One Foot in the Grave

  My head’s spinning, and I just want to turn around and run. Run from Abby, run from Hayden, run from Jacob and the accusation I see in his girlfriend’s eyes, run from everyone who thinks I’m a freak. Then Abby fades and the icy feeling falls from the air.

  “We found Riley,” Jacob answers.

  I look back at him, then to Jami. “Hi.” I force a smile.

  “Yeah,” Jami says giving me the evil eye. “Can we move on now?” She turns her glare on Jacob.

  “Yeah,” he says but he looks at me as if to apologize.

  I watch them walk off. I hear Dex say the word “mortician” and then laughter. I remain there, my hand on the car holding myself up.

  Jacob and Dex stop at the car two spaces down to check out the engine. Jami swings around and hotfoots back to me. She glares at me and says, “He’s taken. So back off, bitch.”

  “I haven’t . . . I don’t . . . I know he’s . . .” But holy hell, what did I do to deserve being called a bitch?

  “Good,” she says and sashays off.

  I gulp down some air. I see Dad, standing alone, staring right at me on the other side of the car.

  He comes over. “What’s that about?”

  “Nothing,” I say.

  “Really?” From his expression, I can see he’s not buying it. He probably heard the “bitch” comment.

  “She’s screwed up in the head,” I seethe out. “She thinks I’m trying to steal her boyfriend.”

  “The boy in the burgundy jacket?” he asks.

  “Yeah.” I rub my hands up and down my hips, then sit down. I’m tempted to beg him to leave now, but then he’ll know just how upset I am.

  “Maybe it’s her boyfriend she needs to speak to.” Dad drops down in the chair.

  I look at him. “What’s that mean?”

  “He was hitting on you.”

  “Was not!”

  “I’m a guy. Guys know.”

  “You’re an old guy. Young guys do it differently.”

  He just grins. “Fine, believe what you want.”

  I suddenly remember Hayden and I look over. He’s still there. He still looks upset. He fades.

  “I just found out that there’s a bigger car show not this Friday but the next in Dayton. I told the guy we might show up.”

  I nod then grab my book and pretend to read. In reality, I’m too revved up to put words together. I might be sitting in the chair, but my heart’s beating to an aerobic tune.

  In a few minutes, Dad gets up. “I’m going to get us something to eat. You want a hotdog and fries?”

  “Yeah,” I say, even though it feels as if my stomach has shut down for business.

  Dad walks away. I see people ambling up to my car. I’m so past wanting to talk to anyone that I bury my nose deeper in the book.

  The men talk amongst themselves. I squirm and wiggle my butt in the lounge chair and continue to fume about my crazy, insane life. How the frack did I get myself in this mess?

  I’m staring at row upon row of words that I’m not reading when I hear someone plop down in Dad’s chair. And it doesn’t sound like Dad’s plop.

  Don’t let it be Jami. Please don’t let it be Jami.

  I lower my book just a smidgen and cautiously glance over the novel. My mouth falls open.

  It’s not Jami. But it might be worse.

  “Hi,” Kelsey says.

  My heart speeds up. “Hi.” I drop my book in my lap.

  She looks over at the Mustang. “Cool car.” She plays with her necklace resting on her shirt. I see what it is: a black fist on Pan-African continent.

  “Thanks.” I offer the mandatory politeness and then ask, “What are you doing here?”

  “I came to see you. You want to hear something weird?”

  As if I’m not up to my ass crack in weird. “You mean besides the fact that you knew I was here?”

  “Please, that was easy. You drive a cool car and this place is where people with cool cars hang out.”

  I nod. I guess that makes sense.

  “So,” she says. “The weird thing is that we got a letter from an insurance company.”

  She pauses as if for effect. And it works. I’m affected.

  I swear she’s studying me to see my reaction. I try real hard not to react, yet my heart just stops. I manage to control the outside. I don’t even blink. But inside is a different story. My voice of reason is screaming, You’re so screwed. So completely, thoroughly screwed.

  Kelsey continues, “It was addressed to my grandmother and contains information about a life insurance policy.” She lifts a brow at me.

