Kill Me If You Can

by Nicole Young

  I knelt and began sifting through them. Some were color, others black and white. A drop of dew on a leaf, a wildflower bent in the wind, a rickety old barn, the burn tower with clouds rolling in across the bay, a pair of tiny sandals and beach towel left forgotten near the shore, a younger Candice perched on a rock and looking out at the waves.

  “These are all so amazing. Who took this one?” I asked, passing Candice the photo of herself.

  She stared at the picture, quiet for a moment. She cleared her throat. “These photos were all taken by your mother.”

  My chest heaved. “My mom took those?” I squeaked. “They’re beautiful. I had no idea. Grandma never said anything.”

  “I’m sure it was difficult for her to talk about your mother. There wasn’t a person on the planet that didn’t love Beth Amble.”

  “Except my dad. What was his problem, anyway?” I didn’t expect Candice to answer my pity-coated question.

  She sighed. “He loved your mother very much. But the Russo family flaws were too much for him. It’s good that he was never in your life. Perhaps you’ll be free of the curse that seems to follow the Russos through time.”

  My throat balled up. “Why do you always think the worst of everyone? I don’t care what his flaws are. He’s my dad.” I felt the fortress guarding my heart grow stronger as I defended my father. Gasping breaths choked out of me. It took me a minute to gain control. “Someday I’m going to find him. He’s not cursed. You’ll see.”

  Not caring if I seemed childish, I sank to the floor and tucked up my knees. My silky pants turned blacker with each teardrop.

  Candice reached around behind me, rubbing her hand across my back in slow, soothing circles.

  She spoke in a lulling whisper. “You must never look for him, Tish. Let him stay in a far-off place. Some things are better left alone.”

  I knew as she spoke the words that I would go after my father someday. Her speech was the verbal equivalent of the “Don’t ask why” scribbled across my mother’s picture.

  I stuffed my anger back into some hidden corner of my heart. When I felt calm, I stood. “I think I’d better get going.”

  “I didn’t mean to upset you. Our lives are what they are. No sense trying to force them into something they’re not.” Candice turned toward a worktable scattered with photos. “I have a few prints for you to take home.”

  She chose several shots of my mother and me from the assortment. “These are my favorites,” she said, handing them my way.

  I took them without looking, my eyes caught up instead with some photos sitting on the top right corner of the table. The nature shots had thick black lines running parallel to the sides, forming a square around each central scene. A chunky black pencil sat next to them. A gooseneck lamp lit them from above.

  “Why did you draw on those photos?” I asked, pointing.

  “Those are crop lines. I use a grease pencil to mark how much of the photo I want to include in the finished product.” She demonstrated. “If I mess up, I can wipe off the pencil lines and do it over. I’m too old-fashioned to deal with all that digital stuff they’re doing nowadays.”

  I looked around at all the paraphernalia in amazement. “You must really like to take pictures.”

  “It’s what I do. It’s my profession.”

  “Oh.”

  “Your mother was studying photography with me when she died,” Candice said.

  I took a deep breath. “She wanted to be a photographer? Wow. That’s so cool.”

  “She had a good eye for it. She was an artist at heart.” Candice played with the pictures on the desktop until they were arranged in neat columns. “I’m betting you’re an artist at heart too, Tish.”

  I shrugged. “I guess so. My medium is the houses I renovate.”

  “Well, I hope you don’t plan on selling the lodge. I’m glad you’re fixing it up, but it really does belong in your family. And you belong in it.” She gave me a stern look.

  I lifted a firm eyebrow. “Like you, my art is my profession. If I don’t fix up the cottage to sell it, then it becomes simply a hobby, and I’ll have to go out and get a job.” I wrinkled my nose. “And me and jobs just don’t work out.” I shrugged a shoulder. “I don’t take orders very well.”

  Candice humphed and shook her head. “Just like the rest of the clan.”

  She packaged my photos in a black faux-leather box and sent me home with the promise that I’d come for tea again the following Thursday.

