Hello (From Here)

by Chandler Baker

  “What happened?” I ask, coming back to reality.

  “Nothing.” She lifts the word as though it weighs a thousand pounds.

  “Something’s wrong. Obviously.” I wonder if there is a world in which I might not have to know. Just as I’ve wondered over the last few weeks whether there might be a world skating alongside this one where all the normal things are happening. A switch flipped on the train track and now we’re unexpectedly all aboard the wrong line headed toward god knows where.

  “Sit with me,” she says.

  Without taking my eyes off her, I lower myself into Sir Scratchmo’s favorite chair. Bracing for a crash. “Why do you look like that?” I ask.

  For the first time in my life, I notice spiderweb strands of white-gray creeping out from the roots of her hair and I remind myself this is only because she hasn’t had her usual dye kit.

  “How much money do you have saved from working this year?”

  “Three thousand and thirty-two dollars,” I answer automatically.

  Hatchet marks ring her lips as she pushes them together. “We’re going to need that,” she says.

  “How much?” I stick my hands underneath my thighs.

  “All of it,” she says. “I have to be able to pay the landlord for the dry cleaners. All our equipment is stored there. We have nowhere else to put it. If we don’t pay the landlord, we could lose every inch of it.” She delivers this news matter-of-factly. She doesn’t apologize and I understand why. The business, too, is “for me,” for my future, as much as it’s for her. Scraping by to get Mauro’s Dry Cleaning may have been a group effort in peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and ramen noodles and clothes from Goodwill, but when it came down to it, my mom sacrificed the most.

  I swallow. “Of course.”

  I push out my chair and it feels like the ground is being pushed out from underneath me too. Like I thought I’d been running someplace important, but it turns out I was just on a treadmill. My legs are hurting and I’m sweating and out of breath, but I haven’t actually moved an inch in all that time. I stand, wishing to retreat to my room, back to bed, before the disappointment can move from my heart up to my face.

  Mom looks up sharply. “Now?” she says. “Please?”

  “Oh. Right. My phone’s in my room,” I say. “I’ll just—”

  “I’ll take a check,” she says.

  I swallow. Hard. “Sure. Of course.” I tug one of the sticky kitchen drawers open and pull out the same checkbook I’d been given when I visited the local bank branch to set up my account. And then I write the number on the second line. Three thousand and thirty-two. I sign my name, tear along the perforation, and hand my mom the full amount.

  On my mattress, I curl up on my side and think about nothing. The nothing that is in my bank account, for instance. The nothing that my work seems to have amounted to. The way when you multiply something against nothing, you wind up with nothing all the same, and maybe that’s always how it’s going to be no matter what I try to do.

  Sir Scratchmo slinks by on his paws and I lower my hand off the bed to call for him. He arches his back and scratches it against the dresser. I snap for him to come cuddle with me. He sneezes and turns up his tail, leaving me exactly how I’ve always said I don’t mind being—alone.

  Hours pass that feel like two seconds because nothing makes sense anymore. I could have sworn I blinked, but when I wake up, it’s to the racket of my Mickey Mouse alarm. Without looking, I can feel the emptiness in the apartment. Mom’s gone. I roll over and check my phone and, on it, a message waits from Jonah.

  Jonah: I have an idea.

  * * *

  • • •

  One surprisingly tricky thing about this new world in which we find ourselves is sorting out what’s a good idea and what’s a bad one. Like, a few weeks ago, I would have placed “breaking and entering” firmly in the “bad idea” camp, but is it crazy that just one night after my mother scooped my life’s savings this feels like more of a—I don’t know—gray area?

  Before I turn onto Magnolia, I flick off my headlights and coast through the darkened streets, past occupied homes with their windows black, floodlights fanning up their stucco sides and marking the paths of circle drives. The air has cooled, but when I step out a block away from Arlo’s house, the pavement still microwave-zaps my ankles.

  I hook my mask loops over my ears and find Jonah waiting there for me covered head-to-toe and donning a ski mask—or at least I hope it’s Jonah, or else I am in seriously mortal peril—with his bike tipped sideways on the shoulder of the road.

