My Life Next Door

  “That belonged to my grandparents,” Mom says tightly. “Don’t move. I’ll get the vacuum cleaner.”

  Something about the accustomed sight of her, bent over, moving the vacuum in orderly symmetrical strokes in her dress and her heels, makes me feel as though I’m going to explode. I jump down from the stool and flick the OFF button.

  “You can’t just tidy it up and forget it, Mom. The Garretts have no health insurance. Did you know that?”

  She pulls the trash can out from under the sink, snapping on her rubber gloves, and begins methodically putting the larger chunks of glass into the bag. “That’s not my fault.”

  “It’s your fault that it matters that they don’t. He’s going to be in the hospital for months! Then maybe rehab—who knows for how long? The hardware store was already struggling.”

  “That also has nothing to do with me. Many small businesses are struggling, Samantha. It’s unfortunate, and you know I’ve made speeches about that very issue—”

  “Speeches? Are you serious?”

  She winces at the volume of my voice, then turns and switches the vacuum on again.

  I yank the plug out of the wall.

  “What about everything you’ve ever told me about facing up to your responsibilities? Did you mean any of it?”

  “Don’t speak to me that way, Samantha. I’m the parent here. I am doing the responsible thing, staying where I can do the greater good. How will it help the Garretts if I lose my job, if I have to retire in disgrace? That won’t fix anything. What’s done is done.”

  “He could have died. What if he’d died, Mom? The father of eight children. What would you do then?”

  “He didn’t die. Clay called the police from the pay phone at Gas-and-Go that night. We didn’t just ignore the whole thing.”

  “But you are ignoring the whole thing. That’s exactly what you’re doing. Mrs. Garrett is pregnant. Now they’re going to have another baby and Mr. Garrett won’t be able to work! What’s wrong with you?”

  Mom jerks the vacuum cleaner cord out of my hands, winding it into tight coils. “Well, there you go. Who has that many children in this day and age? They shouldn’t have had such a large family if they couldn’t afford one.”

  “How is Jase even going to go back to school this fall if he has to replace his dad at the store?”

  “There, you see!” Mom says sharply. “It’s just like Clay told me. It all comes down to your feelings for this young man. This is all about you, Samantha.”

  I stand there, incredulous. “It doesn’t have anything to do with me!”

  She folds her arms and looks at me pityingly. “If I had accidentally hit someone you didn’t know, a stranger to you, would you be acting like this? Would you be asking me to give up my entire career because of something that’s going to cause some temporary challenges for someone?”

  I stare at her. “I hope I would. I think I would. Because that’s the right thing to do.”

  Her exhalation of disgust ruffles a few strands of her tidy hair. “Oh spare me, Samantha. The right thing to do is so easy to see when you are seventeen years old and don’t have to make any big decisions. When you know that no matter what you do, someone will take care of you and fix everything. But when you’re grown up, the world is not that black and white, and the right thing doesn’t have a tidy little arrow pointing to it. Things happen, adults make decisions, and that’s the bottom line.”

  “The bottom line is that you hit a man and drove away—” I start to say, but the shrill of Mom’s cell phone interrupts.

  She checks it, then says, “Here’s Clay now. This conversation is over. What’s done is done and we’re all going to move on.” She snaps the phone open. “Hello, sweetie! No, I’m not busy. Sure, just let me go into the office and get that.”

  Her heels click on the tile down the hallway.

  The corner of the kitchen is still covered with lemons and tiny crystal shards.

  I slump back onto the stool, resting my cheek on the cool granite of the countertop. I’ve armed myself for days to talk to my mother, going over things in my head, the clearest arguments I could make. Now I’ve made them all, but it’s like the entire conversation didn’t even exist, like it just got swept up and put away.

  That night I climb out my window, perching in my old accustomed spot. Despite all the years I sat in this same place alone, now it feels strange and wrong to be without Jase. But he’s at the hospital again. Through the Garretts’ kitchen window, I can see Alice doing dishes. The rest of the house is dark. As I watch, the van pulls into the driveway. I wait for Mrs. Garrett to climb out, but she doesn’t. She sits there, staring straight ahead until I can’t watch anymore and climb back into my room.

