The Whys Have It Read online

  With only one thing left to do, I heave the dolly toward my hips and glance at Sam.

  “I’ll unload these, and then I need to take off. There’s a chance I might miss my flight already.”

  She moves in front of me to open the door. “Thank you for coming this morning. And for yesterday—for coming to the funeral and helping me find my dad.” She ducks her head as though she’s said too much. “You know, I really didn’t expect to see you again after that day at the park.”

  I maneuver the cart around her and grin at her. “After the way you treated me, I didn’t expect to see you again either. But I’m glad I came.”

  The beginnings of a small smile tilts her mouth before it fades, leaving me disappointed. Someday. Someday I’m going to see it.

  I swallow. There it is again, the idea of someday.

  “It’s about time you two came back in here,” Hannah says, distracting me from my wayward thoughts. She’s holding a dirty rag and a can of polish from her spot atop an old metal ladder. “I kept thinking you’d left me here to do all the work by myself.”

  “Excuse me?” I say, unloading the stack of boxes onto the floor around us. “I’ve been working hard for hours, long before you showed up.” I don’t miss the way she looks past me to Sam, giving her the once-over, making sure she’s okay. I also don’t miss Sam’s barely perceptible nod, or the way it eases my worry.

  Hannah eyes me with a look bordering on impatience. “Cry me a river, pretty boy. From the looks of those clothes, it’s obvious hard work normally eludes you.”

  Pretty boy? I try to be offended, but it doesn’t work. “Alright, I’ve had enough torture for one day. Hannah…” I hold out a hand. “It’s been nice meeting you. And Sam…” I turn, working up a casual look even though I feel nothing but dread settling over my limbs. “Thanks for hanging out with me. You have my number. Call if you need anything at all.” I want to beg her to call, but I don’t.

  She hugs her arms around her waist and nods. “I will.” After an awkward moment, she steps forward to give me a quick hug. My throat constricts and it takes every muscle in my body to keep myself together. I flex and fist my hand to keep from hanging on to her. “If you’re ever back in the area…” She lets go and backs away from me.

  “I’ll stop by.” I look at her then, really look. I want her to know I mean it. Raindrops begin to pelt the roof, reminding me it’s time to go. Heading for the front door, I open it to sheets of water. My hands sting with the impact before I fully step outside. “I’ll see you later.”

  And just like that, I’m gone.

  In my career, I’ve traveled to Europe and Germany and South Africa and countless other countries around the globe—seen the most beautiful areas in the world.

  I’ve never regretted leaving a place more.

  CHAPTER 19

  Sam

  The only way I could be more depressed is if the rain were actually falling inside my living room. As it stands, the parking lot outside could double for an Olympic-sized swimming pool, albeit a shallow one—and there have been enough lightning strikes in the past hour for Benjamin Franklin to re-invent electricity a dozen times over. The sky has rivaled a fourth of July fireworks display minus the ooohs and ahhhs; I’ve spent more time hiding in the bedroom than watching out the living room window.

  The fear is a new thing, something I hope isn’t permanent.

  I reach for a cardboard box beside me in an effort to distract myself from the latest rumble of thunder. Pulling out a stack of photos, I settle them on my lap and begin flipping through them one by one. So many snapshots of Kassie that I’ve never seen before—at ballgames, with friends, one taken in the middle of a school cafeteria food fight that was clearly never punished because I was never called. I bring the picture closer to my face and squint through tears collecting in my eyes. There is a large lump of mashed potatoes stuck to one side of her head and she holds an open bag of chips. She’s happy. So happy. How in the world did she clean herself up?

  I set the picture on the carpet and blink into the empty room.

  This is the first time I’ve been in Kassie’s bedroom since the accident. After Cory drove away earlier, his absence ushered in a wave of grief that hasn’t let up in three hours. Sometimes the only way to assuage grief is to feed it—to cry, to wallow, to let it wrap around you and hold you under. Then when its grip loosens, maybe you’ll come away better and lighter and free from the sharp tentacles squeezing and pressing and sucking and taking.

