained to extricate himself from the recliner, each of his back muscles rebelling with practiced disdain. He checked his phone. It was seven o’clock. No wonder he was so stiff. He’d spent almost four more hours in this stupid chair than usual.
And he’d slept in his clothes.
As he worked the kinks out of his neck, Daisy appeared. She cocked her head to one side as if wondering what on earth he was doing. Well. It was none of her business.
Gerrit waved a hand. “Git.”
Daisy did not git.
Gerrit put one hand on his lower back and pushed off the chair with the other. “I said git.”
Daisy smiled. Gerrit didn’t know dogs could do that.
He plodded to the kitchen, a hazy memory from the night before stinging in his brain. He had awoken with a start at some point, when it was still dark, his muscles tensed in panic that he had missed a milking. Certain his cows were going out of their minds waiting for him—before he remembered they weren’t his cows any longer. And their milk was none of his concern.
In the kitchen, he found a note. Please take Daisy for a walk. He looked at Daisy, who had followed him into the kitchen.
“Did you put her up to this?”
Daisy barked once. Gerrit grumbled. How had he slept through Hannie getting up and leaving? Why hadn’t she woken him to say good-bye?
Well, why should she?
He ate breakfast in silence. The clock on the wall ticked like impending doom. It was never like this on the farm. Peaceful, sure. But quiet? Not with three hundred bellowing cows meandering around, milking machines pumping, and equipment running at all hours of the day. But those were useful sounds. Productive.
What should he do? Taking Daisy for a walk was not an option. If she wanted exercise, she could run around in the yard. That’s what it was for.
His boots were by the door, where Hannie’s suitcase still sat, smug and contemptuous. She’s got no reason to stay, it said. I’m just biding my time. Bah. He left the boots where they were and pulled on his old tennis shoes.
Daisy followed him outside, her stubby legs racing to keep up. Gerrit plowed ahead about thirty feet and stopped abruptly. Looked around. Where was he going?
Slowly he turned in a circle, scrutinizing his surroundings. For too long he’d neglected this place. Time to start taking care of business. He glanced at the barn first. Though twenty-five years old, it looked none the worse for wear for all the neglect it had received, aside from needing a fresh coat of paint. He had Luke to thank for that. Luke never did anything halfway. You wouldn’t find a sturdier barn anywhere in the good state of Washington.
He could probably find an abundance of projects to tend to in that old thing, but he couldn’t go in there. Wouldn’t. Surely there were other things that needed his attention. Daisy waited patiently.
Though still early spring, a handful of weeds had already begun to sprout through the gravel in the driveway, evidence of the area’s ideal climate for growing all manner of things. Gerrit walked the entire drive, extricating any he found. When he reached the end, he opened the mailbox. It was empty.
“When do they deliver the mail around here?”
Daisy was sniffing her way through the lawn and couldn’t even be bothered to lift her head. Gerrit closed the box, listening for even the slightest squeak that would give him an excuse to oil the hinges, but it was silent.
Not far from his plain black box with gold numbers sat George and Agatha Sinnema’s oversized antique car mailbox. You opened the hood of the car to retrieve the mail. It was ridiculous. But not as ridiculous as the bushes growing around the post, obstructing everyone’s view of the road. How was Hannie supposed to pull out of the drive safely with that monstrosity blocking her sight line?
George should know better. He should. But he was an arrogant, thoughtless son of a gun for whom Gerrit had never found any use. It had been over twenty years since George had daily allowed his children to run amok all over the hill, destroying Gerrit’s property while they were at it. Even longer than that since George had taken what should’ve been Gerrit’s. But he hadn’t forgotten. No, sir. Gerrit Laninga was not a man who could forget. And he would have some very particular things to say about those bushes next time he saw George.
Then again, why wait until then to do something about this problem? And why only talk when action was required?