  “Did you go out and buy a bank robber costume?” I ask. The sound of my car door slamming rings out like a shot. “Or does robbery just happen to be one of your many extracurriculars? I wasn’t aware that grand theft looked great on a college résumé, but I mean, if you say so.”

  There’s a chance that I sound at least 40 percent more bitter than I mean to, but sometimes, when I haven’t gotten enough sleep, I get low-key annoyed that rich kids are rewarded for playing volleyball and debating capital punishment in Spanish while no one cares that I have a 4.0 GPA and hold down an actual job with shifts and a boss and everything.

  It’s anyone’s guess what Jonah’s reaction is, given that I can’t see his face, but even so, I can feel his earnest Jonah energy coming out in waves.

  “We went skiing in Banff last year,” he explains. I look up at the cloudy night sky and sigh. “And I’ll have you know, nothing ruins a day on the slopes like getting frostbite on the tip of your nose. Plus”—he lifts a finger, no wait, a gloved finger—“this is just plain pandemic practical. A mask and a disguise all in one.” He rotates in place to model it and I laugh even though I want to stay annoyed at how he’s so casually rich.

  “Always thinking,” I say.

  “So.” He rubs his palms together. “What’s the plan?”

  “Jonah. This was your idea.”

  “Right. Well.” He looks up the road with his hands on his hips. “I mean, there’s your classic Mission: Impossible where I dangle you down from a skylight. We don’t really have enough people to Ocean’s Eleven this. So . . . yeah, I mean, I figured we’d start with finding the hidden key and then I’d let you take the lead.”

  “Hidden key?” I ask, incredulous.

  “Everyone has a hidden key. Don’t you?” Jonah acts like maybe I’m an alien.

  “No. Where would we hide it?”

  “Usually under a potted plant,” he says. “Perhaps a garden gnome?”

  I don’t have the energy to break it to him that this is not a thing in my world and besides, the only important thing is that we get in there, make sure Chester is alive, that he has plenty of food to eat, and that he gets a chance to run around. At this point, we can’t assume Arlo has anyone checking on his house, so it’s up to me and Jonah to make sure Chester is okay. That poor dog has probably never missed an appetizer, let alone an entrée. And even though I’m stressed and feeling annoyed, I have to give Jonah credit—this really was his idea. He’s here. With me. Even if he does look like a bank robber from a high-end ski resort.

  “Fine,” I agree. “No Mission: Impossible, no Ocean’s Eleven. I’m just relieved you didn’t mention Bonnie and Clyde.”

  “I prefer happy endings, don’t you?” Jonah looks at me intently.

  My heart squeezes without asking my permission. “Right,” I say, and if he notices the croak in my voice, Jonah’s unfailing politeness prevents him from saying so. “Shall we?”

  “Ladies first.” He performs a small bow and I dutifully roll my eyes because we’ve got a good thing going here and I am not trying to mess it up.

  Quietly and with plenty of room between us for Jesus—and Moses and Vishnu and Buddha and whatever other religious figures want to join the party—we make our way up the sloping path. Arlo’s house is shrouded
in fuzzy darkness. Not a light on in the place. Shapes shift across the front door and a prickle runs up my back. I listen to the sound of our footsteps and remind myself that Jonah’s right there behind me and this is Fountain Valley.

  For starters, I check beneath the elegant statue of a dog standing sentinel by the door and then stand on my tippy toes to run my fingers over the door frame. “Nothing here,” I report.

  “You think we should split up?”

  I watch the trees sway ominously in the background. Branches scratching. The sound of crickets. “Okay, yeah, sure,” I murmur, not wanting to admit that the idea of splitting up gives me the creeps. Although, it’s not likely that I’ll encounter anything as frightening as Jonah in a ski mask, so, on second thought, I should be fine.

  Jonah takes the right side of the house, while I take the path to the pool. The gate creaks. I’m careful not to let it bang shut behind me. Arlo’s house is still quiet. Chester’s probably sleeping, I tell myself. It occurs to me, though, that Arlo could have returned from the hospital by now, and I experience a brief worry that he could be resting peacefully and that my skulking around could startle him into a heart attack.

