Figure Eight

  “What are your plans for today?” he asks.

  I shrug as I look around our cul de sac. Some driveways are shoveled (Noah probably did them) but some aren’t, so they have that pure innocent look that untouched snow always seems to convey. Reminds me of white glitter. Pretty soon the snow will drift drown, wrapping around all the homes like blankets. For some reason that gives me a cozy feeling.

  “I don’t know,” I finally reply. “Probably watch Dr. Zhivago with my Mom.”

  Technically, it’s not a lie. Mom watches that show just as much as HSN and Law and Order: SVU. I just didn’t think it was any of his business that Jackson was coming over. My relationship with Jackson is so fragile that I protect it with everything I have. And besides, I owe Noah nothing.

  “Dr. Zhivago, eh?” He takes off his left glove and wipes the sweat from his brow. “I used to watch that all the time with my Aunt Abby.”

  “Who’s choice was it?” I find myself asking, shocked at the teasing tone in my voice.

  “Mine,” he says deadpan.

  I smile and for a millisecond I understand the allure to this man, what Tricia (and every other woman in Wildwood) finds so appealing. I look toward her house and automatically see the blinds close. Who’s the weirdo now, bitch?

  He relents, a slow smile creeping on his face. “It was my aunt’s choice.”

  “I can’t think of many boys that’d choose to watch Dr. Zhivago with their aunt.”

  “Neither can I but I was raised by her so I really didn’t have much of a choice.”

  In spite of myself I lean closer. “Really?”

  While I may be interested and nosy about his past, it’s obvious that it’s the last thing that he wants to talk about. He closes up quicker than I can blink. The wall that goes up between us is stronger than the frigid air and it’s enough for me to take a step back.

  “Well, thanks for helping with the garbage can but I should be going,” I tell him, slowly backing away.

  Noah’s gaze is impenetrable and intense. No, intense isn’t the right word. More like coercive. I wonder if this is a rare side of him that most people never truly see.

  “Have a good day,” he calls out.

  I give him a courtesy wave as I hurry toward the front door. Quickly, I stomp the snow off my boots on the doormat. There’s urgency in my actions. Like Hell is nipping at my heels. Like I have a target on my back. When the front door slams behind me, I lean heavily against it, knowing that there’s a good chance I just overreacted.

  Not even one glove off and I hear, “So how was your talk with Noah?”

  I look up and see Mom standing at the living room doorway.

  “Every day I beg you to get up and move around and you refuse, yet you somehow found your way to the window just now?” I reply as I walk past Mom.

  Mom arches a brow and patiently waits for me to answer.

  “We talked. Like neighbors.” I line my wet boots up against the wall and hang up my coat. “I’ve had more stimulating conversation with a cashier at Target, so calm down.”

  “But you hate Noah,” she points out.

  “I don’t hate him. Hate is a really strong word,” I say as I walk past her. Coffee sounds perfect right about now. “I just don’t trust him. Talking to him once doesn’t mean that I changed my mind.”

  Sure enough, I have to make a fresh batch of coffee and while I wait I lean against the counter. It’s starting to look really messy in here again. I don’t know how that’s possible. Yesterday I took out the trash and cleaned what I could to make the house look halfway decent for today.

  “What happened here?”

  Mom raises both hands. “Wasn’t me.”

  “Then who? We have Casper the Friendly Ghost living in our midst?”

  Again, Mom shrugs.

  “So,” I start out slowly, ready to change the subject. “Are you ready to meet Jackson?”

  A minute ago when I walked through the door her eyes had life in them. Her cheeks were flushed. She looked so happy. Now her smile is gone. She crosses her arms. “Oh. You’re still wanting to do that?” She says it like I’ve asked her to go skydiving. I’d like to say it doesn’t hurt, that she doesn’t mean it. But that’s a lie.

  “Of course. I really like him.”

  “Nothing can come out of it, Selah, my dear.”

  My eyes narrow. “How do you know?”

  “I’m your Mom. I know everything.”