  So I’m feeding it.

  It’s sucking the life out of me.

  It’s taking me for all I’m worth.

  Nothing at all has changed.

  I drop the stack of photos into the box, replace the lid, and push it under the bed. Memory lane is a road I’d rather not spend much time on, not with its twists and dips and bumps that are currently leaving me feeling car sick. Closure. I came in this room hoping for closure. Now the idea is laughable; even with roadblocks and detour signs and iron clad gates blocking the entrance, how is one supposed to close something like this? This road will stay wide open. Hopefully I’ll learn how to navigate it.

  I stand to leave when I spot it. My favorite red shirt lying in the floor behind the door. I didn’t even notice it was missing until now. I’m frozen, unable to pick it up. To move it seems traitorous. To stare at it feels like a betrayal, yet I can’t look away.

  * * *

  “I’m running out of time, and I can’t find anything to wear!”

  My bedroom door bounces against the wall as Kassie comes flying through it. She’s wearing a flesh-colored bra and cutoff denim shorts, her hair in Velcro rollers, one loose and swinging around her left shoulder. The shorts are standard, the bra can sometimes be optional—at seventeen, she isn’t all that concerned with modesty, especially not at home. Lucky me.

  “What happened to the shirt I saw you wearing a few minutes ago? It looked good on you.”

  She stops, plants a hand on her hip, and gives me the world’s biggest eye roll. “A white button up? Could that be more lame?”

  I don’t mention that the white button up is mine. Along with everything else she has stolen from my closet in the past half hour. She reaches for another shirt and yanks it off the hanger.

  “Hey now, careful how you handle that,” I protest.

  She spins to face me, clutching the red satin shirt to her chest. “Can I borrow it? I promise not to get anything on it.”

  “You always get something on everything.”

  She tries to deny it, but the statement is true. “I won’t this time. Not soda or magic marker or pizza sauce or—”

  “Butter,” I finish. “Let’s not forget about the butter.”

  Her mouth falls open. “It was a scary movie, Sam. I didn’t mean to dump popcorn all over me. Besides, that pink shirt was ugly.”

  “Which must be exactly why you borrowed it.” I stand up and walk around her to straighten what she already managed to mangle of my clothing. “Fine wear the red shirt. But hang it up when you get home. Don’t just leave it on the floor like you always do.”

  She rushes at me, and I’m once again thankful for the bra. “Thanks, Sam. You’re the best!”

  I know I am, I think to myself as she disappears to her room. The best mom, the best sister, the best friend, not to mention the best fashion critic. Who knew I’d be playing all these roles by age twenty-five? I close my closet door and wish for a way to lock it.

  Two minutes later I’m sitting on the sofa flipping through a People Magazine when she runs past.

  “We’re leaving!” Some people pay thousands to achieve the megawatt smile filling her face. This one is all Kassie. “We’ll be back around midnight, but you don’t have to wait up for us.”

  It a weird feeling, the tangle of worry and excitement that travels through me. “Have fun. And you know I’ll wait up. And why aren’t you wearing my shirt?” She’s in a yellow sleeveless blouse that I’ve never seen before.r />
  “Because it’s red, Sam.” I just look at her, waiting for a better explanation. “My hair is red.” She waves a hand through the air. “It was all way too matchy, so I left it on the floor. I’ll hang it up when I get home later, bye!”

  “At least you didn’t get anything on it!” I shout just before the front door slams. Laughing to myself, I turn back to the magazine.

  * * *

  Unable to take another second of the memories assaulting me, I walk out and close the door behind me. It was too soon. Too soon to revisit old pictures and relive old memories and remind myself of old scents.

