by Reiss, CD
He kissed my palm, and taking my wrist in his hand, he kissed the tender skin inside it.
“Catherine?” Reggie called from the porch. “You all right?”
“I’ll be in in a minute,” I called to him, then faced Chris. “It’s too late to ride in and rescue me. I don’t need a knight in shining armor anymore.”
“Maybe I’m the one who needs to be rescued,” he whispered.
“I can’t do that.” I pulled my arm down, and he let go. “I’m sorry. I can barely save myself.”
“Tell me you don’t feel anything. Just say it.”
I licked my lips, looking at the shadow of his, remembering the kiss. I felt something. I felt as if a long tether between us had been stretched to the limit and was suddenly pulled back. I felt a tight shell around us, woven in the hum of destiny.
“Say it,” he repeated.
If I told him what I felt, what I knew to be true, my life would click into place like the last piece of a puzzle. Everyone wanted that. Everyone wanted to find their destiny and live it—except me.
I wanted to live a life I’d chosen.
I wanted to make my own mistakes.
I wanted my own suffering. My own joy.
“Say it,” he whispered again, putting his face closer to mine. The porch light flicked on, and I could see the face that was so hard to resist. “Say what you feel.”
I swallowed the truth and said what needed to be said. “I don’t feel anything.”
Chris’s reaction was subtle but unmistakable. He blinked twice, flinching slightly as if slapped. I heard the wood planks on the porch creak. Reggie had stepped forward. He’d get between Chris and me if he had an inkling that I wanted him to.
I didn’t want him to.
This, I needed to do for myself. Only I could break from my past, and staying in the front yard with the man who had left me all those years ago wasn’t helping. I needed to rip off the Band-Aid.
“I’m sorry about Lance,” I said. “I have to go.”
I brushed past Reggie to go back into the house.
Chapter 20
catherine
Sadness and I were well-acquainted. It was a thickening cloud in the soul dispelled only by deep, genuine tears. It was a drop of oil in a glass of water that could only be thinned into tiny bubbles and, if left unchecked, would coalesce again into a slick ball of contamination.
Sadness felt like me, but a little heavier, a little thicker, a swarm of gnats I could dispel with a wave of my hand, only to find them massing around me again.
After everyone went home, leaving the house spotless and the thorn bushes charred and wet, I went to the suite and sat on my bed, waiting to feel the weight on my heart.
I didn’t feel sad. Not in the same way I always had, diluting something that would concentrate again. The hopelessness was missing.
Chris had come, and I’d sent him away.
I wasn’t angry at myself or him. I wasn’t disappointed or let down.
Instead, I was confused. Seeing him had thrown me, not because it felt uplifting or high, but because I was suddenly grounded.
A knock at my bedroom door was followed by Harper’s voice.
“Cath? You in there?”
“Come in.”
She came in and landed next to me, arms around me, crying uncontrollably.
“Harper! What happened?”
“Nothing.”
“Where’s Taylor? What did he do?”
“Shut up, okay? Just shut up.”
She cried in my lap with her face buried in my thighs as I stroked her hair. I told her it would be all right, but I wasn’t sure if it would be anything close to all right. Were we both going to be stuck here? Were we just looking for men to rescue us from ourselves?
I missed him. Chris Carmichael. I’d missed him and I’d continue to miss him the same way I missed who I’d been. I was too familiar with loss.
“You know what?” I said. “I was thinking of going to Europe. London, Paris.”
“What happened to Chris?”
I sighed. “I chased him away.”
A snap of a laugh escaped her as if she had a lot to say on the matter but didn’t. “Why?” She sniffled. “Because you don’t even know the guy?”
“Oh, I know him.”
My sister didn’t respond from my lap. She just folded her bottom lip until it creased.
“The minute I saw him, I knew him. I can’t explain the connection, but my soul says he’s as much mine as my own body. It’s not sensible or practical, but in a way, it is. Gravity pulls down. Fire is hot. Chris and I are meant to be. It’s almost boring.”
She sat up. “Then why did you kick him out?”
Why had I? Because I had pride. I was a grown woman with my own heart’s desire and even if he was that heart’s desire, I was in control of my actions.
“Wrong question,” I said. “He left. He never picked up the phone. He never wrote me. The question is, why would I take him back?”
“Because you guys were meant to be?”
“It doesn’t matter. I’m my own woman now.”
She shook her head so hard her hair flew around her face. She looked as if she’d eaten a lemon and been attacked by a hornet at the same time. “What? You mean you weren’t before? All this wasn’t your choice? You didn’t de-furnish the house and drain the bank account because it was your choice?”
“It was but—”
“But nothing.” She stood, freeing me to get up as well.
“Harper—”
“You.” She poked my shoulder, backing me toward the door. It kind of hurt. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m confused, all right? I’m confused!” I choked back a sob. No. No more crying. “I don’t know where I fit in. I don’t know what I want. No one needs me anymore. The factory’s coming back. You’re leaving—”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m not stupid. I know Taylor’s going to take you away.”