  The coffee finishes brewing. I twist away from her and pour myself a cup. “You’ve been saying that for so long I’m beginning to think that’s your go-to saying.”

  “This time you need to really listen to me.”

  “I promise to think about it,” I say gently. “Until then, he’ll be over in a few minutes. Are you sure you don’t want to…” My voice fades as I take in Mom’s appearance. You know how over the course of time people can become nose-blind to a certain scent? Well, I’m immune to Mom’s… aroma. I never flinch at her greasy hair, foul breath and dirty clothes.

  Jackson is not immune, though. I’ll be honest, if the roles were reversed and I were meeting his mom and she was in the state my mom’s in, I’d do a U-turn and walk right out the front door.

  “Do I want to do what?” Mom prods.

  “Take a quick shower?” I suggest gently.

  “I can’t.”

  The ‘I can’t’ excuse has been used before and it’s something I will never understand. I’ve heard that people with depression sometimes find the task of taking care of themselves monumental tasks, that they just lose interest. I know this is something that she can’t help but I still find myself getting incredibly frustrated.

  “Maybe you should cancel this little get together if you’re so embarrassed of me,” Mom says, her voice hopeful.

  “It’s not a get together,” I reply, irritably. “This is really important to me.”

  Mom’s eyes soften. “If I could clean myself up for you, I would. But I can’t.” She drops her face into her hands. “I just can’t.” Her voice cracks.

  A breakdown is not what either one of us needs right now. Instantly, I’m by her side, my arm wrapped around her slender shoulder. “Mom, it’s okay,” I lie. “Don’t worry about it.”

  Some people might say that it’s bad what I’m doing, lying to Mom like this. But put yourself in my position. Watch someone you love wither away ever so slowly. Would you make them suffer worse by telling them to get their shit together or put a soothing balm on their pain?

  My choice will always be the latter.

  “Let’s go into the living room,” I say, as we move out of the messy kitchen, past the filthy dining room that’s stacked with nothing but bills.

  It takes a few minutes to get Mom calmed down. Luckily, there’s an episode of SVU on (shocker) and soon she’s back to her normal self.

  Right when I think I’ve put the fire out, the doorbell rings.

  I’d spent so much time getting Mom settled in that I completely lost track of time. Funny how that happens. When you’re desperate for it to move forward, a noose wraps itself around your ankles and drags you backwards but the moment you turn your back, the moment you become distracted, it speeds back up.

  “Everything will be okay,” I say aloud as I open up the front door. Without a jacket I feel the frigid air slam into me, and it almost makes me take a step back.

  Jackson stands in front of me, bundled up with his arms crossed. He gives me a half smile that shows me that even he’s little nervous over this awkward meeting.

  “You ready for this?” I question as I take a step back for him to walk through.

  He lifts a brow. “Are you trying to scare me?” he counters.

  “No. I’m just trying to prepare you for my mom,” I reply in a hushed voice.

  Jackson laughs and takes off his jacket and beanie. “I’m sure she’s not that bad.”

  “Oh, you have no idea,” I mutter. I take his coat and hat and put them on the coat rack.
r />   Side by side we walk through the small foyer and into the living room.

  “Mom,” I say with more bravado than I feel. She lifts her head. “This is Jackson. Jackson this is my mom, Susan Kerrington.”

  Jackson steps forward and gives her a firm handshake. “Nice to meet you,” he says, making steady eye contact.

  “You too.” Mom gestures to the couch. “Please. Sit down.”

  At the last second, I grab the wadded up blanket he’s about to sit on and toss it aside. I sit right next to him, my legs bobbing up and down. Jackson lays a hand on my knee to calm me down.

  Mom tracks the movement but says nothing.

  “It’s great to finally meet you, Ms. Kerrington.”

  In a perfect world, Mom would say, ‘Please. Call me Susie.’ But this situation is the direct opposite of perfect. The tension is so thick you can cut it with a knife.

  He tries again: “So Selah told me you’d planned on watching Dr. Zhivago today.”

