Things We Didn't Say - By Kristina Riggle Page 0,42
my throat like a logjam on a river, and one of the kids distracted us, and then it was on to the next thing. And Michael always looked so worried, as it was, about everyone else.
Michael’s touch on my shoulder jars me nearly out of my chair.
“Hey. Did you find . . . Are you okay? Are you hurt?”
I sniff hard. “I’m okay.”
“You don’t look okay.”
“I’m just tired.”
Michael leaves it alone, as I knew he would. He used to chase down my evasions, but lately he gives up the chase quickly. I used to think that’s what I wanted.
I answer his aborted question. “No, I didn’t find anything, sorry.”
He leans against my desk, staring at his feet. “You know Mallory’s spending the night, right?”
“I figured as much.”
“You okay with that?”
“How can I not be? I mean, what am I going to say?”
He says, looking down as if addressing the floorboards, “You could have just handed her the phone.”
I stand up out of my chair so quickly it rolls across the wood floor and catches on a rug.
“I’m going for a walk.”
“Casey . . .”
I’m shrugging into my coat and pulling on my boots. “What?”
“Can you leave the phone? In case . . .”
I take the phone out of my pocket with a trembling hand and rest it with care on the top of the desk, using up all my willpower not to smash it into Michael’s chest or slam it to the ground.
Outside, I notice the arguing couple is gone. I wonder if they split up, or are somewhere having makeup sex.
I have to smoke the cigarette out of the uninjured side of my mouth, like a gangster. Even so, the puffing is painful. I don’t stop, though. It’s not as simple as stopping something that hurts just because it does.
I’m not going around the block this time. I’m walking toward downtown, where there are stores, lights, people. Something other than old houses and naked trees. As I get closer, I see couples and groups walking together, laughing and talking.
I pass by the Meyer May House, a long, flat Frank Lloyd Wright design in muted brick that sprawls along the block in sharp, deliberate contrast to the vertical, flamboyant Victorian homes all around. I toured that house once, with Mrs. Turner as the docent guiding us.
When I finally go, I need to move far enough away that there won’t be landmines everywhere, explosions of memory.
This thought swells my chest with fresh agony. I don’t want to go. This morning I thought I wanted to, thought I’d be free despite the sadness, but now I know that was bravado talking. Like that old song goes: freedom only means you’ve got nothing left to lose.
Now that we’re losing Dylan I don’t want to lose any of them, even Angel, who hates me. Even Dr. and Mrs. Turner, who just think I’m a nice young girl; even the Meyer May House and Heritage Hill; the family I was supposed to have here with Michael, pushing the baby in a stroller along the leafy, narrow streets, the bigger kids all around us.
An icy wind kicks up and pricks my ears. I should have brought my hat. It’s cold even for November, now, and I’m noticing white flakes in the air. Is there snow coming? Usually Michael watches the local news with fanatic attention, making sure he’s not getting scooped. Today we didn’t even turn it on.
I duck into a store to get warm.
It’s a liquor store.
I smirk, looking down at my own shoes. I can’t even pretend to myself this is an accident. I know this neighborhood well enough, having lived here for almost a year now and taken numerous solitary walks.
I hang back from the counter, staring up at the selection. Jack is my favorite, of course, but I won’t say no to vodka, and Seagram’s 7 in a pinch will do. I used to pretend I was fancy and even have wine, with a cork and everything, though I could put away a whole bottle and only feel buzzed so it wasn’t cost-effective.
I turn to the back of the store, where the coolers are. Maybe just a beer. Not much alcohol in that, really. More alcohol in NyQuil. Even Michael opened a beer today. It’s been a stressful day. People use alcohol to relax and why not? If it’s okay to take a Valium for nerves, why not a drink?
I could handle this all better if only I could calm down.