She deflated.
“What?” I said.
Her face collapsed like a window breaking. Her expression dropped and curled into an uncomfortable, red-skinned blubber. Tears came so hard they cleared her cheeks and landed on her chin.
“Harper? What?”
She tried to speak, but just made spit.
“Did he leave you?”
My confusion was replaced with purpose, and it felt good. My blood flowed with it. As if my sister could see the chemical change in me, she shook her head violently but was lost to sobs before she could get a word out. Her pain felt like a compressed version of the months I’d waited to hear from Chris.
I was angry. Very angry.
“I’m going to kill him. Nobody hurts Harper Barrington. Nobody. Do you hear? And not just me. Oh, no. You mark my words, every man in this town is going to make it their business to find Chris and—”
Her face knotted even tighter and I shook the bees out of my head.
“Taylor,” I corrected quickly. “Find Taylor. Whatever. They’re going to find him, and if I have to use every last dollar to send them to California, I swear to God—”
She grabbed me by the shoulders, still sobbing too hard to speak, and held me tight.
“I’m sorry, Catherine,” she choked out. “No one’s coming to buy the factory. It’s done. We lost.”
I stroked her hair. I didn’t ask her how she knew. Harper knew things. The end.
We lay on my bed together under the mural of roses as she cried herself to sleep.
I was still needed. I should have been both sad and worried.
Instead, knowing I was needed and nothing had to change, I felt an immediate, guilty wave of relief. I shoved it under anger, covered it with disappointment, and hid it under a mask of resolve.
But the desire to maintain the status quo was there. Always there.
Chapter 21
CATHERINE
Johnny’s blue truck pulled into the driveway. He wav
ed and got out wearing his yellow polo shirt. Redox slid out and came right up to the porch. The bruiser of a Rottweiler poked his nose between my legs one time to make sure it was me, then flopped onto the floor.
“Did you come for the grill?” I asked as Kyle got out of the passenger side.
“Yep.” Johnny lowered the gate on the back of the bed. “Meat was pretty good last night. We nailed the timing on the evaporative cooling effect.”
“Sure did,” Kyle said.
My guess was that Johnny had worked out the equations to the half degree and Kyle had agreed to drink beer by the fire.
“You got coffee made?” Johnny asked me. “Been a long morning already and we have to bury Lance.”
The funeral. Today. I’d told him I couldn’t go and that was that.
“In the kitchen.”
“Funny thing, Carmichael showing up last night.”
Johnny stayed on the porch. Did he need an answer? Did he need me to say that I was skipping the funeral because I didn’t want to see Chris or because I had a ton of chores to do? That I’d sent Chris away because I was confused or because I was empty? Because I was protecting myself from getting hurt again or from being happy?
“There’s half and half in the fridge,” I said.
He nodded and went into the house. I fell onto the porch swing, wishing this damn day would be over so I could think. Wishing Chris would disappear so I could decide if I’d made the biggest mistake of my life or dodged a bullet.
Harper was staying, at least for a while. I still didn’t know the details of what had happened with Taylor, but he wasn’t taking her away. At least not now. But she had to go. His presence had gotten me used to the idea that she should leave. I had time to convince her to go to college. Then once she got in, school wouldn’t start until September. I could stay in Barrington a little longer.
If I wanted to.
I didn’t know what I wanted anymore.
Johnny and Kyle came out with their travel cups and headed for the back. My eyes fell on the four mildewed boxes Taylor had left on the porch. I’d never bothered to take them inside. The crawlspace had not been kind to them. Maybe Johnny could haul them away on his way out.
I bent over the top box and used my fingernail to bend the flaps. Something shone from inside.
I decided to go all in. Sinks and soap were invented for curious hands. I opened the box all the way. The shine was from a glass doorknob that was probably one of the few made in the factory, along with a broken glass towel rack, a blue glass soap dish. Fancy hinges. A sconce. A door baseplate and a kitchen faucet.
I could sell some of it to the antique fixture place in Springfield. Some looked worthless. All of it was interesting. I didn’t recognize any of it. It must have been Grandma’s stuff from before the eighties, when Mom redid the house. Johnny would have things to say about what was in there; what had been made in the factory and what was worthless. He and Kyle were halfway down the driveway with the grill. I could ask when he was finished loading it.
I picked up the top box to lay it aside, but the bottom gave out and spilled the stuff all over. Well, that was just the kind of day this was. I got on my knees to clean up the mess before they ran over to help. I could do it myself.
A ceramic lamp base got stuck between the flaps of the box under it. When I pulled it out, the top opened. It was full of paper. Termites had made holes in the envelopes and left dust-sized wood chips all over the surface.
I put the lamp down.
The termites had eaten around the ink of the recipient’s name, which was Catherine Barrington. They’d eaten around the postmark ink, which was New York, NY10005. They’d eaten around the return address label, which was a PO box in the same zip code, and of course the sender was Christopher Carmichael.
I flipped it over. The envelope had been eaten open, but the glue still hung on. It had never been opened.