  I lay in my droopy twin bed that night flipping through the pictures from Candice. I’d been so happy in all of them. My mother smiled with me in each photo she was in. I could tell by my age in a few of the shots that some were taken just before my mother killed herself. How could those eyes that seemed so filled with happiness lie to the camera? What terrible thing had happened to take away her smile and make the bottom of Mead Quarry seem a better place than the cottage on Valentine’s Bay and the arms of her little daughter?

  I was doing the very thing I was warned not to do. I jerked upright, the black scribbles across my mother’s graduation photograph flashing through my mind. DON’T ASK WHY. I scrambled for the two halves in the bedside drawer. I pulled them out and stared at the writing. I scratched at the D with my thumb. The black lines rubbed off, leaving a greasy residue behind.

  Candice.

  She’d known which bedroom was mine when I was a kid. She must have been the one to make this room comfortable for my arrival. And she was the only one who could have written those words across my mother’s photo and left it on my pillow. Hadn’t my grandfather accused her of being on Russo land? Joel must have seen Candice’s car down here right before I showed up.

  I flopped back on my pillow, holding one side of the torn photo in each hand. But Candice had loved my mother. And she’d loved me. Why would she so cruelly rip my mother’s face to shreds?

  From somewhere downstairs came the ringing of my cell phone. Brad. I hadn’t given him a thought since our brief exchange Tuesday night. I jumped up and raced downstairs. One missed call, the display read by the time I found the phone. I checked caller ID and sighed. It wasn’t Brad. A message came through and I listened to it. The heating guy. Just wanted to remind me that he’d be here around ten the next day.

  I dragged back up the steps, placing the phone by the bed in case Brad should call.

  The heating guy arrived as scheduled and prescribed a new high-efficiency forced-air unit. Between the crawl space and the generously thick walls, the ductwork would go in with minimal hassle. He wrote up the estimate and handed it to me.

  “Can’t get to you until April, though,” he said. “I’m putting in under-floor heat at a new build down the peninsula. Takes awhile to install, but, boy, is it nice.”

  I took the slip from him. “Thanks. I’ll get back to you with my decision.”

  Now, I sat at the counter, sipping coffee and staring at the proposed bill. The figures in the bottom right corner soared far beyond my imagined total. I wondered what genie in a bottle would make that wish come true.

  I crumpled the paper. A woodstove or corn burner would be better suited to my budget. But they wouldn’t exactly contribute to the resale value. The wealthy Chicagoan who would pick this place up wanted effortless heat. No cutting, chopping, or hauling required.

  I sighed. I could always put off the decision until next fall. Warm weather was only a few months away.

  In the meantime, I’d keep doing what I could.

  I sanded a section of cedar paneling in the downstairs bathroom. The wood had been damaged by water from the sink area and was nearly black. When my efforts yielded little gain, I rounded up some bleach, diluted it, and applied it to the wall. Gradually, the original color reappeared. I added polyurethane to my list of things to purchase during my next trip to Manistique. A thick coat on the bathroom walls should prevent future damage and look crisp next to cabinetry painted bright white.

  At dusk, I cleaned up my project and
puttered around in the kitchen trying my hand at homemade chicken noodle soup. I’d been entirely spoiled back in Rawlings by the neighbor’s scrumptious blends. Her yummy varieties had sustained me through the whole Victorian ordeal.

  I stirred celery and onions into the chicken and broth, remembering Brad’s humorous attempt at homemade soup a few days after I’d discovered the body in that basement. Nothing had lifted my spirits more than seeing him in a checkered apron that barely covered his broad form. The soup had boiled over, sending up a cloud of steam that filled the room. We’d laughed and cried and hugged while he helped me work through the whole killer-in-the-neighborhood trauma.

  I chopped the carrots and added them to the boiling pot. Brad had always been there for me. He’d cared so much, even when I pushed him away. He could have kept his distance and let me pout over the holidays, my least favorite time of year. As crabby as I’d been, I certainly deserved to be left alone. But instead he’d made the two days I dreaded most, Thanksgiving and Christmas, so special. We hadn’t done anything spectacular, just turkey or ham and all the fixings with his sister Samantha and a few other friends. But the fact that he’d included me, that he’d wanted me with him, made my holiday season the best I could ever remember.

