Collapsible

by Buchanan, Ruth;

  “Make sure you eat something.”

  “OK.”

  “Do you need me to bring you some dinner? Just let me drop Ethan off first, and then I’ll bring you something.”

  “No, I’m fine. Really. There’s stuff in the freezer that I can heat up.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “I’m sure. I just need to have a good dinner and put this whole thing out of my head.”

  Rachel hung up. Thanking God for frozen food, she slid a turkey and potato dinner plate into the microwave and sat on a bar stool at the butcher block. She swung her cast back and forth while counting down the minutes until her food would be ready.

  Lee had no right to be so frustrated just because she had tried to help him. Back when he had been a senior in high school with an absentee father and a deadbeat mother, there had been no awkwardness between them. He had seemed to have no qualms about accepting her motherly advice and care. She paid his sports fees and went to basketball games to cheer him on. She shepherded him through his college and scholarship applications—not that Lee had needed much help on that front. His penmanship was terrible, but his grades were nothing to sneeze at.

  Since his mother had always been his Achilles’ heel, Rachel had encouraged Lee to attend an out-of-town school, hoping that the separation from his mother’s irrational behavior and leeching dependency would allow him to blossom. His decision to add a minor in education had come as a complete surprise to Rachel, but she could not have been more pleased. When his college graduation coincided with an opening for an art teacher at his high school alma mater, Rachel could see the handwriting on the wall.

  At first, Lee’s decision to come back to the school and teach seemed like a confirmation of Rachel’s bond—almost as if he had returned to her. He certainly had not returned to the area because of his dysfunctional relationship with his own mother.

  Ah, well. He was still young. And he wouldn’t be much of an artist if he were not tortured and conflicted about something. At least Rachel could feel that she’d given him that.

  The microwave dinged, signaling the readiness of Rachel’s frozen dinner. The turkey and potatoes in gravy smelled delicious but looked anemic and disappointing in their narrow plastic tray. As Rachel peeled off the film cover, hot dribbles of condensation dripped over her hands and onto the counter. She swiped her sleeve over them listlessly.

  The food tasted mainly of salt and failed to satisfy. She ate only half before giving up. Maneuvering over to the trash can to dump the rest, she discovered the garbage overflowing. Securing her crutches firmly under each armpit, she leaned forward, grasped both sides of the trash bag, and lifted slightly, tying off the bag’s ends. She then braced one hand against the tall can and heaved the bag with her other arm.

  How impressed Ann would be to come home and see that Rachel had emptied the trash all by herself. Not that Ann was ever really impressed by anything Rachel did, but a girl could dream.

  Out on the porch, however, she had a rude shock. The trash bin was gone. Rachel hitched her crutches back and leaned out over the railing, looking down in disbelief at the spot where it should have been, as if through sheer force of looking, she could make the bin rise up from the sandy soil. It was then that she happened to spot something out of the corner of her eye. She turned her head and spied the edge of the trash bin peeking from around the back corner of the house. Belatedly, she remembered Ann having said something that morning about the trash attracting raccoons and about how they had to come up with a solution to keep the raccoons off the porch.

  In order to descend the steps, she would need to brace herself against the railing with one hand while holding both crutches in the other, and hopping down one step at a time. It was hard to picture this going well with a huge trash bag tied to her right wrist. It was hard enough to hop down the steps when unencumbered by garbage.

  Rachel considered her problem for a moment before tossing the bag down onto the ground in front of the steps, where it landed with a muffled crunch. She then carefully executed the three hops, bent down to retrieve the trash bag, slipped the loops over her wrist again, and crutched toward the corner of the house.

  Unfortunately, the hard corner of her plastic dinner tray had torn a hole in the bag, and it was hemorrhaging trash. By the time she’d tossed the ripped bag into the can, retrieved the fluttering bits of trash left behind, and crutched back to the front of the house, she was sweating profusely.

  As she rounded the corner, she paused mid hop, surprised to see a small brown packet on the top step. It was not precisely in the center, but it was not off to the side, either. Had it been there when she had gone down?

