The Miles Between Us

by Laurie Breton

  She hadn’t realized how fractured, how incomplete, she’d felt without the intimacy that had been such a huge part of their relationship. How fraught with tension their marriage had been as they both stubbornly refused to back down from their opposing positions. This morning had reminded her of what she’d been missing and had left her believing she could scale mountains. Things still were far from perfect between the two of them. They still couldn’t agree about the life-altering decision of whether or not to attempt another pregnancy. She understood his reluctance, even if he didn’t understand her determination. But her world seemed, finally, to have begun righting itself. While she was still riding the crest of that wave, she needed to try to find the Casey who’d disappeared after the miscarriage. If she could survive the events of the past twenty-four hours without falling apart, then she clearly possessed the strength of will to search out the missing pieces, and face the ghosts who lived in that empty apartment over Wong’s Tea House.

  A niggling guilt gnawed at her. She ignored it. Rob would pitch a fit if he knew where she was going. At the very least, he’d insist on going with her. As much as she loved him, this was something she had to face alone. This was her battle to fight, her past she was confronting. Not his, even if he had been a huge part of that past. If she continued to let him carry her, she would never heal, would never overcome the darkness, would never get past this thing, with its dark and sharpened teeth, that she couldn’t even give a name to.

  But the guilt was still there. Rob MacKenzie was a good man, a trusting man, and she owed him the truth. He wouldn’t be pleased to know that she’d withheld something like this from him, even though she was withholding it in the interests of self-preservation. He’d figure it out anyway. Rob always did. He had this uncanny ability to read her mind. It was sometimes amusing, often disconcerting, and nearly always maddening.

  She waited until early afternoon, Emma’s nap time, when Paige could babysit her sister without expending much effort, while sitting in front of the TV, engrossed in the soap operas she’d gotten hooked on this summer. It was also far enough past the lunch hour so Casey should be able to catch Freddy when he had a few minutes of free time.

  For some inexplicable reason, it was important that she look her best. Maybe for when they carted her off to the psych ward at Bellevue? Or maybe she was hoping that Freddy would be so distracted by her stunning good looks that he wouldn’t notice the craziness in her eyes. Frowning at her mirrored reflection, she took note of every wrinkle, every line, the spiderweb of cracks spreading outward from the corners of her eyes. On her husband, those eye crinkles and laugh lines looked good. They added character to his face. On her, they just said old.

  She brushed her hair, pulled it back in a loose braid, then carefully painted on her face. When she was done, her wrinkles hidden, she looked a decade younger than her real age. Still critical of her appearance, she nevertheless pronounced herself presentable. Sharply feeling the loss of her wedding and engagement rings, she took the jeweler’s box from her lingerie drawer and slid the emerald onto her ring finger.

  It wasn’t the same. The weight, the heft, were all wrong. After three years of wearing the rings he’d given her as a promise and a symbol of their love, she’d become accustomed to their feel, and the antique ring felt foreign on her finger. But it was exquisite, was a family heirloom, and Rob had given it to her. If she had to wear a substitute for the lost rings, there could be none better than this. She felt like she was taking a piece of him with her. Extra ammunition in case she needed to borrow a little of his strength if this venture turned bad. She wasn’t concerned about losing the ring. For one thing, it was broad daylight, and muggers were primarily nocturnal creatures. Beyond that, lightning seldom struck twice. If she lost another ring to a thief, she would consider it an act of God, a sign that the universe was telling her to leave her jewelry at home.

  She told Paige she had an errand to run, and the girl accepted her explanation at face value. “I’ll probably be gone for a couple of hours,” she told her stepdaughter, bending to give Emma a big, smooshy kiss. “If there’s an emergency, call my cell. If for some reason you don’t get me, call your father at the studio.”

  “Emmy and I will be fine,” Paige said. “As soon as you’re gone, we’re ordering pepperoni and anchovy pizza, and we’re spending the afternoon stuffing our faces. Right, Em?”

  “You can’t give her pepperoni. She could choke.”