  “Oh, yes.” Mom smiles. “I do love that movie and today is the perfect day to watch it. I’m surprised you’re even out in this weather.”

  “They have the roads pretty much cleared up. Besides I wouldn’t miss the chance to meet Selah’s mom. She’s said a lot of amazing things about you.”

  Well played, Jackson. Well played.

  Mom flourishes over these words, like a wilted flower that’s been neglected. They idly chat for a bit and then Jackson asks what she does.

  “I’m a teacher.”

  Jackson’s brows rise in feigned interest. I already told him this but it’s obvious he’s attempting to make the conversation run smoothly. “Oh yeah? What grade?”

  “Kindergarten.”

  Jackson whistles. “Good on you. I watched one of my nieces once and it was completely exhausting.”

  “It can be tiresome,” Mom admits. “But so rewarding. To tell you the truth, I’m thinking about retiring.”

  “What?” I say at the same time Jackson goes, “Really?”

  What the hell is she talking about?

  “This past year has been very difficult for me,” she continues. “I realize that I’m not a twenty-five-year old fresh out of college.”

  She graces Jackson with another smile. Where’s the woman who was so insistent on not meeting him? Hm? Nothing she’s saying or doing is making any sense whatsoever.

  For the rest of the conversation I remain quiet and carefully watch Mom. Jackson smoothly talks to her and the longer they speak, the deeper she falls under his spell.

  A few minutes later Mom yawns and scoots forward in her chair. “Jackson, it’s been lovely talking to you, but I’m exhausted. I’m going to take a nap.”

  Jackson stands up the same time as Mom and steps aside for her to walk past him. “It was nice meeting you,” he says.

  She stops briefly beside him and pats his shoulder. “You too.”

  I watch her walk up the stairs, still dumbfounded by Mom’s confusing statements. She can get disoriented sometimes, but never has she had been that bad. Is it Alzheimer’s? My gut tells me no, but who am I say what’s going on in that mind of hers. Either way it’s concerning as hell.

  Jackson moves closer to me. I tuck my hands into the back pockets of my jeans and tilt my head back to meet his gaze. “Thank you for being so great,” I say softly.

  He tugs at the hem of my shirt and guides me closer until I’m flush against him. Both of his hands cup my face, his fingers slightly threading through my hair. He tilts my head back. Just because I want to be closer to him, to this feeling he gives me, I wrap my arms around his waist.

  “Everything was fine. I don’t know why you were worried.”

  Yet everything isn’t fine. Something is off with Mom. It wasn’t like she was telling a bold-face lie. At one point she did think of retirement. But that moment had come and gone.

  About an hour later I walk Jackson to the door. Before he leaves he turns around and gives me one last kiss. When he pulls back I take a deep shuddering breath. “Call me later, okay?”

  “Absolutely,” he replies before he turns and walks out the door.

  I shut the door behind him and sigh loudly because I know that instead of enjoying a moment alone I need to talk to Mom. I walk up the stairs toward her room. I knock once and open the door. Mom’s lying in bed but instead of taking a nap she’s watching TV. Her face is a blank slate. Emotionless.

  “Well, that was strange,” I say.

  “It wasn’t strange. It was wrong.” She tightens the belt around her waist. “Wrong, wrong, wrong.”

  “Wrong how? That you lied to him?”

  “I didn’t lie to him!”

  “You told him that you were thinking about retiring.”

  Mom stares at me like I’m delirious. “I said no such thing.”

  Am I losing it? Have I been cooped up in this house so much that I’m now imaging things? That’s the first thing that dances through my head but I know what I heard.

  I walk deeper into the room. “Mom. I know what I heard.”

  “Well, you heard wrong. Do you hear me? Wrong, wrong, wrong.”

  I wave my hand in the air. “Stop saying the word wrong,” I say impatiently.

  Mom suddenly becomes silent.

  Crossing my arms, I walk closer to her bed. She flicks her gaze to mine and for a brief second, looks at me with pity.