  As if on cue, a floodlight snaps on, illuminating the patio with its outdoor dining set and Bermuda fans. “Hello?” I whisper. My own reflection stares back and, for a moment, I hardly recognize myself. Even with my cuffed shorts and striped tee hanging off one shoulder, I look older than I did at the start of the year somehow. Like I’m peering at a version of myself at twenty-five and wondering if that girl will have any more figured out than I do now. Standing where I am, it feels unlikely. “Arlo?” I step beneath the covered veranda and, behind me, the floodlight clicks off. I exhale. It was only me, motion-detected.

  After that I check beneath flowerpots and inside the mouth of an alligator holding a bar of soap.

  “Got it.” I jump at the sound of Jonah’s voice.

  “You scared me.” I clutch my chest.

  “Sorry. I figured you saw the light come on. The key was dangling on a wind chime. Can you believe that? Plain sight.”

  Actually, I can believe that.

  “So now what?” Jonah puts the key on the outdoor table and retreats to the ledge of the spa.

  I try to slow my heart rate. “You go back to the street and keep watch. Text me if anything comes up. I’ll make sure Chester is okay and has food and water and everything he needs.”

  “You shouldn’t have to go in alone.”

  “I just . . . don’t think it’d be right for us to go together. No need for us both to risk going in there.” No need for us both to risk possible contraction of this stupid disease that still feels surreal to me, is what I think. “It’ll be fine. I’ll be in and out. No problem.”

  I sound more confident than I am. I still have yet to hear a peep out of Chester. It’s been almost two days. Chester could have been without food, without water for almost forty-eight hours. How long can an animal survive without water? And why didn’t I come earlier, because what will I do if . . . if . . .

  I don’t even want to finish the thought.

  Jonah, too, seems reluctant to leave me. But there are no good options, which I guess could double as this year’s theme. I wait for him to leave the key and stalk back into the night, thankful now that he’d worn gloves. One less thing to worry about. I take a deep breath and try the key in the lock.

  It turns.

  I hear the snap and test the handle.

  Gently, I twist, cracking the weather seal. For a split second, I think that maybe I hear the sound of panting or the pattering of paws on hardwood, and for a second I’m sure that everything’s fine. And then a high-pitched beep starts up. One long stretch of noise at a piercing din that wreaks havoc on my eardrums. The alarm.

  My phone buzzes in my pocket.

  Jonah: I hear something.

  I call out to anyone listening. “Don’t worry! It’s just me, Max! Chester?” No answer. Without thinking, I jog farther into the house, looking for signs of Chester. I just need to know if he’s here. If he’s okay, then I’m gone.

  In the kitchen, I find empty porcelain bowls sitting on a silk place mat. The beep continues, drawing out, growing louder. I pound up the stairs. “Chester!” I say, louder this time. There’s a vacant dog bed in a tidy bedroom. For a crazy instant, I believe I’ve spotted him, before realizing it’s an oil painting of Chester, standing regal, opposite a set of floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. My eyes catch snippets of Arlo’s house. His Oscar encased in glass. An old movie poster. A framed picture of a much younger Arlo and a young man strumming a guitar—Winter?

  My phone buzzes again. And no sooner have I bent down to examine the photograph than the beep morphs into a siren blare. The sound blasts through the house, filling the corners, vibrating inside my chest. The phone buzzes again insistently.

  It’s empty. The house is empty. There’s nothing—no one—here. I’d been counting on Chester being here. I’m realizing too late that I’d needed him to be. I feel like a kid again, a kid who’s misplaced her favorite stuffed animal, the one that she needs to go to sleep. And all this is news to me, and now he’s gone. I’m breaking into a house with no one here.

  My mind screams. Go. I tear back down the stairwell—thud, thud, thud. My heart beats with it.

  “Max!” There’s a shout from down below. “Max! What are you doing?”

  “Jonah, what are you doing all the way up here?” He’s outside the open door, a black silhouette. “You’re supposed to be down there!” I point.