  Nan said things just come my way without me lifting a finger.

  It’s never felt like that to me, but I’ve always been able to get what I really wanted if I worked hard enough.

  Not now.

  No matter how hard I try, and I’ve never tried so hard for anything, I can’t make things better at the Garretts’. Worst of all, things with Jase are stressful. I offer to be the coach when he trains. “If your dad had the workouts written down, I can read them and call them out to you.”

  “They were all in his head. So thanks, but I’m all right.” Dusty from delivering lumber, Jase turns on the faucet over the cluttered sink and splashes water on his face, then ducks his head to drink, accidentally knocking a half-full glass of milk off the counter. When it crashes onto the floor, instead of picking it up, he gives it a kick that sends it ricocheting across the linoleum, scattering milk.

  Alarm grips the back of my throat, metallic-tasting. I go over and put my hand on his shoulder. His head is down and I can see a muscle in his jaw twitch. His arm is unyielding beneath my fingers and he doesn’t look at me. The leaden fist around my throat tightens.

  “Dude!” Tim calls from the backyard, where he’s vacuuming the pool. “The frickin’ thing’s blowing out the dirt into the pool instead of sucking it in. Can you do your thing?”

  “Yeah, yeah, I’ll fix it,” Jase calls back without moving.

  “What would anybody do around here without you?” I say, going for a light tone. “Everything would be broken.”

  He snorts without any humor. “Kind of already is, isn’t it?”

  I move closer, rest my cheek against his shoulder, rubbing his back.

  “How can I help?” I ask. “I’ll do anything.”

  “There’s nothing you can do, Sam. Just…” He turns away, shoves his hands in his pockets. “Maybe…just…give me a little space.”

  I back toward the kitchen door. “Right. Sure. I’ll head home for a while.”

  This doesn’t feel like us at all. I hover in the doorway, expecting…I’m not sure.

  Instead he nods without looking at me and bends to mop up the spilled milk.

  When I get home, where it’s still and clean and hushed, all the outdoor sounds muffled by the central air, I climb upstairs, feeling as though I’m pushing through water or wearing shoes made of lead. I sit down abruptly halfway up, lean my head back against the step above me, shut my eyes.

  A thousand times since this happened, I’ve been about to blurt out the whole story, unable to stop myself, unable to keep something this big inside from Jase. Every time, I’ve bitten my tongue, stayed silent, with the thought: If I tell him, I’ll lose him.

  Tonight is when I know.

  I already have.

  Late that night, there’s only one dim light shining in the living room. Mom likes the overhead ones, so I know right away it’s not her. And I’m right. Clay’s sitting in the big armchair by the fireplace, shoes off, this big golden retriever at his feet. Mom is curled up on the couch, fast asleep, her hair tumbling out of her careful bun, draping over her shoulders.

  Clay jerks his chin in the direction of the dog. “Courvoisier. I call him Cory. Pure bred from champions. He’s old now, though.”

  Indeed, the muzzle
that rests on Clay’s bare foot is white with age. Cory raises his head at my entrance, though, thumping a greeting with his tail.

  “I didn’t know you had a dog. Mom’s asleep?” I ask, stating the obvious.

  “Long day. Meet-and-greet at five a.m. at General Dynamics. Then we had a speech at Republicans for Change and dinner at the White Horse Tavern. She’s a pro, your mama. Just keeps going and going. She’s earned her rest.” He stands up and pulls the woven beige throw from the top of the couch, covering her.

  I start to turn away, but he stops me, hand on my arm. “Have a seat, Samantha. You’re burning the candle at both ends too. How’re those Garretts doing?”

  How can he even ask that question, in his calm way? “Not well,” I say.

  “Yeah. A tough break.” Clay picks up his wineglass and takes a casual sip. “That’s the thing about a one-man business…all riding on luck.”

  “Why do you even pretend to be sympathetic about this?” I ask, my voice unexpectedly loud in the quiet room. Mom twitches in her sleep, then snuggles her head into the pillow. “Like what happened is some sort of act of God, not something you were involved in? Like you even know what they’re going through?”