  “I’m kidding,” Paige said. “Geez, sometimes you’re so gullible.”

  “And sometimes, I don’t know how to take you.”

  The train was crowded, and too warm, its air conditioning feeble and struggling. Across the aisle, an elderly Asian man read a newspaper in Chinese. A gaggle of teenage boys pushed and shoved each other playfully, while a stern-looking woman in sensible shoes gave them a disapproving look. To her left, a young woman fanned herself with a copy of Ulysses. On her right, a Hispanic girl with a stroller, looking far too young to be a mother, cooed softly to her baby. Breaking the standard subway protocol of avoiding eye contact, Casey smiled at the girl and then said, “How old is she?”

  “Eight months.”

  “Mine’s fifteen months. Emma. There’s nothing like it, is there?”

  The girl’s smile lit up her pretty face. “My parents blew a gasket when they found out I was pregnant. They said I was too young, that I’d regret it.” She gazed with adoration at her babbling, dark-eyed little girl. “But I don’t regret it. I wouldn’t trade Rosa for the world. She’s the best thing that ever happened to me.”

  And, mother to mother, they shared an intimate smile that spoke volumes.

  When she got off the train, the subway platform was stifling. As she fought her way through the crowd, she could feel her makeup melting. Out on the street, it was better, with a nice breeze that cooled her face. She set off at a brisk pace in the direction of Wong’s, with no idea of what would happen when she got there. Maybe Freddy wouldn’t be there; maybe he wouldn’t remember her. Maybe he wouldn’t let her into the apartment.

  Or maybe he would.

  Her composure was perplexing. Shouldn’t she be nervous? Instead, she seemed to have developed nerves of steel. It wasn’t until she turned the corner and saw Wong’s, halfway down the block, that her throat tightened and her heart rate kicked up a notch. There was something fated about this, too. She could feel it in her marrow. Butterflies, unbidden, sprang to life in her belly. Was she really going through with this? Across the street from the restaurant, she stood on the sidewalk and studied the building, stared at those blank windows as though willing them to give her some kind of sign. Stop. Go. Proceed with caution. Which color were the lights? Which options did fate want her to take?

  But the windows remained blank and expressionless, offering nothing. No wisdom, no recognition. She was on her own, then. There’d be no help from anyone or anything. That was the way she wanted it, the way it had to be. Wasn’t it?

  She took a deep breath to still the nerves that had proven they weren’t really made of steel. Then she stepped off the curb and crossed the street.

  A bell over the door tinkled when she stepped inside. Wonderful smells, delicious and exotic, assailed her from every direction. Ginger and cooking grease and strong black tea. The Asian woman behind the hostess podium picked up a menu, smiled, and said, in heavily accented English, “Table for one?”

  She wet her lips. “Actually,” she said, “I’m here to see Freddy. Is he available?”

  Rob

  It bothered him for hours, this morning’s massive screw-up. How could he have forgotten to use a condom, when the birth control battle they’d been waging for weeks could become a matter of life and death for his wife? It was pathetic, the way he sniffed around her like a randy dog, gratified by any scraps she deigned to toss his way. He should exercise a little more self-control, exhibit a little more self-esteem, act a little less like a drooling Rottweiler in the presence of a thick strip o
f sirloin. But sex fogged his brain and clouded his judgment. It had always done that. If anybody needed proof of that, he had only to point to the insanity of his marriage to Monique. She’d led him around by his dick until one day when, in the middle of one of their legendary battles, he’d looked at her, really looked at this woman he’d married.

  And he’d realized that things were not going to change, that this was not where he wanted to spend the rest of his life.

  He’d walked out the door without a backward glance, while Monique wailed and shrieked and tossed half the contents of her kitchen at his retreating back. But he’d walked with his self-esteem intact, and that was more important than any concern about courting physical assault with a heavy steel frying pan. He’d managed to escape the marriage mostly unscathed, and he thought he’d learned a lesson about thinking with his brain instead of his libido.

  Now, he wasn’t so sure he’d learned a damn thing.

