Authors: Ranae Rose
“At least it’s only temporary – just until you find a job, right? Then you’ll be living here in the city.” She flashed a broad grin. “And you’ll have an awesome friend to keep you company.”
“That’s true. I can’t wait.”
For a few moments, they folded laundry in silence that was occasionally interrupted by Isabel’s coos.
“So what’s so terrible about Willow Heights, anyway?”
Clementine looked up, dropping the towel she’d just folded into the basket. “There was a flash flood on Monday – the day I arrived. It damaged the townhouse I’m supposed to be living in, so I’ve been staying in my grandmother’s old house, which is now owned by my old boyfriend.” It sounded even weirder when she said it out loud, and the explanation she’d given was only the tip of the iceberg.
“Wow.” Jackie’s eyes widened. “Okay, that’s weird. I gather things are tense?”
“To put it mildly. Donovan is … intense.”
A glimmer of curiosity passed through Jackie’s eyes, but when Clementine didn’t elaborate, she didn’t press.
Repressing a sigh of relief, Clementine folded a stack of baby shirts, taking extra care to arrange the tiny sleeves just so. For a few fleeting seconds, she considered explaining her situation with Donovan to Jackie, maybe asking for advice.
No sooner had the idea crossed her mind than she decided against it. It wasn’t really something that could be explained, wasn’t something that could be put into perspective with a pat answer or a well-meant suggestion. The only point in telling Jackie about her troubles with Donovan would be to get things off her chest, and she didn’t want to do that. Deep down, she wanted to hold the matter – problems and all – close, to keep it all to herself instead of exposing it to the scrutiny of another, even a friend.
She didn’t want to hear that everything would be all right, because she knew it wouldn’t. And she definitely didn’t want to hear that it was a lost cause, that she should turn away and forget about Donovan. Because she couldn’t. She was stuck in limbo, lost half in the past and half in the present with no light at the end of the tunnel. And it was comforting, in a way. At least she was lost with Donovan, instead of without him.
“Do you have anyone else you can stay with?” Jackie asked eventually.
“No. My mom and step-father live in town, but I’m avoiding them like the plague, same as always.”
Jackie nodded. She and Clementine had been friends for years; Clementine hadn’t told her everything, but Jackie knew Clementine wasn’t on good terms with her mother and step-father.
“Done.” Clementine folded the last receiving blanket. “Now sit back and relax – if you’re taking me out for drinks, the least I can do is play nanny for a while.” She lifted Isabel, cradling her against her chest as she stood.
Jackie beamed, leaning back against the nearby sofa. “I’m going to have to invite you over more often.”
She looked so happy that Clementine’s resolve not to talk about her issues with Donovan doubled. There was no reason to bring anyone else down; she’d keep her secrets to herself, just like she had her grief during her college years, when she and Jackie had first become friends. Some things weren’t meant to be shared, were too twisted to ask a friend to help you sort through.
* * * * *
The city faded quickly, mirage-like in the rearview mirror as Clementine drove for Pennsylvania. Three days in DC had been energizing and exhausting at the same time. She’d enjoyed her time with Jackie, but all the while, worry over Donovan had filled the darker spaces of her mind and heart. Why did it feel like she’d left a ticking time bomb behind in her grandmother’s old house?
Desperate for reassurance that he was all right but not wanting to be obvious or insulting, she’d called his garage the day before, pretending to have forgotten how often it was that she was supposed to have her car’s oil changed.
“Changed it for you when I put those tires on,” Donovan had said. “You’re good to go for another three thousand miles. Wrote it on the sticker.”
Feigning relief, she hadn’t prolonged the conversation. After ending the call she’d looked up at the sticker in the upper left hand corner of her windshield, where Donovan’s bold print did indeed reflect the update. As mundane as the information was, she’d stared for a full minute, visually tracing the hard strokes and angles of his handwriting.
Familiar. Precious.
A knot had formed in her throat as she’d recalled emptying her shoebox of hand-written notes on her narrow dorm bed during freshman year – reading through them one by one, wishing she was destined again for an evening at the quarry instead of a night of studying and nine AM Principals of Economics.
