The Moment Between

by Nicole Baart

  “We know,” he repeated. He zipped a red and white duffel bag and stood. “They’re going to have to ask you a few questions. Do you feel up to answering them?”

  I pushed myself into a more upright position and covered my forehead with my cool palms. “Yes.”

  The soothing EMT gave me one last sympathetic look and left the room. Within minutes, he was replaced by a cop in uniform and a medical examiner wearing street clothes. Although they seemed impassive, neither of them perched on the end of the bed or made any move whatsoever to endear themselves to me or put me even slightly at ease. Instead, they shot questions at me and I answered as dutifully as I could.

  Name. Address. Date of birth. Home, work, and cell phone numbers. Relationship to the deceased.

  “What made you come to her apartment?” the officer asked.

  “We were supposed to have lunch. When she didn’t show up . . .” I stumbled. “She slit her wrists.” I didn’t mean to say those brutal, horrible words out loud; they came of their own accord. When I heard them spoken so bluntly, I shuddered.

  It wasn’t as if they needed me to ascertain the cause of death, and the men tactfully ignored my less-than-helpful observation.

  “She probably took pills, too,” the examiner informed me. “It’s almost impossible to commit suicide by slashing your wrists. The cuts would have to be longitudinal. Otherwise the blood vessels simply draw back into the muscles and . . .” He trailed off, realizing the impact his monologue was having on me. Changing his tactic, he asked, “Did your sister take any prescribed medications?”

  I closed my eyes. “Sometimes. If she felt like it. I know she was just prescribed a new tricyclic antidepressant. SSRIs didn’t work for her. I think it was Tofranil, 300 milligrams a day. And lithium bicarbonate when she was manic. Those are the ones I know about.”

  “That’ll do.” The police officer sighed. “Where can I find the pill bottles?”

  “She kept them in her purse. It’s black. It should be on the counter by the door.”

  The two men turned to leave, but the examiner stopped just inside the room and asked me one last question. “Had she ever been suicidal before?”

  It was my turn to sigh. I didn’t want to withhold any information, but I also didn’t want to get into specifics. “Hailey’s been on and off medication for thirteen years. If she overdosed, it was entirely intentional.”

  His look betrayed that he wasn’t surprised. For a moment I thought he was going to try to say something to comfort me; his lips parted and then closed, parted and closed. But all at once he thought better of it and tipped his head in a salute of sorts, a brief nod of acknowledgment, as if in some small way he shared my sorrow at the senselessness of it all.

  I bowed my head in return and found that I couldn’t bring myself to pick it back up. I knew he was gone when I heard the soft click of the closing door, and I found myself alone, staring at the mint-colored piles of the terry robe I had bought her for Christmas.

  VII

  He called early the next morning.

  “You up?” The voice was gritty and unmistakable. It sounded to Abigail like the same sand she had been covered in yesterday lined his gristly throat.

  “How did you find me? How did you get my number?” she demanded. Part of her was indignant that he assumed enough familiarity to track her down, but the rest of her was too drowsy to feel overtly alarmed.

  “I used my superpowers of deductive reasoning and figured out that ‘The Sun—’ was actually the Sunny Grove Inn and RV Park. It was a stroke of pure brilliance,” he said dryly. “Then I called the front desk, and when I described you, Jane patched me through. She said you were up by this time yesterday.”

  Abigail rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand, burrowing deeper under the covers. It was definitely creepy that he had found her. But then again, she had more or less told him exactly where she was staying. In a small town like Revell, it couldn’t be too hard to find someone. Anyway, it wasn’t in Abigail’s nature to be afraid of people. She was cautious, not panicky.

  “You up?” he asked again.

  “Yes,” Abigail lied.

  “Good. I’ll meet you for breakfast.”

  “Pardon me?” Abigail rolled onto her side and squinted at the alarm clock on the bedside stand. The numbers were blurry, so she grabbed her reading glasses and tried again—6:30. She stifled a moan. “I don’t think—”

  “There’s a truck stop just up the road that serves the best breakfast in Revell. Meet me there in half an hour.”