He took his time on the bushes. He even used the handheld pruning tool he found in the shed rather than the chainsaw and trimmed the bushes as naturally as possible. No sense in doing a hack job. He’d done plenty of those on the blackberry bushes constantly threatening to overtake the back forty on the farm, sometimes even driving the loader tractor out there to rip piles of briars out. But this job required more finesse.
Daisy trotted over occasionally to check on his progress, sniffing his pant leg and appearing to shrug her shoulders each time he told her to mind her own business. He was in no mood to be criticized by a dog. And a corgi at that. She hadn’t even been born back when George’s man-sized German shepherd, Pal, would leave cat-sized piles of poop at the end of their driveway that George refused to acknowledge as Pal’s.
What a punk.
After about an hour, Gerrit stepped back to admire his work. Much better. George might not even notice, but hopefully Hannie would when she saw how easy it was to pull out of the driveway tomorrow. She was going to be happy about this. He smiled to himself. He’d done her a favor, and she hadn’t even had to ask.
That was good, right?
Gerrit put the pruners back and wiped his hands on his crusty jeans.
Now what?
A cursory glance at the time revealed lunch was still over an hour away. He wandered the perimeter of the house, checking the outside seals on all the windows. Did he even deserve to eat if he didn’t put in a full day of work? They owned two acres in a part of the country where plants loved nothing more than to grow wild and free. Surely he could find a job to do.
What was Nicholsen up to on the farm? Had he remembered to check in with the breeder about next week’s AI appointments? Did he know the milk replacement formula was running low?
Gerrit shook his head. Didn’t matter. Wasn’t his problem anymore. He had other things to worry about now. There were other things to worry about, right?
With a spark of inspiration, Gerrit remembered Hannie once saying something about the dryer. It wasn’t getting clothes dry? Or did she say it was overheating? Better check it out.
Back inside, he walked with a renewed purpose now that he had a plan.
In the laundry room, he faced the dryer with his hands on his hips. “Well?”
The dryer exercised its right to remain silent. Gerrit pushed the start button and the dryer hummed to life, the drum smoothly spinning. It seemed fine. Why had Hannie complained? He put a hand on the side of the machine to feel for excessive shaking or heat and leaned closer when his fing
ers touched something stuck to the side.
He squinted. It was a service sticker from Frankie’s Appliance and Repair. When had she called them? He looked closer. Two years ago.
Oh.
He glared down at Daisy, who had followed him inside. “Don’t you say a word.”
She did not.
An hour passed with similar results. He either remembered or dreamed up something around the property that might need his loving care, then glared at Daisy when he found Hannie had been ten steps ahead of him. No wonder she’d been about to leave. She didn’t need him at all.
He paced back and forth in the kitchen, careful not to look out the deck window at the farm. Daisy joined him, her nails clicking on the laminate floor. Click, click, click.
“She spends a lot of time at her shop.” He rubbed his chin. “There must be something left undone at the house.”
Click, click, click.
He kicked at Daisy halfheartedly. “I can’t think with all that racket.”
She stopped.
He looked at her. “Wait a minute.” He knelt beside her. “Let me see your foot.”
Daisy whined.
“Okay, fine. Your paw.”
She lifted a paw and placed it in his outstretched hand. He ran his thumb over her nails.
“These could use a trim.”
Though his own personal hygiene regimen was nothing to write home about, he knew where the nail clippers were. In the small white cabinet above the sink. He slapped them against his palm as he surveyed the kitchen for the best light. If a man’s going to do a job well, he’s got to be able to see.
He pulled a chair from the kitchen table and swung it to rest beneath a light. “Come here, Daisy.”
She approached him, but not too close.
He waved a hand. “I said come.”
She scooted a little closer, her eyes never leaving the clippers in his hand. He huffed. How dare she distrust him?
He snagged one of her paws and studied it more closely. The nails were long, all right. She’d feel much better after he was through. With the confidence of a man long accustomed to working with animals, he slid her nail between the blades of the clippers and squeezed the lever.