  “You’re acting crazy, you know that, right?” I whisper. Mom looks momentarily hurt but I continue. “You acted strange for no reason today.” I point a shaking finger at her. “I’m trying to be happy, trying to find love, you’re trying to ruin that.”

  She could scream. She could yell. She could react in many ways. But instead, she leans forward and smiles softly. “Selah, you shouldn’t worry so much about me. Worry about your own well-being. You have it all wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong.”

  OUR FILMING PERMITS for outside shots were finally approved a few days ago.

  You’d think in a podunk city like this they’d be accepted the second we filed them, but I think everyone in Decatur was getting a kick out of bigshots being on their home turf. This was just their way of showing their power. The exterior shots of the house were done yesterday and tomorrow we’ll film where the body was found.

  All the small (and large) pieces that go into creating just one episode can sometimes make my blood boil, and now we’re down to the wire. This is always my favorite part. I never know why. Confidence grows. I know just the right questions for the interviewer to ask to get the reaction I’m searching for.

  Unfortunately, we aren’t going to get that reaction out of Selah’s Aunt Ruby. She’s sixty-one, eight years older than Susie. Ruby doesn’t fit the bossy older sibling mold, judging by how timid she is around the production crew. She never married and has no kids. She’s lived in Blue Mound (a small town thirty minutes away from Decatur) for over fifty years. In a way, her sister’s children were her children. She spoiled them rotten and was there for them when Susie just didn’t understand them. (Ruby’s words, not mine.)

  Her hair is completely gray and coated with so much hairspray you could throw a baseball at it and it would ricochet off. Laugh lines curve around her lips. Crows feet indent the skin around her eyes. She wears bright pink lipstick and refused to let the makeup artist change it, although she did cave and allow her dark blue eye shadow to be replaced with a subtler shade. Blue veins are prominent in her skinny, arthritic hands. They shake as they lay limply in her lap.

  She looks prim and proper, probably has her best Alfred Dunner outfit on, but so earnest. She smiles at every person on set. By the end of the day everyone is calling her Aunt Ruby. She basks in all the attention.

  “Aunt Ruby, this is amazing,” I say with a bit of awe.

  “It’s not too much?”

  I glance at the stack of photo albums on the table and back at Ruby. “It’s not too much. You’ve given us plenty of pictures to chose from.”

  A week ago I called Ruby and
asked if she would be willing to bring some photos along of Susie and Selah to this interview. She readily agreed. I never thought she would bring so many. Out of all the people we’re interviewing, I’m most interested in Ruby because she knew both Susie and Selah. It’s a two-for-one special with her. But I want to tread lightly, simply because she looks like such a sweet old lady.

  “What time do you think this interview will be finished?” she asks.

  “Not sure. It all depends on you. Why?”

  “Well, there’s a Hometown Buffett not too far from here and if I go after five I get my senior citizen discount.”

  I try to keep a straight face but Ruby makes it really, really hard. “We’ll get you to your buffet meal. I promise.”

  Her blue eyes widen in delight, revealing that once upon a time she wasn’t this old lady whose only friends were her cats.

  “Thank you.” She bends down and digs through her purse before she finally fishes out her wallet, loaded with coupons. She pulls one out of the stack and peers carefully at it before she tries to hand it my way. “If you want to go I think I have coupon.”

  “No, thanks. I’m all right.”

  Thankfully, a production assistant tells me we’re ready. A crewman is holding a clapperboard, signaling we’re seconds from the cameras rolling.

  And, snap.

  “Ruby, what is your relation to Susie and Selah Kerrington?”

  Aunt Ruby remembers what I told her about not staring at the camera and keeps eye contact with me. “I’m Susie’s older sister and Selah’s aunt.”

  “Take us back to the beginning; how would you describe Susie?”

  Aunt Ruby sighs wistfully. “Oh, she was a gentle soul. Our Mom always said that she’d never met a stranger that she didn’t like. Everyone gravitated toward her. Growing up, I worried for her.”

  “Why was that?”

  “I didn’t want people to take advantage of her.”