Out of Nowhere (23 page)

“You know what I mean, Riley.”

I stacked the plates on the bottom rack, barely aware of what I was doing. “His parents don’t seem to have a problem with us being alone together.”

“And are his parents the least bit concerned about his future?”

“Of course.” Now I was getting pissed. She could be as bad as her parents sometimes. “They also happen to trust him. Gee, I wonder what that’s like?”

She shut off the sink and turned to face me, jaw set and eyes blazing. “You know what, Riley? I’m sick and tired of having this conversation. It has nothing to do with trust, okay? I remember what it’s like to be seventeen and in love. To get so wrapped up in these feelings…” She looked away, shaking her head. “Honey, I’ve been there. I get it. That’s why I worry so much for you.”

I sighed. I was sick of this conversation too. “Mom, I’m not you.”

“I know you’re not me. But when I saw you with Adam, and when I see you with Cole, I’m reminded so much of your dad and me when we were your age. We thought we were untouchable too.” She pushed a strand of hair off her forehead with the back of her hand. When she looked at me again, her expression seemed sad. “I just want you to have every opportunity out there. I don’t want anything holding you back. I don’t want to see you struggle like I did.”

I closed the dishwasher and turned it on, not caring that I’d forgotten to add soap. “Well, I’m sorry I held you back and made your life such a struggle. I’m sorry I ruined everything.”

She gripped my shoulders, the water from her hands soaking through my shirt. “No,” she said, her gaze steady on mine. “I wanted you. Your dad wanted you. We never once regretted having you. It was hard, but you were always worth it, Riley. Don’t you ever doubt that, okay?”

We blinked at each other for a moment, the dishwasher vibrating the floor beneath our feet. “Okay,” I said finally.

She squeezed my shoulders once and then released me, along with an extended sigh of surrender. “Fine. You win. Now go call your boyfriend and tell him you need help babysitting.”

* * *

When Cole arrived later, Tristan and I were snuggled up on the couch, watching his Elmo DVD and sharing a bowl of Goldfish crackers. Without even getting up, I hollered at him to come in.

“I could’ve been an axe murderer,” he said when he joined us on the couch.

I shrugged. “I know the sound of your car.”

Tristan passed him a Goldfish cracker without taking his eyes off Elmo. “Thanks,” Cole said, popping it into his mouth. He reached across the back of the couch to touch my shoulder and for a moment I imagined it was ten years from now and we were married, and Tristan was our child, and we were sitting here together as a family. A silly fantasy, seeing as how this time next year he’d be a gazillion miles away, looking out on a different ocean, probably gone for good. And I’d still be here, in Weldon, where I’d eventually marry some stable guy with a Ph.D. whose idea of adventure was trying out a new brand of toothpaste.

“Time for bed,” I told my brother when the credits started rolling on TV. “Say good night to Cole.”

Tristan did one better and crawled up on his lap, his little arms reaching around Cole’s neck. Cole smiled and hugged him back, and I almost melted from the pure sweetness of it. Babies were amazing, the way they just did what they felt without any real fear of rejection. Too bad it didn’t last.

Ten minutes later, Tristan was tucked into bed with his blankie and Cole and I were alone in my living room for the first time in weeks. I shut off the TV and climbed into his lap, facing him.

“You want a good night hug too?” he asked, his hands sliding over my hips.

I shook my head and buried my face into his neck, breathing in the fresh, briny scent that always seemed to cling to him. He wound his arms around my waist, pulling me tight against his chest.

“So your mom knows I’m here?” he asked, his voice muffled by my hair.

I nodded without lifting my head. Two hours later and I still didn’t know what to make of her sudden change of heart. It was like we’d come to some sort of an understanding, though I wasn’t quite sure how we’d gotten there or what exactly was being understood. All I knew was that she trusted my judgment now and I didn’t want to spoil it by asking too many questions.

“How’d you manage that?”

“I don’t know,” I said, pulling back to look at him. I told him about our conversation, skipping the part about her assumption that Cole and I thought we were untouchable. I didn’t think that at all and I knew he didn’t either, at least not when it came to us.

