For Those We Love

by Lisa Sorbe

  I glare at him right back.

  “Lenora,” he says, the only person in Lost Bay who still can’t get my name right, “I understand why you’re upset. But you have to believe me when I say that this is what Nora wanted. Death with dignity. Hell, it’s what every human on the planet wants. Deserves.”

  I humph. “Well, of course you’d say that. You were in on it. Did Ben give you a cut, huh? For helping him coerce Lenora in to swallowing those pills? But not, of course, before changing her will, right?” I throw up my hands, pacing around the great room of his cabin, a space which is notably less cluttered than his dingy office next door. “I can’t believe I even expected an honest answer from you! I don’t even know what I’m doing here! I should be talking to the police, that’s who—”

  Roman sits down in an old leather arm chair, the plump cushion whistling under his weight. He draws his red robe tighter around his bulging frame and points to the couch catty-corner from his seat. “Do what you need to, Lenora. But first, sit. Sit down and listen to me. You owe your grandmother that. Because I promise you, putting Ben’s reputation in the shitter because you haven’t got all the facts is the very last thing she’d want.”

  My body is humming, buzzing, burning up. But I manage to sit, more to honor Lenora’s memory than his request. I worry my lower lip between my teeth, working loose a piece of skin. At the mention of Ben, my face heats, my throat prickles, and I suddenly find myself blinking back tears.

  Because I trusted him.

  Because I loved him.

  And, because, despite everything…I still do.

  The mere mention of ruining his reputation douses the fire burning in my chest, and without its flames to fan my fury, I sink, defeated, into the couch, a limp sack of nothing.

  I don’t want to ruin Ben. At least, not the Ben I know.

  But the problem is…what if he’s not the Ben I know? What if he’s a scam artist? Granted, so far he’s done everything he promised he’d do with Lenora’s money. I’ve seen it. I’ve been there, right alongside him, a witness to it all. The building, the zoning, the hiring of new staff and the purchasing of new equipment. Setting up a fundraiser for opening week and recruiting volunteers…

  I’ve been there for everything. And maybe, possibly, therein lies the problem.

  The kink in Ben’s plan.

  Me.

  He didn’t know that Lenora was conspiring to have me stick around for a year, to make sure the money was going where she wanted it to go. Because now I know with absolute certainty that’s why she put the stipulation on my inheritance.

  And then it hits me. Ben could be working me the same way he did her. Now I’m the woman with the money, with the wealth, with the other half of the inheritance. Is it possible that Ben is romancing me for the sole purpose of getting my share?

  The thought makes me sick, makes me want to bend over and vomit right here on Roman’s plush oriental rug.

  I think back to earlier in the week, when the thought popped into my head to give half of my inheritance to Ben’s cause. At the time, I realized that I already had everything I could ever want: a beautiful home, a burgeoning career that I adored, an amazing man that I adored even more. For the first time in my life I had friends who knew how to give as well as take. And the community that I once shied away from had accepted me with a warmth I never knew was possible.

  Money, that much money, wasn’t something I needed anymore.

  I was high on life, that day. Romanced by hope. Seduced by yearnings that, up to this point, had gone unsatisfied.

  Freaking Lost Bay, Minnesota.

  It’s quiet and beautiful and raw and rugged up here, in this little corner of the woods, alongside a lake that stretches like silk against the sky, and I love it more than anything I’ve ever loved before.

  But now it’s tainted.

  “First of all, I have signed documents from Lenora stating that everything she did was of her own free will. And—”

  “It doesn’t matter,” I interrupt, pushing his words away with a wave of my hand. “It’s illegal. That’s what matters. She wasn’t right in her head, Ben corrupted her, used her, twisted everything around. And how the hell did she get those pills? The ones from Andrea Cook? Because surely they weren’t obtained legally.”