  Not that Casey was anything like Monique. And their marriage was nothing like that brief, ill-fated one. He loved her with all his heart. She wasn’t just his hot little mamacita, she was his best friend, the voice inside his head that reminded him of the difference between right and wrong, the one person on this planet who made him want to be a better man. But sometimes, he still felt like that lost and scattered twenty-something he’d once been, still being led around by his dick. He supposed good sex had a way of doing that to any man, and this morning’s sex had been earth-shattering. He wasn’t sure whether it was because he’d been celibate for nearly two months, or because, for him at least, being in love made the sex better. Not that sex was ever bad, but with Casey, it was stupendous, hot and sweaty and noisy, steamy enough to destroy a man’s brain cells.

  Which didn’t really explain why the whole birth control thing had flown like a little swallow from his brain prior to the act. They’d been right in the middle of the action, going at it hot and heavy, when he remembered that tiny detail he’d been so willing to take a stand for just minutes earlier. How could he have forgotten? By then, of course, it was too late. He wasn’t about to stop for anything. The house could have been on fire and he wouldn’t have stopped. Okay, maybe in the event of fire or profuse bleeding, he might have at least considered it. But he wouldn’t have been happy about it.

  They really needed to have that talk. Not an argument, but a calm, logical discussion between two reasonably sane adults. They needed to have it while she was strong and anxiety-free, and while they were both fully clothed. Because once the clothes came off, nobody in this relationship was capable of thinking clearly.

  Which was why he decided to cut out early and head home in the hopes of having that talk. Phoenix had finished his day’s work by lunchtime and flown the coop. This afternoon was devoted to listening to the morning’s work and doing a little mixing. Kyle could take care of that. Tomorrow, they would confer about his choices, but it was a near guarantee that Rob would agree with them. He trusted Kyle implicitly. As a matter of fact, he’d already approached the guy about coming to Jackson Falls to finish the album at Two Dreamers. They worked together so well, they could almost read each other’s mind. That was what he was looking for in a sound engineer, somebody who knew him well enough to anticipate his decisions before they were made. And to agree with them. Or, if he didn’t, to speak up and explain his reasons for disagreeing. Kyle Barton was all of those things and more.

  When he unlocked the door to the apartment, the television was playing. Paige was watching one of those “daytime dramas” that she’d become so enamored of. He referred to them as How to Rot Your Brain 101. His mother watched soaps, and he’d never understood the attraction, especially when you could stop watching for three months and still pick up where you left off, because they dragged out every storyline and nothing significant ever happened. It was like watching paint dry.

  But it kept his daughter off the street, which in New York was a good thing, and gave her something to think about that wasn’t Mikey. Besides, if he’d dared to intervene, Casey would have been there to reward his paternal concern with the Death Glare, so he kept his mouth shut. In parenting, as in life, you had to pick your battles, and this one, while annoying, wasn’t important enough in the greater scheme of things to be worth battling over.

  “Hey,” he said to the nearly comatose teenager curled up on the couch.

  “Hey.”

  He looked right, then left. Said, “Where is everybody?”

  Eyes still glued to the television, she said, “Emma’s napping. Casey went out to run an errand.”

  “She say where she was going?”

  “No.”

  “What time did she leave?”

  Paige glanced at the clock. “An hour ago.”

  “Did she say how long she’d be gone?”

  “A couple hours. She didn’t get any more specific than that.”

  He went to the kitchen, got himself a beer, then returned to the living room and sat on the couch beside her. On the television, an attractive blonde was talking to some guy named Lance. The name conjured up all kinds of images he could have lived without. He picked up the cordless phone and dialed Casey’s cell. It rang a half-dozen times before bouncing to voice mail. “Hey,” he said, “it’s me. Wondering where you are. Call me when you get this.”

  He nursed the beer while he watched Days of Our Hospital’s Turns, or whatever the hell it was called. Fifteen minutes passed, and he tried her cell again. Again, it bounced to voice mail. Uneasy, he said to his daughter, “Was everything okay when she left? You now how strange she’s been lately. Was there any, um…weirdness?”