  Then there was New Year’s Eve, and the toast at midnight, and the way our foreheads leaned together and stayed that way long past when the others had given a celebratory kiss and been done with it. His hands had lingered on my shoulders and things unsaid were spoken between us. His kiss was gentle but momentary, nothing that required a response. But the touch of our lips held all kinds of promises and commitments and questions and dreams. Afterward, our eyes met and conversed unblinking . . . until Samantha had broken between us to lay a smooch on her brother.

  And in one panicked moment, one slam of my car door ten days ago, I’d ended it.

  I at least owed him a phone call.

  I put the lid on the pot and went in search of my cell phone.

  12

  It had been three days since I had spoken to Brad. I found the phone upstairs next to my bed and dialed Brad’s number. I returned to my soup project as the line rang.

  “Hello.”

  At the sound of his voice, my heart raced.

  “Hi, Brad. It’s me, Tish.”

  “Hey. How’s things?”

  Why did I feel like I was talking to a stranger? Not so long ago we’d been inseparable. “Good. Things are real good.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.”

  We suffered through a prolonged silence.

  I said anything to fill the air. “I’m making chicken noodle soup tonight. Hopefully it turns out as good as yours.” I picked up the lid and stirred the contents.

  He laughed. “I’m sure you can’t miss.”

  The steam rose in a puff around my face. “I forgot to buy spices. All I have is salt.”

  “Hmm. Did you add celery?”

  “Yeah.” I replaced the lid.

  “Then it should be fine. Celery’s got plenty of flavor. Add a little salt and pepper and that should do it.”

  I smiled with one hand to my forehead, fighting back the pressure in my sinuses. “Have you been doing good? Everything’s okay with you?”

  “Oh, sure. There was a fire up on Oak Street last night. Family lost their home. I guess they’re staying with some relatives up in Flint ’til they get things settled.”

  I took in a sharp breath. “Where on Oak Street?” Brad and I had tackled most of Oak Street during our three-mile walks.

  “It was that big gray house on the corner of Oak and Elm. It had that picket fence you liked.”

  “Oh, no. That’s too bad. There were always kids playing in the yard. Nobody was hurt?”

  “They were lucky. Everyone got out safely.”

  I missed Rawlings with its houses and sidewalks and shop fronts. Port Silvan with its blink-and-you-miss-it business district seemed a little too small town. And the people up here just weren’t the same. There was no Brad.

  “Hey,” I said. “I really miss you guys.”

  “Yeah. Everyone misses you too.”

  “So how was the ski trip?” I asked.

  “Fun. But it just wasn’t the same without you.”

  I laughed. “Thanks, but I don’t believe you. You know I flunked the bunny hill.”

  “Maybe. But you would have graduated one of these times.”

  I swallowed hard and ventured into dangerous territory. “Do you think we’ll ever get together again?”

  “Of course we will.”

  I started to cry. I couldn’t help it. I sounded like a chipmunk in its dying throes.

  “Tish? Is everything all right?”

  I walked to the bathroom and pulled a wad of toilet tissue off the holder. I set the phone on the sink and gave a good blow.

  I picked up the cell and slouched on the floor next to the vanity. “I’m okay. Sorry about that.”

  “You’re worrying me. What’s really going on up there?”

  The soft rumble of Brad’s voice calmed me momentarily. Then I started to cry again. “They don’t love me,” I bawled.

  “Who? Who doesn’t love you?”

  I hiccupped between blubbers. “My family.”

  “Tell me what happened. We can work through this.”

  I gave him a hiccup-ridden rundown of current events, including Missy’s sob story, but leaving out the bad guys on four-wheelers.

  “Hang in there, Tish. You’ll do the right thing. Don’t let that stuff get you down. You’re not the type to give in and give up. You’re a fighter. You’re a conqueror.”