  I manage to squeeze out a few words. “What’s weird about that?”

  Was that convincing? I feel as if it was convincing, but I can’t be sure. My voice of reason is probably right. I’m so screwed.

  “You see,” she continues. “We go to the insurance company today because the letter says my grandmother needed to pick up a copy of her life insurance policy.” She leans in. Up shoots the brow again.

  “I still don’t see that as weird,” I say.

  She leans back in the chair. “Yeah, here’s the thing. They look at the letter and say it wasn’t from them, someone forged their logo, and it doesn’t even look like the letter was really mailed. All I can think about is seeing you that night. You putting an envelope in my mailbox.”

  My career in forgery is so freaking over.

  Panic in my chest starts partying again. “I . . . I told you it had fallen out of your mailbox.”

  “Yeah, that’s what you say. But this is where it gets weirder. I could swear I saw an envelope in your hand before you knelt down.”

  “Have . . . have you had your eyes checked lately?”

  She stares at me then laughter spills from her. I’m not sure what kind of laugh it is. I’m not sure if she’s being facetious. I’m not sure I can handle facetious. I’m not sure my heart will ever beat again after this crazy fracked up day.

  “You know I don’t buy that, don’t you?” she says.

  “Well, what do you buy?”

  “Good question, I think I buy—” Footsteps draw near.

  Dad walks up. Air catches in my throat. My gaze shoots back to Kelsey. Please don’t say anything. Please.

  Chapter Seven

  I swear Kelsey reads my mind. Then just like that, I’m not so sure that’s a good thing. If she knows I don’t want my dad to hear our conversation, will that lead her to blurt it out even faster? I’ve just shown her my kryptonite. I’m an idiot.

  “Hi, it’s Kelsey, right?” my dad says.

  “Hi Mr. Smith. Yes, it’s Kelsey. Thank you for everything you did for my grandmother.”

  “You’re welcome,” he says with a touch of pride and looks at me. “I’m so glad we came here today. I’m meeting all of your friends.”

  Friends? I was called a bitch and practically threatened by a girl who thinks I’m after her boyfriend. Now Kelsey is trying to . . . To do what? Blackmail me? I don’t even know what she’s trying to do, other than make me admit to something that will make me the laughing stock of Catwalk, Texas.

  “Who else stopped by?” Kelsey asks me.

  I mentally plead the fifth and don’t answer.

  “Jacob?” She looks at me for confirmation that she guessed right. I don’t breathe a word—probably because my lungs are on strike again—but she somehow knows. “Really?”

  I still don’t say a word.

  Dad looks down at the hotdog-scented bag he’s holding. “Why don’t you two eat these and I’ll go get me another one.”

  “Thank you, Sir, but I need to head out. I just stopped by to . . .” Her gaze lands back on me. She’s doing it again, lifting an eyebrow and pausing for effect, and it’s still working. “To say hello.”

  “Well, stop by anytime. You know where we live, don’t you?”

  “Yes, I do,” she says and I almost ask how, then I start praying she’s lying. But my gut says she’s not. She knows where I l
ive. She knows I’m lying about the letter. Does she know I talk to ghosts?

  Staring at me, almost smiling, she says, “We’ll talk later.” I’m not sure if that’s a promise or a threat.

  Yup, my voice of reason hit the nail on the head. I’m screwed.

  • • •

  Sunday morning, I roll over and stare at the swirling ceiling fan. My stomach grumbles, reminding me I barely ate any of my hotdog dinner last night. Dad and I stopped by an ice cream shop on the way home last night, but I guess my belly doesn’t consider that double hot fudge sundae, with extra fudge, real food.

  Sometimes a girl just has to have chocolate.

  Footsteps echo up the hall and a knock sounds on my bedroom door.

  “Yeah,” I say.

  Dad pokes his head in. “I thought I’d go try out the church in the front of the neighborhood. Do you want to join me?”

  “Uh, not really. Can I just hang here?”