  Someone had left this package on her porch.

  Some unknown person she hadn’t seen.

  Rachel stared down at the package, frozen in shock.

  She strained her ears, but in the quiet, all she heard was the whine of cicadas.

  A slow swirl of panic curved downward through her chest. She turned and let her gaze sweep the road, the tree line, the driveway. She heard the rattle of a car engine in the distance and reassured herself that the neighbors were only two acres away—close enough to hear her scream if worst came to worst. A sudden breeze set two flyaway coffee filters flapping in the middle of the driveway, nearly making her jump out of her skin. Half her brain told her to crutch down and pick them up while the other half of her brain told her to lock herself inside the house and never come out again.

  Away in the distance, the unseen car backfired. In a novel, Rachel might have mistaken this for a gunshot. But this was not a novel. This was grim reality, and a gunshot was the last of Rachel’s concerns. At her feet, neatly wrapped in brown paper, lay a reminder that death didn’t always come with a bang.

  Sometimes it came on quiet feet, with cold hands wrapped around an unsuspecting throat.

  16

  Ann arrived home to find Rachel sitting bolt-upright on the couch. “Why are there coffee filters in the driveway?” she asked.

  “We have bigger problems,” Rachel said. “Sit down.”

  To Ann’s credit, she did not interrupt once. All through Rachel’s explanation, her eyes flicked back and forth between her sister and the book on the table.

  “So what you’re saying is that this copy of Jane Eyre”—Ann tapped the book with one finger, flicking an eyebrow upward—“is a message from the Memento Killer?”

  “Yes. No. I don’t know.” Rachel chewed at a hangnail on the side of her thumb. “What do you think?”

  “And there are no other alternatives to its origin?”

  “Such as?”

  Ann leaned back in her chair. “How about Matt?”

  “Call-Me-Matt? He doesn’t know our new address.”

  “As far as you know,” Ann amended.

  “As far as I know. But really, where would he get it? I haven’t told him, and you haven’t told him, and I’m sure Lynn and Alex wouldn’t tell him without asking me first.”

  “You’re right. But there have to be other people who know where we live now who might be trying to cheer you up. Like people at work.”

  “How many of them know I like Jane Eyre, though?”

  “Everyone knows you like Jane Eyre,” Ann said. “Including Lee. Although why anyone likes that book is beyond me. That relationship is toxic.”

  “Don’t start.”

  “I’m just saying.”

  “Besides which, Lee knows I don’t need another copy of Jane Eyre.”

  “Interesting.”

  “Also, if Lee were going to give me a book, he’d probably pick one up used and then just toss it on my desk and say something smart-alecky.”

  Ann rubbed her temples. “Are you really worried about this? Or are you just pulling a Rachel? Because if you’re really worried, we can call the police and report this and see what they say.”

  Ann sounded tired. For that reason, Rachel overlooked the phrase pulling a Rachel but tucked it away for later. “I don’t kn
ow. I’m not sure. I am really worried about it, but I also feel sort of stupid at the same time.” Rachel sighed. “I’ll feel better if I report it, but chances are also high that I’ll make a fool of myself the way I did when I tried to find out where Matt got my address back when he sent the roses. I mean, if that even was him.” Rachel dragged in a deep breath and pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes. “Listen to me. I sound bonkers, even to myself, and I even know what I’m talking about!” She dropped her hands into her lap. “I’m not talking to anybody else about this until I get it worked out in a way that makes sense. There are already enough people in this county who think I’m insane. We don’t need to add the whole police department.”

  ~*~

  Rachel placed the new copy of Jane Eyre on her nightstand.

  Ann was right.

  It was probably from Matt.

  Probably.

  In the middle of the night, she awoke to branches scratching against the windowpane.

  It was probably just branches.

  Probably.

  17

  By morning, Rachel had convinced herself that Ann was right. It had to be Matt. The other solutions didn’t even bear considering. They were both scary, and Rachel couldn’t decide which one would be worse: discovering that she was being stalked by a serial killer or discovering that a boy she loved like a friend—but not a boyfriend—was making moves on her.