  Roman sighs. “Minnesota doesn’t honor Death with Dignity. And Nora’s mental state seemed to be on a downward slope after that incident Ben told you about. It was deteriorating fast. Nora didn’t have the time nor the inclination to move to a state where it was honored. Not to mention, she didn’t want to leave her home. They—Benjamin in particular—wanted to make sure she didn’t suffer when the time came. Not to be disrespectful, but there are a lot of ways one can choose to go. However, certain cocktails, if you will, can make the process more, shall we say, gentle than others. Completely painless.” He looks at me, his eyes tender. “Lenora, your grandmother’s passing was peaceful. Nora simply went to sleep and didn’t wake up again.”

  Like a dog.

  I think back to Rodolfo, to his last hour, to the gentle way Ben helped him leave this world for the next.

  It all makes me want to scream.

  My energy has returned, though it’s spikey, like I just downed too much coffee, and the ball of my right foot bounces my knee up and down, up and down, up and down.

  Roman watches, appearing calm as can be, though I can tell by the subtle way he leans forward in his chair that he considers me as unstable as a sweating stick of old dynamite.

  “Ben got them, didn’t he?”

  Roman presses his lips together. “Right now, with the way you’re riled up, I refuse to confirm any—”

  A knock, one that rivaled my earlier one, sounds on the front door.

  “Speak of the Devil,” I say loudly as Roman pushes up from his chair.

  But the door opens before he can reach it, and there’s Ben, bursting through, his brows dipped in that fierce way of his, jaw set tight.

  He’s still wearing his navy blue scrubs. His hair, usually the color of chocolate and butterscotch swirl, is as dark as black licorice, the sweat beading on his brow slicking back the strands.

  Only the guilty have something to sweat about. Only those who are about to lose everything, everything, everything.

  Like me.

  I’m just as guilty. I wasn’t here for Lenora. I abandoned her out of convenience, out of a childish hurt. I allowed this man into my life, my heart. And now, here I am, about to lose everything.

  I swipe a shaking hand against my own damp brow.

  I wait, though for what I don’t know. There’s nothing he can say. Nothing he can possibly say to make it right. Forever and always I’ll bear this doubt, this distrust. Even if he somehow convinced me that his truth is the truth, I’ll never know. Not for sure. Never for sure. The uncertainty will needle and dig away at our relationship like a sliver, festering into an infection that can’t be cured.

  Roman looks from Ben to me, his body tensing, as if he’s not sure what I’ll do.

  Only then do I realize I’m on my feet and crossing the room on legs I can’t feel. When I get to Ben, I push him. I splay my fingers and shove my palms against his chest so hard my shoulders ache with the effort. But my weak little attack does nothing; he doesn’t even stumble. So I smack him. Slap my hand against his chest, first one and then the other, before twisting his scrub top in my fists and shoving him again.

  “Lenny.” My name on his lips is nothing but a choked whisper, and he has to swallow once, twice, three times before he can speak again. “Please…”

  And just like that, I break. I break because I trusted him. Against my better judgement, I trusted him. I trusted Ben, Roman, this town…everyone in it. I thought this place, these people, were my future. Now I can barely stand the thought of them being a part of my past.

  Because I can’t stay here. I won’t.

  The tears I’ve been holding back break free. The wetness blurs my vision, burns my cheek
s, lands salty on my lips.

  The monster has a heartbeat, I can feel it pumping beneath my palms. When his arms twitch, reaching for me, I push against him one last time, releasing his shirt before taking a step back, just out of his grasp.

  I can sense his ache. His pain. It’s etched there on his face, carved into every curve, settling into every crevice. His eyes bleed with tears that refuse to fall.

  When did the line between angel and demon become so blurred? And has it always been this way? Or has the world we created forced an evolution in being, where there’s no longer good or evil but something in between? A conflicted beast, a hybrid of sorts, who’s forging a new path, creating new rules in which right and wrong no longer apply?

  Everything in me screams that Ben is telling the truth.

  Everything.

  Then again, maybe that’s just what I want to hear.

  And even so, even with all that, does the fact that it’s true make it right?

  I turn on my heel and leave.

  The kitchen is as quiet as a tomb when I come downstairs the next morning.