  The first show had now segued into a second, The Slow and the Stupid, or something along that line. “Not today,” Paige said.

  “What’s that mean?”

  His daughter picked up the remote and turned off the soap opera. “Something happened,” she said. “That day we had lunch at the Hard Rock Cafe. I promised I wouldn’t tell you. She made me promise. She didn’t want you to find out. If I break that promise, she’ll never trust me again.”

  The sinking feeling began in his gut and settled into his diaphragm, making it hard to breathe. “Break it,” he said. “I’ll take the heat. What happened?”

  “Something weird. Well, only if you consider it weird to chase after some kid on the street because you think she’s your dead daughter.”

  Casey

  Worn smooth by generations of feet, the stair treads sagged in the center. Graffiti covered the walls. Brenda loves Joey. Legalize marijuana! There once was a woman from France/who went to a dance without pants. The single light bulb hung bare from the ceiling, just as it had fifteen years ago, so dusty it barely illuminated the narrow stairwell. The higher she climbed, the greater her trepidation. There was no way of knowing what manner of ills she would release by opening that door and scattering them, to be carried away on the winds like the silk from a split milkweed pod. Her breath tightened in her chest as she approached the second-floor landing, where the stairs turned and continued on up to the third floor. Casey paused before the door, raised her hand and slid the key into the lock. There was a single sharp click, and the knob turned in her hand. With a squeal of rusty hinges, the door swung open.

  She pushed it wider. Inhaled a deep breath to still her trembling.

  And stepped into her past.

  The apartment had been empty for a long time. A musty smell hovered on the air, and a layer of dust, thick enough to write her name in, covered every surface. Heat, dense and humid, made it difficult to breathe. The sound of her footsteps on ancient hardwood ricocheted off bare plaster walls as Casey crossed the room and wrestled open a grimy window. A breeze rolled in, gusty and wonderful, carrying on it pungent odors from the restaurant downstairs. She’d forgotten that the smell of cooking food drifted up here. Had forgotten what it felt like to be young and hungry and tortured by those smells, by the piquant Asian delicacies Freddy’s chef prepared.

  She opened a second
window, reveling in the feel of the wind cooling her overheated skin, took a hard breath, and turned to face her fate.

  Had the living room really been this small? She remembered it being bigger. But time had a way of warping memories, of shaping them into what you wanted them to be, instead of what they really were. The room was maybe ten feet by twelve. Big enough for a couch, a chair, a coffee table. On the long wall, under the windows, Rob had slept on the ancient couch she’d picked up somewhere—she couldn’t remember where—because there was only one bedroom. He’d spent his nights sprawled like an octopus, all outflung arms and legs. One pillow over his head and one under it, bony knees poking out from beneath his old blanket. A second blanket folded under his hips to protect the family jewels from the broken spring that delighted in terrorizing him. He’d never complained. Rob wasn’t one to complain. He just took life as it came, and when it threw him a curveball, he dealt with it.

  The kitchen was the same as she remembered. The old slate sink, the window that leaked when it rained, the old-fashioned black-and-white floor tiles where she’d sat and watched the blood pouring from between her legs when she lost that first baby. This kitchen had been the bane of her existence, overrun with cockroaches, no matter what she did. She’d tried Raid. Mothballs. She kept all her perishables sealed in Tupperware, never left dirty dishes in the sink, obsessively kept the counters wiped down with dish soap and Clorox. None of those things had made one iota of difference. Once or twice a year, after extensive prodding, Freddy would pay for an exterminator, and they’d have a month or two free of the damn things. But that didn’t last, either. Eventually, they learned to peacefully coexist with the creatures. It was either that, or move, and moving involved things they couldn’t afford, like security deposits and moving vans.

  Now that the place was empty, she found no evidence that the roaches had ever been here. Maybe because there was no tenant, and therefore no food to draw them. Undoubtedly, they found plenty of that downstairs. Holding her breath, she gingerly opened the cupboard door below the sink. But nothing scattered and ran. The cupboard was empty, except for the open container of Comet the last tenant had left behind.