  On Sunday, Matt turned up at church in uniform. Rachel’s mouth dropped completely open. She shut it quickly lest her chewing gum fall out. She wondered vaguely if this uniform were left over from his firefighting days or if teaching in the fire academy at the community college meant he was still qualified to wear it. She almost didn’t care. She loved a man in uniform. Any uniform.

  Matt smiled at her, and her cardiovascular system went haywire. Behave, she told her heart. He’s a creep.

  “My goodness.” Lynn leaned over and hissed into Rachel’s ear. “My goodness.”

  “I know,” Rachel hissed back, trying not to have a heart attack. “Just shut up, OK? Here he comes.”

  Rachel scrambled to make a battle plan. She would confront him directly. No, not directly. She would be cool and remote. Or maybe she should just ignore the gifts entirely in hopes that he would take the hint and stop giving her things. No, that wouldn’t do. At the very least, she had to learn how he figured out their new address. So she would ask him, but she wouldn’t be weird about it. She would be remote and detached, in full possession of herself—

  “Good morning, ladies.” Matt leaned down to kiss Lynn on both cheeks before squeezing the hand that Rachel had robotically extended. Due to his Latin heritage, Matt could get away with kissing anybody he wanted at any time, but Rachel still felt it best to keep him at arm’s length. Literally.

  Alex, sitting on Lynn’s other side, watched this exchange through narrowed eyes. Beside him, Ethan looked on, half-horrified, half-fascinated.

  Matt set his giant Bible on the empty seat next to Rachel. She opened her mouth to say something about the gifts—who knows what—when he stepped back and held up a hand.

  “Excuse me,” he said. “I am to carry a flag in the color guard.” He turned smartly on his heel and limped up the aisle.

  Both women watched him go, jaws still at half-mast.

  “The color guard?” asked Rachel.

  Lynn shrugged, her eyes following Matt with appreciation.

  “Reel it in, ladies,” Alex advised. “It’s Memorial Day weekend. I know you mean well, but it’s not patriotic to drool over the veterans.”

  “But Matt’s not a veteran.” Rachel craned her neck to watch him go.

  “We’re not exactly crawling with vets,” Alex said. “They always use first responders in uniform to fill in the holes.”

  “Rachel,” said Lynn, “You’re sure you don’t want him to be the one sending you books and flowers? Because if it were me—”

  Alex coughed loudly.

  She turned to him. “Don’t worry, dear. You know you’ll always be my favorite.” She leaned over to give him a little peck.

  “Gross,” said Ethan. “Why is so much kissing happening today?”

  Rachel felt a swell of annoyance. Annoyance at Lynn for her reaction, annoyance at Matt for being smooth enough to win everyone’s approval, and annoyance at her own pulse for kicking into high gear whenever he appeared.

  He could play the handsome hero all he liked. He could cozy up to everyone and ooze graciousness and wear suits and fancy uniforms and carry massive Bibles and fool the whole congregation into thinking he was there for the sermon and the worship. He could make her glow like a human torch and send her blood pressure through the roof. But he was still a sleazy man who hit on younger-looking women in waiting rooms, and Rachel would neither forgive nor forget.

  She watched covertly as Matt joined a contingent of veterans and first responders assembling in the back of the church. Someone handed him the American flag. Apparently they were doing a color guard today. Matt held the pole against his body with one hand; with his other hand he clutched an eagle-topped cane.

  There was no getting around it. Matt looked magnificent. Splendid and honorable and brave.

  Rachel shook her head and drew deep breaths through her nose.

  As the opening bars of the national anthem began to swell, the congregation rose as one. The uniformed men marched down the aisle in a double line looking proud and noble.

  Rachel’s heart turned a pirouette.

  Behave, she told it. It’s a trap.

  All through the service, while the pastor expanded on the dangers of spiritual blindness, Matt sat right next to Rachel, studiously taking notes. She tried not to watch.