  The room still smells like Kassie. Still looks like Kassie. Still feels like Kassie. All of it is too much, and the tears run down my face before I even realize I’m crying. It’s clear now that I will never stop crying. It’s how I am destined to spend out my days, whether I want to or not. Lonely. Isolated. Forgotten. The only thing missing is ten cats and neighborhood children who refer to me as the Crazy Old Lady Next Door. I’m sure that day will come, and the sad part is I’m beginning not to care. Sometimes acceptance is the only way out of a tortured mind, and my mind is definitely tortured. Has been for months, but now it’s so much worse.

  I swipe a knuckle under my eye, reach for the remote control, and turn the television on, more for companionship and noise than for any real desire to watch anything. It’s only five-thirty, and judging from the way things look outside you’d think it was four hours later. The idea of a long night alone at home is almost more depressing than the memories.

  I think about working on my book, but dismiss the idea.

  I think about going driving to see my father, but dismiss the idea.

  I think about taking a long bath, but dismiss the idea.

  There comes a point in everyone’s life when the only thing you can manage to do is sit. To sit and stare. To sit and stare and wonder how everything got so messed up that you’ve passed the point of caring. Where numbness is the only safe emotion, a numbness so bone-deep that even alcohol can’t deaden it. The only emotion that won’t hurt you or pierce you or destroy you. I’ve never liked numbness. Yet it keeps coming back for me.

  I’m almost asleep when I hear it. It sounds like a knock, but could just as likely be another clap of thunder. I’m too groggy to know the difference. I’m sleepy and confused and dried tears have pressed my eyelashes together, but someone is knocking and rain is falling in sheets and I need to rescue whomever is stuck in the storm.

  It’s the way my muddled brain works. I’ve learned to roll with it.

  Without thinking to check first, I grasp the front knob and fling the door open. All I can do is blink at the figure standing on the other side of it.

  “My flight was cancelled because of the storm and there isn’t another plane leaving until tomorrow. This is the only place I thought to come.”

  Cory. Here. Why? How?

  “What about your parents?”

  It’s a stupid question to ask and absolutely none of my business. I know this when he rolls his eyes and steps around me into the living room. I’m left standing in the open doorway, convinced I’m somehow still asleep.

  “You look awful, Sam. Have you been crying?”

  And that’s when I fully wake up.

  Cory is standing in my apartment.

  Not at his parent’s house, but at mine.

  And I have no idea what any of it means.

  CHAPTER 20

  Cory

  Her apartment looks almost exactly like the antique store she works in. A reupholstered nineteenth century sofa sits on Queen Anne legs in the middle of the floor and is flanked by two ornately carved side tables. Cut glass lamps give off the dimmest light, and an old grandfather clock counts off the time from the corner of the room. White glass bottles in various sizes line a shelf above the television, and I’m pretty sure I recognize the pattern of a blue vase perched on the hearth. I want to ask Sam how much she spent on it, but the question seems rude considering I just walked inside the apartment.

  An ancient chopping block similar to one my mother owns is pushed against the wall just outside the small kitchen. The apartment smells new and old, a mix of this century and the one prior.

  Sam doesn’t just work with antiques, she collects them.

  I turn to face her and see the caution in her eyes. I’m used to people staring at me, but I’m not used to this. I made a mistake coming here. I never should have assumed she would be happy to see me. She’s not happy at all. The way she keeps blinking at me, all I want to do is walk backwards, drive backwards, and run backwards until I’m back inside the airport.

  Time travel only works in movies and stupid television shows. Someone really needs to invent it for real life.

  I do the next best thing. I start stammering like an idiot.

  “I looked up your address online. If you don’t want anyone to find it, you should really do a better job of hiding your identity. This is your apartment? It’s smaller than I thought it would be. Not that it’s small. Just smaller than…”

  I force myself to stop talking. First I ruin her life. Then I pile on the insults to make it all stick together. I take a deep breath. Since when am I such a nervous prick?

  “What I meant to say was—”

  “You’re right, it is small.” She runs a hand through her hair and looks around, an almost visible fog seeming to clear from her mind. “And I don’t care how you found me. But what are you doing here? They cancelled your flight?” She bends to retrieve a fleece blanket from the floor and drapes it over the sofa.

