I shook loose of him. “What I do is not your concern, which you made abundantly clear to me last week, in case you’ve forgotten already. So leave me alone.”
Jamie followed me. “Please let me drive you home.”
“I’m fine.” I whirled around and faced him. “Besides, why would I trust you? How do I know that you’re safe to drive and that you don’t want to take advantage of me?”
“Right.” Jamie laughed. “The world according to Anna. Every guy that lays eyes on her must want to sleep with her.”
I scowled and pushed past him. The hulking shape of the minivan was only twenty feet away now, and my footsteps were the only ones clicking on the sidewalk. Jamie had stopped in his tracks. Good.
But then he spoke quietly, and the hard, joking edge had vanished from his voice. “Please,” he said. “I want to drive you home. Just as an old friend, okay?”
Standing still, the ground felt slightly shaky under my feet. Maybe he was looking out for me. Maybe a part of him did still care. I dropped my keys into my purse. “Fine. Where are you parked?”
Jamie was driving a red pick-up truck with white lettering on the door: DEMETER LANDSCAPING SERVICES, LLC. When he turned the key in the ignition, music blared out from the speakers but not the heavy metal kind I’d expected. Instead, he’d been listening to country music. He quickly turned the dial down until it was just a low hum. I laughed to myself imagining him mowing my grandparents’ lawn in his all black get-up listening to country and western on his headphones.
We didn’t talk. I stared out the window, watching the gravel shoulder of the road and tall grasses beyond fly by in a blur. It was soothing—the quiet drone of the radio, the higher-up view of the road from a truck as if I’d been granted an alternative vantage of my life, and next to me, my wannabe-rescuer’s sturdy presence. I pressed my forehead against the cool glass of the window and nearly drifted off. But something stopped me. A slight tickle in my memory.
“Jamie,” I murmured. “When we were kids, do you remember me having an imaginary friend?”
He was quiet for what seemed like a long time. Finally, he replied. “Yes.”
“You do?” I turned my head slowly to face him. “Do you remember what her name was?”
“Yeah.” His eyes were focused intently on the road ahead. His left hand balanced on top of the steering wheel; his right rested on the console between us. “Her name was Leah Nola.”
Leah Nola. The name was instantly familiar to my ears and lips. It had an almost magical quality to it. But it didn’t conjure up her face or the time I’d spent with her, the games we’d played, as I’d thought it might.
“Did you ever see her?” I whispered into the shadowy cab of the truck.
“Did I see her?” Jamie’s lips quirked into a smile. “No, Anna, I can’t say that I ever saw your imaginary friend. Man, I’m glad I drove you.”
The truck decelerated as we entered the town limits. There was no decorative welcome sign on the eastern approach to the city. Just a green reflective road sign with the name and population.
“I suppose you’ll need help tomorrow getting your minivan back,” Jamie said with a sigh.
I didn’t appreciate his snippy tone. “Don’t worry about it. I can get Winston to help me.”
He turned onto Steepleview, and my grandparents’ house appeared with its outdoor lights on, blazing like a lighthouse. But instead of feeling relief at being back, I felt only intense loneliness.
Jamie pulled into the driveway and turned off his headlights.
“Thank you for the ride,” I said stiffly and started to open the door.
“Anna—” he said, and then stopped abruptly.
“What?” I clutched my purse to my chest, ready to climb down from the truck. Had he remembered something else about Leah Nola? Or was he going to apologize for the way he’d treated me the week before? Maybe we could be friends again after all.
He gave his head a slight shake, as though he had changed his mind about whatever he’d been about to say. “You’re welcome.”
I closed the passenger side door quietly and hurried up the front steps. Jamie didn’t drive away until he’d seen I was safely inside the house.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Someone or something was stroking my back and hip in a repetitive motion. Down my shoulder, over my ribs, and onward to the curve of my butt. Again and again with a feather-light touch. What the heck? I hadn’t gone home with Colin, I was positive because I remembered with painful clarity going to bed all by my lonesome the night before. I cracked open one eye to see that my son was using me as a makeshift racetrack for his matchbox cars.