  “Y’all don’t know much about me, do you?” He takes another swallow of wine, reaching down to stroke Cory’s head. “I know better than you ever will what it’s like to be poor. My daddy ran a service station. I did the books. Our town was so small, you hardly needed a car to get from one end to the other. And folks in West Virginia are what you might call naturally frugal. A lot of months he didn’t make enough to pay his employees and draw a salary himself. I know all about being broke and having your back against the wall.”

  His eyes are suddenly intent on mine. “And I’ve left that far behind. Your mom’s the real ticket, with a bright future. I won’t let some teenager with a grudge take that away from her. Or me.”

  Mom stirs again, then curls up, almost in a fetal position.

  “You need to distance yourself from that family,” Clay adds, his voice almost gentle. “And you need to do that now. Otherwise things are going to come out that shouldn’t come out, hormonal teenagers not being known for their discretion.”

  “I’m not my mother,” I say. “I don’t have to do whatever you say.”

  He leans back against the chair, blond hair falling across his forehead. “You’re not your mama, but you’re not stupid either. Have you taken a good look at the books for the Garretts’ store?”

  I have, we all have, Tim and me and Jase, working on them. Math-challenged as I am, the numbers don’t look good. Mr. Garrett would be clicking his pen furiously over them.

  “Did you happen to notice the contract from Reed Campaigns? Your mom is using Garrett’s for all her yard signs, her billboards, her visibility flags. That’s a helluva lot of lumber. She wanted to go with Lowe’s, but I told her picking a local business looks better. That’s steady cash flow for the store, straight on through November. Not only that, but the Bath and Tennis Club is using Garrett’s. Your mama’s suggestion. They’re adding on a new wing for an indoor pool. Cash that goes straight into the store. Cash that could go away with a comment or two. Green wood, sloppy workmanship…”

  “What are you saying? If I don’t break up with Jase you’ll, what, pull those contracts?” In the glow of the light, Clay’s blond hair shines angel-fair, nearly the same color as Cory’s. He looks tidy and innocent in his white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, his eyes big and blue and frank.

  He smiles at me. “I’m not saying anything, Samantha. Just stating the facts. You can draw your own conclusions.” He pauses. “Your mama’s always telling me how smart you are.”

  Chapter Forty-four

  Early in the morning the next day, I cross the short distance from my yard to the Garretts’ to find Jase.

  As I walk up the driveway, I can hear him whistling. It almost makes me smile.

  His tan legs and worn Converse are visible first, sticking out from beneath the Mustang. He’s lying on his back, Duff’s skateboard under him, working on the underbody. I can’t see his face, and I’m glad. I’m not sure I can do this if I can see Jase’s face.

  He recognizes my step, though. Or my shoes.

  “Hey, Sam. Hi, baby.” His voice is cheerful, more relaxed than it’s been in days. He’s at peace, doing something he’s good at, getting away from everything else for a while.

  I swallow. My throat feels thick, as though the words I have to say have snarled into a choking ball.

  “Jase.” I don’t even sound like myself. Kind of appropriate, since I’d rather not think this is me at all. I clear my throat. “I can’t see you.”

  “I’ll be out in a sec. I just have to tighten this up or all the oil will drain right out.”

  “No. I mean I can’t see you anymore.”

  “What?” I hear the crack of metal against bone as he sits up, forgetting where he is. Then he slips out from under the car. There’s a smudge of black oil on his forehead, an angry red spot. It’ll bruise.

  “I can’t see you anymore. I can’t…do this. I can’t babysit George or Patsy or see you. I’m sorry.”

  “Sam—what is this?”

  “Nothing. I just can’t do it. You. Us. I can’t do it now.” He’s standing close to me, so tall, so near I can smell him, wintergreen gum, axle grease, Tide-clean clothes.

  I take a step back. I have to do this. So much has already been ruined. I have no doubt Clay meant what he said. All it takes is remembering the look on his face when he talked about leaving his past behind, his implacable voice telling Mom to back up and drive away. If I don’t do this, he’ll do whatever it takes to ruin the Garretts. It won’t take much. “I can’t do this,” I repeat.