  Abigail flopped back on her pillow, chewing her bottom lip as she tried to think of an excuse. Who was this guy? What made him

  think she would agree to meet him? How could she be sure that he wasn’t some psycho stalker?

  The irony of it hit her without warning. She was the stalker. After all, she was the one who had flown thousands of miles to track down a man she didn’t even know. She was the one who had left her life behind to chase Tyler. This aging dog lover seemed innocent enough. Besides, it was broad daylight and he didn’t even know her name. But then again, she didn’t know his name either.

  “I don’t even know your—”

  “It’s just south of Main Street at the highway junction,” he said, cutting her off. Abigail didn’t know if he intended to do so or if he was simply, like her, a poor phone talker. “It’s attached to the Husky. Nan and I will be there if you want to come.”

  Click.

  Abigail realized he had meant to interrupt her. She stared at the phone for a minute and then slammed it down on the cradle in frustration. He was bossy, arrogant, and overconfident. And those were just her first impressions. But although he aggravated her, she knew that she would go and see him anyway. What did she have to lose? In spite of his obvious shortcomings, he appeared to be harmless: that feminine sixth sense that usually snaked warning fingers up her spine when she was an object of prey was nowhere to be found. Besides, she hoped to stay in Revell longer than a few days, and he had said that he might be able to work something out. Abigail was willing to try anything.

  But if she was going to meet him, it was going to be as much on her terms as she could manage. Abigail took a long shower and then took her precious time getting ready, though she certainly wasn’t getting ready for him. It was merely a good way to stall. He could wait; she was not going to rush for him.

  When she was finally set to go at quarter after seven, Abigail found the Husky easily enough. The blue and white sign sported an instantly recognizable large, furry dog that seemed distinctly out of place in such a hot climate. Abigail almost felt sorry for him in his winter coat—her own bare arms were already prickling in the morning sun.

  The gas station was surprisingly full at such an early summer hour, and Abigail drove around back in search of a parking space. She found an open spot against a sagging clapboard fence that chopped the hill behind it in half. A small knot of tumbleweed clung to a cracked board, and Abigail reached up to free it. But then she didn’t know what to do with the weed and ended up tossing it back over the fence, where it rolled down the hill and caught itself on the same board she had just released it from.

  Abigail glared at the tumbleweed, loathing it for the way she was suddenly reminded of Hailey. No matter how many times she had offered her sister freedom, Hailey always returned to a place of bondage. Always. Regression seemed to be a habitual, almost-fundamental aspect of her person. The rush of unhappy memories just about forced Abigail back into the car. But then she shrugged off all thoughts of Hailey and turned from the fence before she could change her mind.

  The diner looked dark and greasy—Abigail had an intrinsic dislike for restaurants attached to gas stations. She avoided the shadowed door and made her way around to a tiny cement patio with plastic tables and chairs. There was a low, concrete wall that doubled as a long planter around the enclosure. Unfortunately, the zinnias and balsamroot didn’t do much to discourage the dreary atmosphere. But amidst the sun-fad
ed tables and cracked chairs, Abigail saw a lone patron and recognized a yellow tail held high in summons—her breakfast date was outside, not in.

  His back was turned to her, but Nan was facing the parking lot and gave a high yelp followed by an insistent whine when Abigail came into view.

  “Stay,” the man commanded. To Abigail he said, “You’re late.”

  She ignored him and crossed the table so that they were face-to-face. Sticking out her hand, she introduced herself. “Abigail Bennett,” she said, pronouncing her surname the way her French ancestors had. No use broadcasting her real name in a town as small as Revell.

  The man put down his sandwich, wiped his mouth with a crinkled paper napkin, and finished chewing. Then he brushed his right hand against his jeans and shook hers. “Eli Dixon,” he announced and immediately went back to his food.

  Abigail was glad that he did because she was certain her forehead wrinkled in confusion. That name. She knew that name from somewhere. It provoked an unspecified hesitancy in her—she was tempted to back away, make some excuse, and never see him again. Why? What could he possibly mean to her?