“Mommy’s sleeping,” I grumbled into my pillow.
“Grandma said to wake Mommy up.” A miniature red hotrod careened off my shoulder and landed by my chin.
“What time is it?” I flicked the toy car away and rolled over for a glimpse of the digital clock on my nightstand. 11:49.
“Lunchtime,” David sang.
I lifted the sheet up like a wing. “Come here, sweet child of mine.” David clamored under the covers with me, and I hugged his small body to my chest. He smelled singularly like my son—a mixture of baby shampoo, cinnamon and bread dough, dirt, grass, and worms. He snuggled against me, digging into me with his bony elbows. In this dim bedroom, it was just me and him again, like it had always been. No dinosaur, thank God.
“Did you have fun with Grandpa and Grandma last night?” I murmured into his hair.
He nodded against my chest. “We ate pudding and read stories.”
“That sounds nice. What stories?”
“Not Mona and Wolfy. Stories from picture books. We read a story about a naughty monkey and a story about a teddy bear.”
I pulled the sheet over our heads, and David giggled. We stared at each other, nose to nose.
“Did you play with King Rex last night?” I asked.
David shook his head. “King Rex doesn’t like pudding,” he said gravely.
“What does King Rex eat?” I prayed that his response wouldn’t be “people” or “little boys” in particular.
He thought about this for a moment. “Pickles and bologna,” he said at last. Two of his own least favorite foods. How interesting.
“Really?” I walked my fingers toward the nape of his neck, his most ticklish spot, and David squirmed in delighted anticipation. “And where does he live?”
“At the Piggly Wiggly,” he replied immediately.
“That’s convenient,” I said, fluttering my fingers against his neck. “Do you think he could pick us up some groceries for dinner?”
“No!” He laughed and wiggled under my touch. “Dino-suss can’t shop for groceries.”
“They can’t?” I withdrew my hand and flipped down the sheet, so we could breathe fresh air again. “What can dinosaurs do?”
“Dino-suss can run and jump and play and ROAR.” He opened his mouth wide with a menacing growl. “Dino-suss are never scared.”
I could feel his finch-like pulse beating against my skin. My heart gave an uneasy lurch. He was so delicate. So small and breakable. I knew that as a figment of his imagination, King Rex was more or less under David’s control. It was the “more or less” part that concerned me. Was it possible that David’s imagination would ever turn on him? Was it possible for his dinosaur to physically hurt him?
“Tell me a story about dino-suss,” David begged.
My head still felt dull and heavy from last night’s wine coolers. I folded my pillow in half and wedged it under my neck. “We don’t have time for a long story right now because I need to get ready. But why don’t you tell me a quick story about dinosaurs?”
He screwed up his face in concentration. “Once there was a tie-ran-a-suss rex named King Rex,” he started, endearingly following the format I used to open all of my stories. I couldn’t help smiling.
Duffy’s exasperated voice carried from downstairs. “Anna Grace Jennings! This is not a hotel!
” It was like being in high school all over again.
“He ran and ran and chased the bad cat away,” David continued.
I tousled his hair and forced myself out of bed. “Good story, buckaroo.” Although I hoped it wasn’t based on fact and that the “bad cat” wasn’t Vivien Leigh or one of the poor neighborhood cats. “Why don’t you go downstairs now? Tell Grandma Duffy not to hold lunch for me and that I’ll be down as soon as I’ve showered.”
When I entered the kitchen, still detangling my wet hair with a comb, the atmosphere smacked of Duffy’s disapproval. The room was brimming over with it, much like the bubbling pot of macaroni noodles on the burner. Unfazed, I sat down in my usual spot at the kitchen table. I’d endured my fair share of Duffy’s lectures in my day, and I’d learned they usually didn’t last longer than ten minutes if you didn’t try to contradict her too much.
I confirmed that David was out of earshot, playing with Vivien Leigh and her jingly balls in the living room, and then said to Duffy’s turned back, “Okay, let me have it.”