  “Sure,” he says, the word ending on a note of disappointment. Dad’s not what I would call a religious person, but more Sundays than not, he attends church. He always encourages me to go, too. I do sometimes, but right now I have a bone to pick with the higher power.

  Why me? Why am I the lucky one who gets to talk to the dead? Isn’t he, or she, the one in charge? Shouldn’t that be taken care of by someone who knows what the hell they’re doing?

  “Maybe next week,” Dad says. “I think I’ll head on out now and stop for a cup of coffee.”

  I nod.

  “Oh, I’m planning on stopping at the funeral home to make sure Ms. Duarte is on top of the funeral today. I should be back around two. Order something in if you can’t find anything to eat. We’ll go grocery shopping when I get back.”

  “Okay,” I say and watch him close the door. I stay in bed and listen to him leave. I want to go back to sleep, but I don’t think I can. My empty stomach screams “Feed me!” I stand up.

  The room goes quiet too quickly. I send out my feelers for a drop in the temperature and look around. No cold, just an eerie silence. Neither Hayden or Abby dropped by last night. I’m not complaining. I needed a reprieve, but part of me knows they aren’t going anywhere until things are solved. And I’m the one expected to solve shit.

  With Hayden, I think it might just be talking the whole dead thing through. With Abby . . . ? I keep remembering what she said about finding the truth. Is there something else she needs besides getting her ring?

  I kind of hope so, because me taking off for a two-hour drive across Texas isn’t likely.

  Still wearing my sleep pants and big t-shirt, I go downstairs. Pumpkin and I share a bowl of cereal. He likes the pink marshmallows. So I set three on the table to keep him from sticking his face in my bowl. I love the cat, but not enough to eat with him. I mean, I’ve seen him lick his butt. And ever since then I try not to let him kiss me on the lips.

  Still hungry, I go to pour myself another bowl, but there’s barely any left. Dad’s right. We need groceries. I grab a Rice Krispies Treat. Rice is healthy, right? I stop short of counting my carbs.

  I hear a weird chiming noise. At first I don’t have a freaking clue what it is. Then I realize it’s the doorbell. I don’t think it’s rung since we’ve lived here. Yeah, that speaks to my popularity.

  Who the hell could it . . . ? I remember Kelsey. Remember her saying she knew where I live. Remember her threat that we’d talk later.

  Oh shit!

  I shoot into the formal dining room, go to the blind-covered window and very carefully peer out the corner that gives me a clear shot to the front door.

  Sure as hell, it’s Kelsey.

  I let the blinds snap back into place and take off to the kitchen. Once in there, I hide on the other side of the refrigerator.

  The doorbell chimes again.

  Go away. Go away! I slide down the wall.

  My butt hits the cold floor. My bare feet press against the chilled tile. I rest my head on my knees. After last night, I should have been contemplating what to say to her. Should have made a plan, but nope.

  All of the sudden I feel something. I pop my eyes open, pretty sure . . . Yup. Hayden’s kneeling down in front of me. For one second I forget about the doorbell. I forget because I can swear I feel his breath. His breath on my lips. As if he’s breathing. But that’s not possible, is it? Or have they all breathed and I just didn’t notice? My mind flips from breathing to . . . kissing.

  His mouth is so close.

  “Someone’s at your door,” he says.

  “Duh,” I say. “I know.”

  “Why are you hiding?” he asks.

  My frustration shoots up and I’m sure my blood pressure goes with it. “Why do you think I’m hiding?”

  “Why don’t you want to talk to her?”

  The doorbell chimes again, sending my panic up a notch. “Because I think she knows.”

  “Knows what?”

  “That I’m a freak,” I snap.

  He makes a face. “Why are you a freak?”

  “Don’t be an idiot! I talk to you, don’t I?”

  He frowns. “So talking to me makes you a freak?”

  “Yes!”

  Hurt flashes in his eyes. He’s offended.

  Of course he’s offended. That was mean.

  Damn, I just hurt a dead guy who has enough shit on his plate because he’s . . . dead. How rude can I get?

  “Sorry,” he says.

  Before I toss out my own heartfelt apology he’s gone. I stare at my toes, my one polka- dotted big toe, and I want to cry.