  He pulled a pair of neat wire-rimmed reading glasses from his breast pocket and slipped them on. Rachel tried to look away. His gaze flicked between his Bible and his notebook. He pushed up the glasses with the tip of his finger, and Rachel swallowed convulsively.

  As soon as the service ended, Rachel steeled herself. She must not show weakness. She must not allow his sheer attractiveness to eclipse his inherent creepiness. The silent, stalkery gift-giving could not go on. She needed to clear the air with him, and the sooner the better.

  Rachel faced Matt squarely—at least, as squarely as she could, considering she had to angle herself awkwardly between rows due to her crutches, and he stood half-leaning on his cane. “Listen,” she began.

  “I missed you last Sunday,” Matt said.

  Rachel ignored this. She didn’t owe him any explanations for where she’d been, and the sooner she got to the bottom of this, the better.

  “Listen. Matt. Thank you for the flowers and the book, but the gifts really aren’t necessary.” It was coming out in a rush, and she felt color building from the base of her neck up toward her hairline. “And you have to know that I’m not interested in dating you, although I hope you’ll feel free to keep coming to church. If you want to, that is. I mean, if you like it here. Because I don’t want you to feel that you can’t come any more just because I’m not interested, which I tried to tell you from the very beginning—”

  “Rachel,” he said, lifting a hand toward her, palm out, “slow down. What—”

  “Just let me finish.” She took a breath. She noticed that everyone else in their area had abandoned them, and they were surrounded by a pocket of silence. Rachel willed herself to stop blushing. “I remember what you said when we first met. You said we were fated to meet. But I don’t think that.” Seeing a crease develop between his eyes, she rushed on. “Not in the way you do. I believe that God plans things for us, and I’m not sorry I invited you to church, but I only invited you because I thought it might scare you off. But it didn’t, and you came, and you kept coming, and now you’re sending me presents, and I just can’t accept them.” Rachel took a few quick breaths. “I’m sorry.”

  Matt stared at her, the flirtatious twinkle banished from his eyes. Rachel fully expected that when he opened
his mouth, he would say something awful. He would call her a nasty name or curse her or ask her why she wouldn’t accept his gifts.

  But he didn’t do any of those things.

  “What presents?”

  18

  Rachel nearly lost her balance as she crutched across the auditorium toward where Lynn, Alex, and Ann stood chatting. Lynn put out a hand as Rachel approached. “What’s wrong?” she asked, eyes flicking between Rachel’s approaching form and Matt’s distant one. “What happened?”

  “It’s not him,” Rachel said, panting slightly. She came in hot and nearly clipped Ann and Alex in the legs with her crutches as she misjudged the distance of her last hop. Lynn steadied her as she wobbled.

  “Rachel,” Lynn said, “Calm down and start at the beginning.”

  ~*~

  Ann was hungry, and since no one seemed to be in any immediate danger, she and Alex convinced Lynn and Rachel that they could just as easily discuss the matter over fried breakfast foods and hot cups of coffee at Stu’s. Once the eggs had been mostly consumed, and with Ethan distracted by a game on his dad’s phone, the four adults got down to the serious business of hashing out the details.

  “So the gifts aren’t from Matt after all,” Ann said, putting up her eyebrows.

  Rachel began shredding her napkin into strips. “No. They’re not.”

  “So, maybe you have something to say to Lynn and me…” Ann prompted.

  Rachel stared across the table blankly. “Like what?”

  “Oh, I don’t know.” Ann pretended to think. “Maybe something like, ‘I’m sorry I didn’t listen to you guys last time when you tried to tell me they might not be from Matt.’ Something like that. How you word it is up to you.”

  Rachel sighed. “Will you take this seriously, please?”

  Ann’s eyes narrowed. “You’re unbelievable.”

  “Ladies, please,” Alex interrupted.

  “We can talk about that later,” Rachel said, waving her hand toward Ann. “What I’m really worried about now is, well…you know.”

  “Say it,” Ann said flatly.