  At his words, a feeling of peace washed over me. I smiled through misty eyes. “Thanks, Brad. You’re such an encouragement to me. I don’t know how I made it this long without you. Believe me, it won’t happen again.”

  “That’s good to know. So it’s my turn to call same time tomorrow night?” he asked.

  “Yes, sir. I need my daily pep talk.”

  “I can’t give you a definite time, because sometimes things come up on my shift. But I’ll be as punctual as I can.”

  “I understand.”

  “Okay then.”

  “Okay then.” I didn’t want to let him go, but I couldn’t think of another intelligent thing to say. “Bye.”

  “Bye, Tish.”

  The sound of breathing, then the click of the disconnect.

  I sat there scrunched in a little ball, wishing and wishing and wishing.

  As the cold weather wore on, I settled into a routine. Four days a week, I worked on projects around the house. I took one day to get supplies in Manistique. Then on Sundays, I worshiped in Port Silvan. Thankfully, most of the churchgoers had loosened up over time, or maybe I had. I now enjoyed visiting over coffee before going back home and plopping on the couch with a book. Missy Belmont, however, held to her promised cold shoulder, regardless of my efforts to reclaim our friendship. As usual, Thursdays were spent at Candice’s house, gently picking her brain. I never let on that I knew what she’d done to my mother’s photo. And fortunately, I didn’t have to worry about avoiding my paternal relatives over the weeks. The first encounter must have soured them to any repeat reunions. We said a polite hello at any chance meeting but never went beyond the perfunctory “How are you?” Brad and I enjoyed our phone calls, but as time marched on, we’d cut them back to three times a week due to time and scheduling constraints. Or maybe it was the effect of distance on a cooling relationship.

  April showers arrived with full fury. One morning the ground had been covered in snow. The next, mini lakes dotted the yard wherever the ground dipped. I sat in the kitchen listening to rain batter the roof. A thumping had begun sometime during the night, possibly a loose gutter. I took a final sip of coffee and put on my new rain slicker. I’d found a ritzy department store in Manistique and splurged on several necessities, the bright melon jacket included.

  I opened an umbrella and walked around to the source of the clanging
. A downspout had detached from the gutter above and now dangled from two loose fasteners. Rain gushed from the unprotected hole, cutting a ditch into the ground below. I’d have to wait until the storm was over before tackling the repair.

  I dashed across the yard and jangled open the latch on the garden shed. I tipped my red umbrella and let the water run off, then I entered. One window lit the dank, musty interior. The stone and log building was a trim 10x10 or so in size, but held every tool imaginable for some serious landscaping. A ramshackle old ladder leaned in the corner. At least I had a way to reach the spout and reconnect it when the time came.

  I futzed around on one wall, rearranging the gadgets and dusting off cobwebs with an old rag. The place would look great with a fresh coat of white on the wooden slats. I could even spray some of the rusty tools bright colors to make a tidy wall display that no man could resist. It would be a fun project as soon as the weather warmed up and dried out. For now I tabled it, grateful that I knew where to find a ladder.

  I opened the door and my umbrella. I checked the latch to make sure the door fastened behind me. The forest around the shed dripped and crackled with rain. The temperature hovered around forty-five degrees these days, and I couldn’t resist a walk. I headed up the driveway. My breath misted in the clammy air. I sloshed through potholes that seemed to merge into one endless puddle. I loved the way my feet stayed dry in my new yellow rubber boots. Swampers, the saleslady had called them.

  The exercise felt invigorating after long weeks of winter when walks were short and sparse. I branched to the right when I reached the highway, then crossed the road and headed up the bluff as I’d done once before. I didn’t worry about the men on four-wheelers this time. I figured my wayward cousin had been smart enough to find a new location for his drug buys.

  Up on the bluff, the view was drab. The skies threw a gray wash over the bay. Masses of black ice covering the water’s surface seemed to gasp as they drowned beneath the rain. From my vantage point, the trees showed no signs of spring. Bare branches added to the dismal panorama, broken only by my driveway that ran like a charcoal-colored ribbon across the forest floor.