  Then all at once she had it. Her mouth fell open the tiniest bit, and she took a step back, though she didn’t flee like she wanted to. He was Tyler’s uncle! Jane had mentioned him by the pool, though she had called him Elijah.

  He was still eating and more or less ignoring her, punishing her no doubt for being late. Abigail was free to study his profile and determine whether or not she could go through with the strange meeting he had initiated. As far as she could tell, there were no similarities between Tyler Kamp and his uncle. Distant relation, she figured, though just thinking about Tyler made an indiscriminate anger rise up in her chest. Maybe Elijah could sense it. Maybe he would see the intensity in her eyes and somehow know. But that was impossible.

  Abigail reached for a chair and forced herself to sink into it. “It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Dixon,” she said. Her voice was almost normal.

  “Don’t call me that,” he snapped.

  “Elijah?”

  “Eli. Isn’t that what I told you? Nobody calls me Elijah.”

  Abigail was about to inform him that at least one person called him Elijah, but she bit her tongue.

  “Eat your breakfast. It’s getting cold.” Eli pushed a plate across the table to her and tossed her a napkin that looked like it had already been used.

  Abigail studied the sandwich for a moment before carefully asking, “What is it?”

  “A BELCH.”

  She snorted. “Excuse me?”

  “Bacon, eggs, lettuce, cheese, ham,” he barked. But though he was trying to sound harsh, Abigail saw a smile play at the corner of his mouth.

  “Mmmm . . . ,” she murmured. “Sounds delicious.”

  “It is, but you need a little mayo and a lot of ketchup.” Eli sent packets of the condiments spinning across the plastic tabletop toward her.

  Abigail caught them before they slid off the edge and deposited the foil-wrapped delicacies in the center of the table. “No thanks. I think I’ll take my BELCH naked.”

  “Suit yourself.” Eli tipped his head in acknowledgment and took a long swig of his oily coffee.

  Abigail gingerly nibbled her sandwich. It was greasy and way too salty, but she had to admit that there was something indulgent and homey about digging into such a calorie-laden treat. Whoever created this sinful extravagance obviously wasn’t concerned about low-carb, low-fat, low-sodium, low-taste diets. Abigail decided that for one morning, she wouldn’t be concerned either.

  While Abigail ate, Eli maintained his silence. He seemed mildly pleased that she had come to this peculiar breakfast rendezvous and content to simply watch the sun somersault slowly up the sky. Their lack of conversation was not unfriendly, and Abigail gradually relaxed enough to realize that for now at least she had nothing to fear in his uncomplicated, straightforward presence.

  When Eli saw that she had all but given up on her sandwich, he said, “I have a job for you.”

  “What makes you think I want a job?”

  Eli stared at her. “Guess I misread you.” Then he abruptly pushed back his chair and stood. “You can leave the tip,” he told her before turning away.

  “N-no,” Abigail sputtered, shocked by his sudden change of attitude and upset that things had turned around so quickly. “Wait. I . . . I would like to hear about this job.”

  He swung around to her almost begrudgingly and didn’t make a move to sit down again. Instead, Eli gripped the back of the chair he had just vacated and studied Abigail as if the interview had already begun and he was less than impressed by what he saw in her. “Look, finding good, stable help around here isn’t easy. I don’t intend to bend over backward for you only to have you play games with me or leave me high and dry when I need you the most.”

  Abigail blinked at his passionate tirade, convinced that hiring was a sore spot with Eli but unaware of anything she could say to calm him down. What did he expect her to do? Jump up and down, proclaim her never-ending gratitude, and blindly take his mysterious job on the spot?

  “Do you want a job or not?”

  Feeling pressured to answer definitively and afraid that this might be the best, the only, offer that she would receive, Abigail nodded, albeit a little tentatively. “Yes.”

  A look of satisfaction passed over Eli’s face for a second. He sat down with a smug grunt. “I own a winery and I’m shorthanded by at least two workers. Your hours will be long and your job description will be varied. Have you ever waitressed before?”