  There’s nothing but silence, an empty silence, the kind of silence that comes with death. The space, once so lively and vibrant, the very heart of this house, is still, too still, like a hollow void, cavernous and cold.

  Ben is gone.

  Asha is gone.

  Lenora is gone.

  Isn’t it funny? How loud the quiet screams?

  My eyes pop open when someone tries to crawl into bed with me.

  Not that I was asleep.

  How could I be, with all the noise my roommate and her friends are making?

  “Hey, Lenny Benny,” someone slurs in my ear. “Happy New Year.”

  The guy, Bobby something or other, is too close for comfort. I can smell the booze on his breath, feel the mattress bounce as he tries and fails to slip beneath the covers.

  “Hey, Hobo Joe,” I snap back, giving him a sharp shove that sends him toppling off the bed and onto the floor. He smacks into my dresser, causing the one door that never quite shuts right to rattle. “You try that again and you’ll be leaving this room with one less testicle.”

  He chuckles, though in his drunken state it sounds more like he has severe case of the hiccups. “Oh, c’mon, Lenny Benny. Why you gotta be like that?” Then he belches, a wet gurgle that gives way to a stale stench of yuck.

  “This is ridiculous.” I slide out of bed and hook my fingers around Hobo Joe’s collar, twisting the material as I attempt to hoist him off the floor. But he’s heavier than I am, all muscle and no brain, and all I end up doing is choking him. It gets him moving, however, and with my help, he sort of crawls-skitters-slides out my door.

  Once in the hall, he stumbles to his feet, bouncing off the wall as he does. His handsome face is slack, the alcohol loosening his limbs as well as his features.

  Rubber face, I think. Rubber arms, rubber legs, rubber brain.

  I shove past him and stick my head into the living room. “Hey, Destiny,” I call over the music, “keep your boy toys out of my room, got it?”

  My roommate (and yes, Lord help me, her name really is Destiny) pushes through the mess of partygoers, a champagne flute in one hand and a cigarette in the other. With her dyed black hair and thickly drawn brows, she looks a bit like Megan Fox, although more of a sad caricature than the real thing. Her heavily made-up lips flatten into a thin line as she takes in my boxer shorts, t-shirt, and messy bun. It’s a sharp contrast to her skin tight ensemble, a purple sequin dress that leaves little to the imagination. “Boy toy,” she scoffs. “Please. As if I’d ever let that loser in my bed.”

  Bobby comes up behind me and slides his arm around my shoulders. I shrug him off.

  “Hey, asshole,” she says, fixing him with a look that could kill. “Leave Lenny alone. The girl’s gotta work tomorrow.” And then she winks at me, as if she—as if any of these fools—knows what it’s like to hold down a job.

  Trust fund babies. Every single one.

  Asshole/Bobby/Hobo Joe tugs at the sleeve of my t-shirt. “Not if you were my girl. My girl wouldn’t need to work. You’d like that, wouldn’t you, baby?”

  I peel his fingers off me and squeeze, bending them back as I do. “I doubt you could handle me.”

  He squeals like a little girl and slinks away, back into the blob of writhing bodies mixing and mingling beneath the low lights of the living room. The whole party is like one big entity: the people its appendages, the blaring music its voice, the beer and vodka and champagne its life blood.

  I don’t even bother telling Destiny goodnight. Just turn and, without a backward glance, beeline it back to my hole in the wall, the smallest room in her lakeside home, the one place I’ve been able to retire to, undisturbed, since I moved to Minneapolis last summer.

  Until tonight, that is.

  After leaving Lost Bay in July, I made it as far as the Twin Cities before realizing I had absolutely no idea where to go. Certainly not back to L.A., where the cost of rent would put me right back in the same situation I was in before. And there was no way I was going to crawl back to my mother and Cliff. That option wasn’t even on the table.

  I have the money from my inheritance; guilt, if anything, made Roman slide it into my savings account a few days after I confronted him. Though guilt, if anything, keeps me from touching it.