She rounded on me with pursed lips and her hands on her hips, but her tough demeanor quickly melted away when she saw my jokingly contrite expression. “Why, you little brat.” She chuckled and swatted at me with a dishtowel. “Don’t think I don’t realize that you’re only twenty-two and that most people your age are doing much worse than staying out late and drinking. Lord knows it must be hard on you, seeing your old friends still footloose and fancy-free, while you’re already tied down with a little one. I don’t blame you for wanting to pretend for a little while, but you better not make a habit of it, you hear?”
The timer beeped, and she turned off the burner and strained the noodles in a colander. That was it? It had to be her shortest lecture yet, and I was certainly feeling like I’d gotten away with something when she slammed the jug of milk on the table in front of me.
“Please pour some for everyone except me. I’ll have water.” Her pursed lips had returned.
I stood up to get glasses from the cupboard.
“Jamie Presswood stopped by this morning,” she said.
“Oh? Time to mow the lawn again?”
“No.” Her voice was dangerous. “He offered to help Winston get your minivan back from Lawrenceville. It seems he drove you home last night.”
I focused on pouring even amounts of milk into the glasses. I’d told him no, that I didn’t need his help. Why had he insisted on showing up anyway and causing trouble? If he was trying to win over my grandmother, it certainly wasn’t working.
“He did,” I said. “I swear I didn’t have that much to drink and I was fine to drive, but Jamie wanted to make sure I got home safely. It was actually very chivalrous of him. And believe me, nothing happened.”
Duffy banged bowls of steaming macaroni and cheese one by one onto the table. “How could you do that? How could you accept a ride from him, of all people? Didn’t I warn you to stay away from him? How did you know he was safe to drive, that he wasn’t mixing alcohol with prescription drugs? You could’ve been in an accident!”
“Duffy,” I said levelly, hoping she would follow my lead and calm down. “I don’t know where you got this idea that Jamie is some kind of druggie, but I can assure you he’s not. I’ve known him since I was seven years old, and I know it’s been awhile, but I can tell he’s still a good guy. A decent guy. And apparently Winston thinks so too. Did they get the minivan?”
“Yes.” She scowled. “Well, he may have managed to pull the wool over Winston’s eyes, but not mine. Poor Winston’s so naïve, always wanting to think the best of everybody.”
“What’s so wrong with that?” I asked, remembering the way Jamie’s voice had softened last night when I’d walked away from him. Please. I want to drive you home. Just as an old friend. If ever I could use an old friend, it was now.
“We both know what the problem with that is.” Duffy popped a grape in her mouth before arranging the bunch in a plastic bowl. “How disappointing it is when it turns out you’re wrong.” She called Winston and David to the table.
My grandfather sat down in the chair across from me, and when Duffy got up to get some napkins, he winked at me. Unsure if I’d really seen what I thought I’d just seen, I smiled at him with a question on my face. He winked again, slow and exaggerated, as if he were blinking a gravely important message in Morse code. It was a wink of solidarity.
So we were in this together, he and I. Whether it was out of wisdom or just plain wishfulness, we both wanted to believe in Jamie Presswood.
It was hot. Too hot to move, too hot to think. Lying face down in a sun-induced coma, I could hear David talking to himself. Or rather, talking to King Rex and the newest addition to their twosome, Weeple, who was, according to my internet research, a Brontosaurus (or, as the paleontologists were calling them these days, an Apatosaurus). A long-necked, green, Volkswagen beetle-sized Brontosaurus who had showed up in our backyard yesterday afternoon. Though I approved of his gentler features (no scary talons, and more rounded herbivore-type teeth), his weight alone I feared could easily crush David with just one wrong step. But my four-year-old prince of the dinosaurs hardly seemed daunted.
“No no no,” he criticized, as though directing some kind of invisible stage play. Invisible, that is, to everyone but us. “Weeple needs a bath first. King Rex, you need to wait.”
I sat up, adjusted my bikini top, and reached for my thermos of raspberry lemonade. David had somehow sneaked Duffy’s pink-handled loofah brush outside and was using it to scrub what he could reach of his dinosaurs’ backs and legs. Oh well. What she didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her. Today she was booked with updo appointments for a wedding and probably wouldn’t emerge from the basement until the early evening.