“You don’t really think you ruined her life, do you?” Cole said when I finished.

I ran my fingers over his bristly jaw. “No. It just hurts my feelings a little when she goes on about how she doesn’t want me to struggle like she did. I mean, I’m the
reason
for that struggle.”

“My parents didn’t have kids until their mid-twenties and they struggled too. Everyone does at some point.” He brushed some hair off my shoulder, his fingers lingering on my skin. “Was your father like that too? So protective of your future?”

“To a point, but he was more…” I trailed off, remembering something he’d said just shortly before he died. We were eating dinner and Mom was going off on one of her tirades, something about the lack of decent sex education for teenagers. She’d looked at me and said, not for the first time, “I refuse to let you live in ignorance like we did, Riley. You’re going to be prepared so you can make better choices.” And then my father looked up from his pot roast or whatever it was we were eating and said, “Riley will be okay no matter what happens.” I remembered how those words reassured me then, and continued to reassure me in the horrible months that followed.

I cleared my throat and focused again on Cole’s face. “He had more confidence in me,” I said, hoping my voice didn’t tremble. I wasn’t used to talking about my father this way. Dr. Maser and I discussed him a lot, but with her I kept it technical, just the facts—what had happened and how I was dealing, or not dealing. We never talked about the good memories, the little things he said and did, the idiosyncrasies that made him who he was. My mother and I didn’t even mention those things anymore. There was something about Cole though, with his interested, open expression and the leading questions he always slipped in whenever an opportunity arose, that made me want to share my father with him. Maybe that was why my next decision was so simple.

I slid off Cole’s lap and took both his hands, pulling him up with me. Slightly confused but always up for anything, he let me lead him out of the living room and into the kitchen. We came to a stop on the ugly linoleum, our bodies angled toward the corner of the room.

“This is where it happened,” I said, letting go of his hand.

For a minute he just stood there, confused, his gaze flicking from the floor to the microwave and then back to my face. What he saw there must have clued him in, because his confusion suddenly morphed into something else. Not the horror or pity or morbid curiosity I saw on everyone else’s face…just genuine, raw sympathy.

“He was standing in front of the microwave, waiting for his dinner to heat up,” I continued quickly, before Cole could speak. I needed to get this out first. “Mom wasn’t home and I was in the living room, watching TV. I heard a noise, and I came in here to find him lying right there on the floor, not moving. I called 911.” I looked at the floor again, and like always I could still see him there, just as he was that night. “I’ve been avoiding this spot for almost six years,” I told Cole, who was still watching me with that same expression. “It bothers me to walk there because it’s the last place he was alive.”

Cole looked away from me and shook his head, as if my words were too much to take in. Then a second later he was right there, at my side, his arms curling around me. He didn’t look at me with pity or press me for details. He just held me tight while I defiled his white shirt with tears and mascara and it was exactly what I needed.

Finally, I pulled away from him to grab a paper towel from the roll on the counter. I wet it under the faucet and then pressed it to my face, wiping away the remainder of my makeup. When I was finished, I threw the paper towel in the trash and turned back to Cole, but he wasn’t in the same place I’d just left him. Instead, he was standing in the very spot I worked so hard to evade.

“What are you doing?” I asked as he lowered himself to the floor, his back resting against the microwave stand. Seeing him there sent a jolt through my entire body.

“Come here,” he said softly. He placed his palm on the floor next to him, indicating that I should sit.

“I—I can’t.” Had he not listened to one word I said? “I told you I hate walking there.”

“You won’t be walking, you’ll be sitting. With me.” He looked up at me, his eyes kind but insistent. “Come on. Just try.”

I turned away. The mere sight of him in that spot had triggered something in me. Suddenly I was thrust back in time, back to that night. I heard the thud of a limp body as it hit the floor at full force. I smelled the garlicky lasagna, warm and waiting in the microwave. I saw bloodless skin and empty eyes, and a little girl’s fingers, shaking as they dialed the phone.

That section of floor belonged to my father, just like Hiller Lake now belonged to him. It wasn’t mine to take back, and it wasn’t Cole’s either.

“Get up,” I said, still facing away. “Please.”