  So I rented a hotel room for one night, then two, and finally, after three sketchy Craigslist meetings and one night of sleep in my vehicle, I landed a room at Destiny’s place (which is, by the way, literally called Destiny’s Place. There’s, like, a sign above the front gate and everything). She’s high maintenance, but it doesn’t affect me (usually) and the rent is dirt cheap, since the only reason she put the ad out in the first place is because she travels a lot and wants to make sure someone is here to watch the place while she parties her way around the globe.

  In a nutshell, I’m a glorified house-sitter, which has its ups and downs.

  When she’s out of the house, life is smooth.

  When she’s home, I have to deal with shit like this.

  I glance at my phone, my new phone, an updated smart model that has all the bells and whistles, but none of which I ever really use, and note the time. One-thirty in the morning. My sleep has been sketchy all night, thanks to the New Year’s party that Destiny assured me wouldn’t be “too crazy”. And now, thanks to my late night (or early morning?) visitor, I’m wide awake.

  It’s the worst thing, trying to fall asleep when you can’t, when you know you need to or else the following day is going to be pure and absolute hell. My shift at Sif’s Bakery begins in five hours, and as much as I love my job, I don’t relish doing it on a few shaky hours of sleep. Not to mention, insomnia has a tendency to pull at your mind, pick through your thoughts, offering up memories you have no desire to revisit.

  Tonight, it offers me memories of Lost Bay. Of Lenora’s quiet home, of her sprawling property dotted with sweet smelling pine and feral cats and the sounds of a great lake that purrs like the sea. It reminds me of cozy nights by the fire, morning breakfasts under the light of the greenhouse windows, the busy buzz of the clinic, and Asha’s fluffy head. I think of Doris and Rodolfo and Mimi and Chevy.

  And then, when I’ve exhausted all of those distractions, I think of Ben.

  I’ve come to realize that it’s not the snow I hate, but the ice. The damn black ice that Ben warned me about back on my first day in Minnesota.

  Which, I realize as I start to feel the ground slip away, was exactly one year ago today.

  I’m airborne, but not for long. Arms come out of nowhere, hugging me tight, and I briefly see the sleeve of a black leather jacket before wobbling back to my feet. But then, just as the soles of my boots find purchase, I slide again—this time thanks to the person behind me. We both go down, him with an “Ope!”and me with a shriek, and the next thing I know, I’m staring up into the sky, icy flecks of snow stinging my eyes and a stranger’s hand on
my boob.

  The guy groans and then, realizing his hand is where it is, immediately snatches it away. And when he starts laughing, the sound is so merry, so deeply humorous, that I can’t help but join in—despite the literal pain in my ass.

  It’s the first time I’ve laughed, truly laughed, in months.

  “Are you okay?” His voice is as deeply merry as his laugh, like he’s holding so much joy and amusement inside of him that it has to seep out with his words or risk being ejected straight out of his chest. This is a man who smiles when he talks, and when I turn my face to his, his charming grin pulls one from my own lips.

  I can only imagine how ridiculous we look, sprawled flat on our backs the way we are. But the people passing by don’t even miss a beat, just veer to the other side of the sidewalk, apparently so used to seeing a spectacle such as ours that they don’t even bother with a second glance.

  I try to move and cringe as a twinge of pain shoots through my left butt cheek. “I don’t think I’ll ever walk again.”

  He laughs—again with that sweet soothing sound—and pushes to his feet. Reaching out a hand, he hoists me up and, carefully, we skirt the patch of ice that swept us off our feet. “Well, it’s your lucky day, then. I’m currently available for piggy back rides for the rest of the afternoon. You fall, I haul.”

  A picture swoops through my mind of me hopping onto his back and again I find myself laughing, a sound that’s so foreign to my ears it might as well be coming from a stranger.

  “Jeremy,” he says, still gripping my gloved hand in his. He has brown hair and red cheeks and dark eyes that squint when he laughs.

  “Lenny.” I give his hand a little shake and then release it, standing awkwardly as he takes me in. It’s not an uncomfortable assessment, however, and I find that my unease soon melts away, followed by something I haven’t felt in a long time.