“Hey, buckaroo. How are the baths coming?” Sweat dripped down my inner arm, and I rubbed it off with my beach towel.
David looked up at me like a harried father with newborn twins.
“Would it help if you had some water?”
I found the sprinkler where Winston kept it in the shed and unspooled the hose from the side of the house. David had grown out of last summer’s swim trunks, so I simply stripped him down to his Spiderman briefs and coated his pale chest, back, and shoulders with waterproof sunscreen. It was an oscillating sprinkler, the kind that lazily arced back and forth in a predictable pattern, but David shrieked in surprise every time the stream of water rained down on him. He and the two dinosaurs darted in and out of the sprinkler’s spray. It was quite the spectacle.
“Mommy, Mommy! Ah!” David squealed as the sprinkler showered down on his head. “Come in, come in!”
“I’m okay up here.” I leaned against the wooden railing of the deck, which scorched my elbows. Running through the sprinkler, or even just lying beneath its spray in the damp, cool grass, did look delicious. And if it had been just David, I probably would have. But with those two prehistoric creatures slinking around, I wasn’t so sure I was brave enough.
Maybe David sensed this. King Rex and Weeple detached themselves from his side and slunk to the far reaches of the sprinkler, so that only a few drops of water hit them. Their wet scales gleamed like rainbow oil slicks, and their eyes solemnly watched David as he ran circles around the sprinkler and leaped over it.
I tentatively walked down the steps and joined him. The water was colder than I expected, and I let out a sharp hiss as ice cold droplets slithered down my shoulders and stomach. David screamed in laughter and dragged me closer into the sprinkler’s direct spray. We danced around together in a ring, slipping in the wet grass; all the while, the two dinosaurs looked on from the periphery like beefy bodyguards.
There was someone else on the periphery, too. For one heart-stopping second, I thought it was Patrick, but then I realized the man was too tall and his hair was too long for it to be David’s father. It was Jamie, and he’d shaved his beard. In the moment it took my brain to process this, David’s dinosaurs were making snap judgments of their own.
/>
King Rex was the first to move, creeping stealthily toward Jamie, lowering and rearing its head like it was trying to decide where to take a chunk out of Jamie first. Weeple was not far behind, stomping closer and closer to the perceived intruder, menacingly swinging its thick tail. The air around us crackled with energy, like before a lightning strike, and a plume of black smoke erupted from the wet grass. Jamie, oblivious to the danger he was in, stood right in the dinosaurs’ path.
My son was frozen, white-faced, on the other side of the sprinkler. He looked just as terrified as I felt. I wanted to shout at him to call off his dinosaurs, tell him that Jamie was my friend, but the frantic words were lodged in my throat. If I spoke up now, not only would it sound kooky to Jamie, but it would also broadcast loud and clear to David that I could see what he was imagining, and I was even more terrified to breach our fragile grasp of what was reality and what was fantasy. They’re imaginary, they’re imaginary, they’re imaginary, I repeated to myself. But the dinosaurs looked so realistic and ruthless that it was hard to have faith that their teeth and talons would pass through Jamie ineffectually instead of ripping into his flesh.
With its deadly snout only an arm’s length away from Jamie’s exposed bicep, the T-rex faked right and chased the smoke plume instead. It leaned forward, opening up its stride, and raced across the yard into the pine trees and disappeared. The black smoke evaporated. Weeple turned around and shuffled to David’s side like a guard dog.
“Jamie! You almost gave me a heart attack. We were just playing, and David, my son, was…What are you doing back here? Are we in your way? Do you need to mow the lawn?” I knew I was babbling, but I couldn’t seem to stop. My knees felt wobbly, and I was worried they were going to buckle beneath me.
Jamie wore a puzzled expression. I could only imagine how ridiculous I sounded to him. “Sorry to startle you,” he said. “It’s been such a hot, dry week that Winston asked me to skip it this time.”
Imaginary Things Page 9