  “Um, no,” Abigail said, afraid that anything she said or didn’t say could send him packing again. How much should she disclose? How much did he have to know? But she had to tell him at least part of the truth. There was no way she could keep one thing a secret. “And, uh, I should tell you that I’m not . . . um, I’m not Canadian.”

  Eli fixed her with a condescending glare. “You poor thing. But if you’re worried about the legality of our arrangement, let me

  assure you: you’re not the first and you won’t be the last. In fact, you’re not the only nonresident worker I’m employing this summer.”

  Abigail shrugged.

  “Because of your . . . status,” Eli continued, “I can’t offer you the same salary and benefits as my citizen workers. I’ll pay you a dollar shy of minimum wage, cash, plus if you need a place to stay, you can bunk in a trailer on the property.”

  “Roommates?” Abigail tried to ask nonchalantly.

  “No, it’s recently vacated.” Eli sounded disgusted. “Anyway, there’s no running water, but you can have access to the full bathroom in the service shed. It’ll be your job to clean it, and I charge a loonie a shower.”

  Abigail’s head swam.

  “And no trashing the trailer, though you don’t seem the type.”

  “I’m not.”

  “I didn’t think so.” Eli stood a second time, but this time he whistled and Nan rose, too. The dog stretched and yawned, then pawed Eli’s hand for a pat. “My winery is called Thompson Hills. It’s on the highway just past a fruit stand called Mack’s—”

  “Sweets. On the left, opposite the water,” Abigail finished.

  A frown furrowed Eli’s brow; then he smiled thinly at her. “I’m glad to hear our reputation precedes us.” He turned to go.

  “When do I start?” Abigail called after him.

  “Tomorrow.”

  “What time?”

  “Six a.m.”

  “What should I wear?”

  “Something nice.”

  “Why are you doing this?” Her final question surprised even Abigail. She hadn’t intended to ask, but now there was no taking it back—Eli had heard her and he stopped dead in his tracks.

  He shot over his shoulder: “Because you look like you could use a little help.”

  After he was gone, Abigail sat at the table for a long time. Was it that obvious? Was her desperation written so clearly across her face?
The thought of her own vulnerability—so advertised, so blatant—was leveling. Abigail was used to being the strong one: sensible, composed, dependable, consistent. Her high school graduating class had even voted her most likely to succeed, and what else were successful people but the polar opposite of desperate? Who was this woman she had become? Needy, anxious, transparent . . . So unmistakably helpless that a man like Eli Dixon could spot her poverty of spirit from across a beach and intervene in a way that was both intrusive and auspicious.

  Abigail was still deciding whether or not she considered Eli’s interference propitious. It was true that she needed to find a way to get close to Tyler, and she believed the only way to do so was by remaining in Revell. The bottom line was that in order to accomplish those two things she had to find a legitimate reason to postpone her stay in British Columbia. But she hadn’t planned on being that close to Tyler. The very thought of him made the sun seem too bright, the tabletop too white. Abigail squinted against the brightness and hated herself a little for being someone she hardly recognized.

  When Hailey died—no, when Hailey committed suicide—Abigail felt every semblance of self tremble away. It was like she had been rocked by an earthquake, a real fault-line grinder, 8.0 on the Richter scale at least. The walls of her identity proved to be poorly constructed, and as pieces of her crumbled and fell, Abigail was left wondering how she would possibly find the strength to go on when nothing was left but the bare frame of the woman she had once been.

  Suddenly nothing made sense. Johnson, McNally & Bennett was little more than a time drain that—rather oddly it seemed to her—broadcast her name from their classy letterhead. Why? What difference did her job make anymore? Even her relationships seemed meaningless. Though her friends called, sent flowers, and insisted that she would make it through the horror, Abigail drew away so completely that eventually the phone stopped ringing. Worst of all, the sharp vein of ambition, the seam that sewed continuity into her life by incessantly prodding her on to the next thing, collapsed and unraveled, another victim of the natural disaster that was Hailey.