I heard him sigh. “Riley, I’m just—”

“Just what?” I looked at him, anger blooming in my stomach. “How can you be so insensitive? After everything I just told you...I
can’t
, Cole. Now let it go. And please get away from there.”

He stared back at me for a moment, his expression unreadable, and then he slowly got to his feet. I stifled a sigh of relief as he walked over and stood in front of me.

“Your father,” he said, his eyes steady on mine. “He’s not
there
, you know. He’s in here.” He traced the curve of my skull and then used his other hand to motion toward the space he’d just vacated. “And that right there? Lumber, plywood, and really ancient linoleum. Just a floor.”

Sure, that was all it meant to
him
. He had the ability to look at an object or a place and see beyond the memories connected to it. A road was just concrete and asphalt. A scar was just fibrous tissue left on the skin after a wound has healed. A floor was just a floor. More than anything, I wished I could see things for what they were and not for what they symbolized to me.

“Let’s go back in the living room,” I said, and I turned around and practically sprinted out of the kitchen. After a few seconds, Cole followed me. We sat on the couch, our shoulders touching, and silently watched an old episode of
The Simpsons
. For once, we didn’t make out during the commercials.

When the show ended, Cole looked over at me. “I’m really sorry that happened to you.”

I studied his face closely, just to make sure he was looking at me the same way as before. He touched his lips to my forehead, gentle and sweet like always, and something inside of me untangled. Yes. He still saw me.

Chapter Eighteen

When I got home from work on Saturday evening, a car I’d never seen before was parked along the curb in front of our house. I barely glanced at it as I passed, intent as I was on getting out of the oppressive heat. The bus’s air conditioning had broken down, and I felt sweaty and disgusting in my work uniform. We were in the middle of the worst heatwave in years.

Just as I reached our front walkway, a man in a suit came out of the house and plodded down the steps toward me. He was about thirty, clean-cut, and carried a leather satchel. He breezed past me, smiling, and climbed into the car by the curb.
Mormon
, I thought. They came around every month or so to push pamphlets on us. Usually, though, they came by in the morning, on foot and in pairs, not alone in a car after six o’clock. Weird.

Inside, our ancient air conditioner was rumbling violently, spitting out just enough cool air to make the house bearable. I shivered at the abrupt drop in temperature as I kicked off my shoes.

“Riley?” my mother called from the direction of the kitchen.

“Yes,” I called back, heading for the bathroom and a cold shower. As I walked by the entrance to the kitchen, Mom stepped in front of me, blocking my way.

“How was work, honey?” she asked brightly.

“Fine.”

“You look exhausted.”

“I need a shower,” I told her, but she still didn’t budge. She was acting very strangely.

“Oh, Jeff’s in there. We’re going to the movies later. Is that okay? Do you mind being alone in the house for a few hours? You can come with us, if you want.”

“Uh…no, thanks.” I did not have the stomach for another evening with them. Jeff had gotten back yesterday afternoon, and ever since then they’d been all over each other. Needless to say, I’d gone to bed last night with my iPod on full blast. “You guys have fun though,” I added, and then tried once again to get past her. And again, she wouldn’t let me.

“Riley, I have some news,” she said, taking my right hand in both of hers. Surprisingly, her skin felt really cold.

“Okay,” I said slowly. She had the pinched look on her face again, so I knew it couldn’t be good. “Are you converting?”

“Am I what?”

“Converting. You know, to Mormonism. Because of the Mormon?”

She looked bewildered. So much for breaking the tension with a joke. “What Mormon?”

“That guy in the suit who just left…wasn’t that what he was doing? Trying to convert you or recruit you or whatever?”

“Oh,” she said, finally getting it. “No, no. That wasn’t a Mormon, honey. It was Shawn. He’s a realtor.”

I was too hot and sweaty to follow this conversation. “Why was a realtor here?”

“Well, that’s my big news.” She attempted a smile, but it looked strained and unnatural. “I’m selling the house.”

As she said this, Jeff emerged from the bathroom (fully dressed, thank God) and joined us in the kitchen doorway. “Hey, Rye Bread,” he said, tousling my hair. I shook him off.