  “We’ve got to go. If Kate finds out—”

  “Then go!” I’m running toward him and he’s blocking the exit.

  The whites of his eyes shine through the ski mask and without another word he turns and sprints. At the last second, I remember to close the door and twist the key in the lock and push it into potted soil. I’m fast. And before long I’ve caught up and we run through the gate back toward the street. No police sirens yet, but they’re coming. They’re coming and what if they don’t believe that I’ve just broken in to find a dog? Because, I mean, really, who does that?

  I can hardly see where I’m going as I follow Jonah’s back down the slope, hooking a shortcut through somebody’s lawn. We jump over a pair of decorative boulders like decorative boulders are an actual thing that somebody in this world needs.

  It all happens fast. The sound and then what I see next, like thunder followed by lightning. A grunt and then there’s a body on the ground. Dead weight on dirt. A heavy thwack.

  My momentum doesn’t peter out until I’m already well past the spot where he dropped. I pull myself to a hard stop. Jonah lets out a strained whine like an injured animal.

  “Are you all right?” I whisper through the night, panting, more loudly than I think is wise, given our status as amateur fugitives. In the background, the sound of Arlo’s alarm has begun to wake the neighbors. Lights blink on in the windows around us. I duck down, out of view.

  I can’t see much, but I can see Jonah, about ten feet away, rocking back and forth on what I think is his back. “My ankle,” he says in a voice like a grown man is sitting on his chest. “It’s fine. Just—twisted—my—AN-kle—that’s all.”

  I don’t know what to do. Because COVID has gotten us all topsy-turvy. Because in what world am I not going to close the distance between us to help my boyfriend—and the answer is this one. And when Jonah says, “Give me a hand?” all I can think is: No. A word that makes my blood run cold.

  “Olivia,” is what I say, gently though. “Maybe—” I don’t know what follows. Police sirens join the night chorus and I realize we have just minutes left. “Can you stand?” I ask.

  “Yes, yes, of course.” The whine has disappeared from his voice. He struggles to his feet and while he doesn’t make a noise, I can feel the pain in his steps. More slowly now, we make it
to his bike and to my car. The sirens draw closer. If we’re lucky, they’ll think that the alarm was tripped by a loud tree branch or an opossum. Nothing stolen. No signs of foul play.

  I stand at my car as Jonah drags his bike upright.

  “Are you going to be okay?” I ask. My heart beats. My fingers feel electric. If there was ever an excuse to be alone in the same small space as Jonah, isn’t this it? I could do it. Throw the bike in my trunk and take off. Just once. Stop being so responsible. Stop doing what everyone else needs me to do.

  “Me?” He leans his weight onto the handlebars, breathing heavily. “Don’t worry about me. Worry about Chester.”

  “Okay,” I say with a hitch that registers the seconds ticking by, the window of opportunity, of rash thinking, closing, maybe for good. “But plenty of room to worry about both.”

  chapter sixteen

  JONAH

  “It was . . . tai chi.”

  Kate is analyzing her work, having set and wrapped my ankle when she saw me stumbling for a glass of orange juice this morning. I don’t know if she’s like an army medic in her spare time, but she pulled out a serious first aid kit in a black metal case and had me patched up before I could even finish my juice.

  She decides the ankle’s just sprained, which I had guessed, but it’s still swollen up like a squishy water balloon and a little purple and why didn’t I think of a proper excuse until now?!

  She looks at me. “Tai chi?”

  I nod, testing the ankle. “I took your advice . . . and you know, started exercising.”

  “Well, I officially retract my advice,” Kate says drolly. “You should have been icing and keeping it raised all night. Keep off it for a bit.”

  “Thanks, Kate.”

  Ugh. That hurt coming out. Especially since I was still half expecting her to dramatically reveal that she knew the truth about my dead of night bike ride and deliver a karate chop to my ankle. Instead, she packs up her apparently standard-issue first aid kit, even giving me a comforting pat on the shoulder. What’s happening? Were Kate and I bonding? No. Every news anchor keeps saying this is an “unprecedented time,” but some precedents were there for a reason . . . like my stepmom is evil and we can never be friends.