  Fracking hell! I look up to the ceiling. “See,” I say speaking to anyone up “there” listening. “I suck at this. Please, just fire my ass and find someone better.”

  • • •

  That night the hot spray of water hits my shoulders and I stand there trying to relax. Today hasn’t been a gem of a day. Not that it couldn’t have been worse.

  Kelsey finally gave up and left. Dad came home and we went out for an early dinner and grocery shopping. We both put away the groceries, then decided to watch the beginning of a new show on Netflix.

  When it ended, it was ten. Dad went to his room. I came up to shower and get ready for tomorrow.

  Tomorrow when I won’t be able to hide and will be forced to see Kelsey. What to say to her has been brewing in the back of my mind all day. But I have nothing. That’s when I decided on a plan.

  My plan’s . . . nothing.

  I’ll say nothing. Act as if nothing happened. I’ll keep my mouth shut until . . . What’s that saying Dad uses? Until the cows come home. Though I don’t know when the cows get home. Hopefully, not early.

  Only when I feel in jeopardy of turning into a prune do I cut off the water. I start to step out, then stop and peer cautiously out of the shower curtain. Since my near-naked experience with Hayden, I’ve been extra careful.

  The bathroom appears empty, but I still snatch my robe off a hook and wrap it around me before stepping out. I’m almost in my room when I hear it.

  Clink. Clink. Clink.

  Dad’s getting ice again. I close my eyes and lean against the hall wall. It doesn’t mean anything, I tell myself. He could be getting juice, water, tea.

  I start to walk into my bedroom when suddenly I can’t.

  Not knowing is killing me. Sticking my head in the sand isn’t helping anything.

  I turn around and tiptoe down the stairs.

  Chapter Eight

  I get to the landing and listen. I hear him. I turn the corner and stop in the archway between the living room and the kitchen.

  He’s standing at the sink, staring at the drain, as if debating if he should dispose of the glass’s contents.

  “Hey,” I say.

  He swings around, several pieces of ice are tossed out of his glass into the sink. “Riley . . . You scared me. What are you doing?”

  “Wondering what you’re doing.” I rub my palms down my hip.

  “Oh, I’m . . . just getti
ng some water. Is something wrong?”

  I stare at his glass. It looks empty save for the ice. “Why don’t you get a bottle of water?” Accusation dances on my question, while my heart aches from love, hurt, and concern.

  “Because I like ice.” He studies me. “You okay?”

  I start to say it. To ask if he’s drinking, but I suddenly feel like I’m completely overreacting. He’s been fine these last few days. I reach up and run my fingers through my wet hair. “Fine. I’m going to bed.”

  “Me too,” he says and sounds relieved.

  I take one step then turn back around. He’s still standing there, staring at me. “I love you, Daddy.” My throat tightens.

  “I love you too, baby.” Now he looks concerned.

  I take off up the stairs before I start crying. When I get to the top I stop and listen. I swear I hear the ice being dumped into the sink.

  I stop myself from making conclusions and I go into my room. I get into my bed. My chest is tight. I cut the lamp off and stare into the dark. After rolling over for the tenth time, I give up. I shoot out of bed, turn the overhead light on, and dig the box out of my closet.

  I sit on the bed and pull out Mom’s photos and her diary.

  I go through the pictures one at a time, staring at her face. Missing her so much it hurts. Then I pick up the diary and read. I get to the part where she wrote about confronting my dad about his drinking.

  At least he didn’t deny it. I hope he meant what he said about getting help. I refuse to live with a drunk. It would be like living with my sorry ass daddy again.

  I put the book down. When I was ten and started hearing about my friends going to see their grandmothers, I asked Dad if I had any grandparents. He told that he and my mom had been only children and born late in their parents’ lives. So both sets of my grandparents had passed away before I was three.

  In other words, death cheated me out of both grandparents and a mom. Now some higher power puts me in charge of helping dead people. How is that fair?

  I realize I’m crying. I push the box to the end of the bed, curl up on my side, hug a pillow, and let the tears flow.