  Her hands are shaking.

  She’s as nervous as I am.

  I spot a set of knives on her kitchen counter and think about turning one on me. Instead I take a minute to assess the room. I wasn’t kidding when I said this place is small. I could fit this entire apartment in my bedroom and still have space to walk around. The kitchen is more like a nook for appliances, with only enough counter space to accommodate a couple of essentials like paper towels and a toaster. A square oak table is situated near a tiny window cracked open to usher in the sound of rain; a few drops have made their way inside and puddled onto the white laminate floor. My instinct is to find a towel to wipe it up, but I shove both hands in my pockets and pretend not to notice it. It’s bad enough that I’m here; something tells me she wouldn’t take well to me searching through her things.

  On the other side of the room, a bedroom door is open to reveal a quilt-covered twin-sized bed and a cherry round table next to it. From where I stand, there doesn’t appear to be much room for more. Another door is closed, I assume a second bedroom is behind it.

  The thought of it belonging to Sam’s sister nearly flattens me, but I work to keep my composure as I face her again. Too late, I realize she’s been watching me the whole time.

  “I like your apartment. Obviously you love antiques.” My voice is weak and the compliment is lame, but it’s all I have.

  “It isn’t much, but it’s home to us…to me. Kassie was the antique-lover. I just accommodated her.” She glances down, and I pray to God against more tears. “I can pay for this place myself without having to borrow anything from my dad. That was important to me.”

  I struggle for a response. “You should be proud. It’s nice.”

  Lightning strikes as though searching out my lie. Sam finds it right away.

  “You’re a terrible liar.”

  I could kiss her for breaking the tension. “So I’ve been told. How do you live here in this closet? It would make me claustrophobic having to walk around here all day. Plus, it smells bad. Old.”

  “It smells old because it’s full of antiques. Excuse me for not shopping at Target. But it doesn’t smell bad. I just cleaned.” I see the eye roll and struggle not to laugh. She walks to the kitchen window and peers out, looking up at the night sky. “They really cancelled your flight? Is it that bad outside?”

  “It’s awful. We’re under tornado warnings from here to Kansa
s City and have been for an hour now. The lightning looked like a firework display the whole way here.”

  She presses her forehead to the glass but says nothing. I watch her for a second before the awkwardness of the moment overtakes me again. “I managed to get a later flight that would have been rerouted through Memphis, but it wound up being cancelled too. So rather than stay at the airport all night—as fun as it was watching people point at me and snap pictures—I came here. I hope that’s okay.” If I was hoping for a positive response, it doesn’t come. Instead, she pushes away from the window and grabs a pillow, then lowers herself to the sofa. I take it as permission and sit beside her, making sure to leave plenty of space between us. I stretch an arm across the back and angle my body to face her. She seems distracted. I don’t press for information.

  She hugs the pillow to her chest and stares straight ahead. “I’m glad you came.” Her expression doesn’t match her words. She looks troubled, staring at the space in front of her for several long moments. “It hasn’t been a good night so far. I lectured Kassie about spilling something on my shirt.”

  The statement jolts me in the way it comes from nowhere, and I wait for her to continue. When she says nothing, I take it as my cue.

  “When?” Whatever memory is bothering her, I can tell it’s a painful one. She’s on the verge of adding new tears to the dried streaks temporarily imprinted down her jawline. I shift in place. I’ve never been good when women cry…haven’t been able to handle it over the past decade. A side-effect of old wounds, I suppose. Sam isn’t the only one haunted by memories.

  She slides her gaze to me. “Right before she left. She wanted to wear my shirt. I told her she could, but I lectured her about spilling something on it. Kassie was the clumsiest person you could ever meet. It never mattered, if there was a cup of coffee or a pint of chocolate ice cream or even a ballpoint pen nearby, she would get it on her clothes. Definitely on my clothes. So I told her to be careful.”