  Jase shakes his head. “You can’t do this. You have to give me a chance to fix whatever it is I’ve done. What have I done?”

  “It isn’t you.” The oldest, weakest breakup excuse in the world. And, here, the most true.

  “This isn’t you! You don’t act like this. What’s wrong?” He takes a step toward me, his eyes shadowed with concern. “Tell me so I can fix it.”

  I fold my arms, stepping farther away. “You can’t fix everything, Jase.”

  “Yeah, well, I didn’t even know it was broken. I don’t understand. Talk to me.” His voice lowers. “Is it the sex…did we go too fast? We can slow down. We can just…Anything, Sam. Is it your mom? Tell me what you need.”

  I turn away. “I need to go.”

  He wraps his fingers tightly around my upper arm to stop me. My whole body seems to shrink, as though I’m folding smaller into my skin.

  Jase stares at me incredulously, then drops his hand. “You, like, don’t want me to touch you? Why?”

  “I can’t talk anymore. I have to go.” I have to get away before I can’t do this, before I blurt out everything, no matter what will happen about Mom and Clay and the store. I have to.

  “You’re just going to walk away—like that? You’re leaving it this way? Now? I love you. You can’t.…”

  “I have to.” Every word feels like it’s strangling me. I turn away and head down the driveway, trying to walk calmly, not to run, not to cry, not to feel anything at all.

  I hear quick steps as Jase follows me.

  “Leave me alone,” I toss over my shoulder, picking up my pace, racing to my house as though it’s some refuge. Jase, who could easily catch up or outrun me, falls back, leaving me to wrench open the heavy door and stumble into the foyer, and then curl into a ball, pressing my hands to my eyes.

  I expect to be called to account for this. Alice ringing my doorbell to beat me up. Mrs. Garrett coming over with Patsy on her hip, angry at me for the first time ever. Or George showing up, big-eyed and bewildered, to ask what’s going on with Sailor Supergirl. But none of that happens. It’s as though I don’t make a ripple as I drop off the face of the earth.

  Chapter Forty-five

  I’m not the one who was hit by a car
. I’m not the one who has eight children and is expecting another. I’m not Jase, trying to hold it all together while thinking of selling the thing that gives me peace.

  Waking up every morning and feeling like pulling the covers over my head gives me a kick of self-hatred. I’m not the one this happened to. I’m just some girl with an easy life and a trust fund. Just like I told Jase. And yet I can’t get out of bed.

  Mom is extra-cheerful and solicitous these days, blending my smoothie before I have a chance to, leaving little packages on my bed with cheery Post-it notes. “Saw this cute top and knew it would look great on you.” “Bought some sandals for myself and knew you’d love them too!” She doesn’t say anything about me sleeping till noon. She ignores my monosyllabic conversation, amping up her own to fill the silences. Over dinner, she and Clay chatter away about getting me an internship in Washington, D.C., next summer, or maybe something in New York, fanning out the possibilities in front of me like paint chips—“How lovely this would look on your future!”—while I poke at my chowder.

  No longer caring what Mom will say, I give notice at the B&T. Knowing Nan is just a few yards away, radiating anger and resentment through the walls of the gift shop, makes me feel sick. It’s also impossible to concentrate on watching every swimmer at the Olympic pool when I keep finding myself staring fixedly at nothing at all.

  Unlike Felipe at Breakfast Ahoy, Mr. Lennox doesn’t get belligerent. Instead he argues when I give him my notice and try to hand him my clean, neatly folded suit and jacket and skirt.

  “Oh now, Ms. Reed! Surely…” He glances out the window, takes a deep breath, then goes over and shuts his office door. “Surely you don’t want to make this Precipitous Choice.”

  I tell him I have to, unexpectedly touched by how flustered he is. He pulls a small paisley silk handkerchief out of his jacket pocket and hands it to me. “You have always been an excellent worker. Your work ethic is unparalleled. I would hate to see you Retire Impulsively. Is there…perhaps…a Delicate Situation on the job which makes you uncomfortable? The new lifeguard? Is he making Unwelcome Advances on your Person?”