Under it, another letter.
And another.
One fell apart in my hands.
Another was so black with mold, the address was unreadable.
None were opened.
All were to me, from Chris.
My hands shook so hard, I couldn’t get my fingers in an envelope. I opened a folded piece of paper that fell out of an envelope. It was almost completely destroyed.
—I spilled coffee all ove—y pants I had but—you and—
I chose another. The ink had run when water hit it.
—Lan—in the dog park th—I hate to think he—nice guy. No guarantees of anything of c—and we can be together sooner rather tha— blooming because the flowers lie. You are the scent of roses—
I dumped the entire box on the porch and kneeled beside the pile. I went through it quickly, separating the readable from the unreadable.
—e getting used to—crowded but if you were with me b—everything—
—your skin and—hacked at the tennis b—pleated skirt wa—one time in reality but in my—Frank Marsh—
Frank Marsh—? Could that be Frank Marshall? The Christmas after Chris left, I’d started dating him. He’d begged me to, as a favor, and I stayed with him for his benefit and my own, until he finally came out of the closet. Mom had been devastated. I was happy for him.
—ny people. You’d li—used to i—re you getting these? Be—ove you, Catherine of the Roses
I stopped sorting them and searched for a whole letter. I couldn’t bear another minute. He’d written me and I’d ignored him. What kind of hurt had he suffered because of me already? I needed to know the exact height and weight of it so I could beat myself to a pulp with his pain.
I opened one that looked relatively whole. A picture of Chris and Lance fell out. He was kneeling next to the bloodhound, who looked away from the lens at a squirrel or a pigeon or whatever a loved dog looks at when his eyes are off his master.
The date was ten years before. Three years later, my father died, my mother took most of the money and left. Harper stayed home from MIT forever. I’d already stopped waiting to ever hear from him again.
He was a cross between the hardworking, carefree, bronzed boy I’d known that summer and the serious man who’d put out a fire in my yard. The sun angled over his face, casting deep shadows over one side and washing the other in white. His hair was cropped and businesslike and his cheeks were smooth. Whatever transition he was making had been halfway over by the time that letter came.
I sat on the porch rail and unfolded it. Most of the letters were handwritten, some were printed. This one had his pointy scrawl all over it. Had he written it at the dog park, or in the back of a cab? I smelled the paper. Past the mildew from the box, I caught a little bit of cologne, so I imagined him writing it at home, in the morning before he went to work.
Dear Catherine,
It was as bad as I told you. I got everything out before the bottom dropped, but it was a scare. I was hoping to come back for you soon, but not now. I can’t give you the life we agreed on.
But—and this is a big but—I have someone interested in a hedge fund that I’ve been pitching around. It’s based in quantitative trading and something we call market inefficiencies (totally legal, I swear). I’ll explain that to you when I see you. It’s so safe and profitable, I’m sure I’m never going to come that close to losing everything again.
Which brings me to the same thing I end every letter with.
I hold on to you like I’m alone in the ocean and you’re the last piece of wood from a shipwreck. What we had, I’ve never felt before or since. I belonged. I had purpose. You haven’t answered a single letter, and I have no idea if you hate me or if your parents are hiding the stamps. I don’t know if you’re waiting or if you’ve forgotten me. My mother left Barrington months ago. If I come back, it’s for you, but if you’re finished with me, I don’t want to know. I’m not ready to let go.
I’ll keep on writing, but I have a bad feeling that one day I’m going to drown.
All my love,
&nbs
p; Christopher
I folded the letter but didn’t put it back in the envelope. That would be like folding Chris up and putting him away. I couldn’t betray him another time.
I read it again.
At some point before Mom left or Dad died, he’d written a last letter. It was in the box, shredded, damaged, or obliterated. He’d made a hundred, maybe two hundred, attempts to reach out to me and been ignored. He’d worked harder to contact me than I’d worked to forget him.
And my mother, or my father, or both had stopped the letters. Or one had intercepted them and another had fought to keep them from being destroyed.
The only words they spoke to each other in those last years had probably been about those letters.
Was it too late to find him? Where was he staying? His mother’s trailer was gone. The only hotel in Barrington, Bedtimey Inn, had closed years earlier. He didn’t have any friends to stay with and Lord knows someone would have told me if he’d made plans to stay on their couch.
What was the difference anyway? Was I going to knock on his door and say, “Hey thanks for the letters,” after I’d chased him away? And then what? Was I going to let him whisk me away like a knight on a white stallion? I still didn’t know him. He wasn’t the answer to my loneliness.
I put the photo of Chris and Lance in my pocket and looked through the two boxes underneath it.
Jesus.
More letters.
I owed him an apology, or at least an explanation. But it was too late. I was numb and I’d already sent him away. The letters would go into the trash with the rest of my mistake-filled life.
My foot landed on something soft and round. It rolled under me and I fell, dropping the box and landing on my wrists.
“Catherine?” Kyle and Johnny were loading the barbecue onto the truck, and Kyle dropped his end with a metallic clank.