So now she knew – she didn’t have to be in Willow Heights to feel the vise-grip of the past locked around her heart, to miss him so badly it hurt. The reawakened longing had followed her to the capital, had fermented in the dark corners of her consciousness while the city lights had shone on her face and illuminated everything around her. So much for distance cooling the irrational impulses Donovan constantly tempted her to act on.
On the other hand, he’d seemed fine when she’d spoken to him on the phone. He’d been at work, not in the hospital or lying in a ditch somewhere – maybe her fears had been exaggerated. Maybe her time away had cleared
his
head if not hers.
The thought was bittersweet, though it should’ve been a relief. Her mind kept whirling with things he’d said – about wanting her, about letting her doctor his foot just to feel her touch. Had it all been a reaction to the shock of their unexpected reunion? Had a couple days away from her cleared the frenzy of emotion from his mind, and if it had, would her wayward emotions eventually settle too?
She was still wondering when she pulled into the driveway.
Donovan’s truck wasn’t there. No surprise, considering that it was one-thirty on a Saturday afternoon. Knowing his obsessive personality, he probably worked at least six days a week.
She didn’t have a key of her own, but remembering what he’d said, she knelt beside the door, reaching for the brick that stuck out just a little further than the others.
It came loose with a familiar scrape, revealing a gap.
The key was right where Donovan had said it would be. So was something else.
The rough-soft brush of paper rasped against her fingertips and sent an arrow of urgency straight through the center of her chest. Hand tingling, she dropped the key and groped for a hold on the paper.
She didn’t question the strangeness of the thrill that went through her or the fact that she was just as eager to devour the note’s contents as she had been when she’d retrieved missives from behind the brick at fifteen. She simply opened it, fingers slipping against creases – old creases.
How long had the note been waiting behind the brick? Obviously longer than a day, or two or three. Upon closer inspection, it was clear that the paper had been folded for a long time, flattened to almost nothing and badly dog-eared. There were even fine specks of brick dust that had been pressed into the paper, crimson flecks permanently smattered among blue lines.
C,
the note began, as they always had,
Tonight’s my last night in Willow Heights. I’ll arrive at Parris Island tomorrow, and be there for a while.
Don’t know how to write you – no one will give me an address. Don’t know if you want me to write, but if you give enough of a damn to read this, then at least send me an envelope with a return address so I can mail you another one.
My mom should have my address by the time you read this and will give it to you if you ask. I told her I’d send money if she did, so her word should mean something, for once.
D
No date was needed – the note said it all, and the paper had grown inflexible enough to verify the fact that seven years had passed between the time Donovan had planted it behind the brick and now. Refolding the paper and closing her fist around it, she rose with the key in hand, fingers cold against the metal.
Inside the kitchen, she tried not to think of Donovan in uniform, tried not to wonder whether he’d waited for his name to be read during mail call, whether he’d waited – hoped – for an empty envelope with her college address on it.
He hadn’t even expected her to write. He’d wanted to write to
her
, to send letters from Parris Island to Columbia University, where she’d been secretly crying her eyes out between classes while he’d crawled through mud and thrown grenades and whatever else they did in Marine Corps boot camp. And she knew no one else had written to him, knew no one else had read his letters, if he’d even sent any out.
It was the little things that hurt the most – like paper cuts. Thinking of him letterless on Parris Island was more agonizing than imagining him in Afghanistan, for some reason. Maybe because she knew a little of what it was like to be alone in a strange place without anyone to call a friend yet, all the while yearning for someone who was somewhere else.
Hating herself for being like everyone else, for letting him down, she shoved the note into her purse and pulled out her phone.
“Hello, Ms. Haviland? It’s Clementine Lettvin again. Amanda’s cousin?”
The woman seemed to recall her, but didn’t sound happy to be hearing from her for the second day in a row.
“I was hoping you could give me an update on the townhouse’s repair status.”
“Okay,” she said a moment later, her heart sinking whenever the landlord evaded her attempts to nail down an estimated completion date. “Thank you.”
So much for that plan. Pulling her suitcase by the retractable handle, she headed for the stairs. Tonight would be another night spent in her old bedroom – the one she’d shared with Donovan not once but twice.
He’d changed it in her absence – moved back in, it looked like. His green pack was back in one corner and a box of the same color rested in the center of the bed. Letters, stenciled in yellow, stood out bold and square on its side.
200 Cartridges
, the first line read, and the second was meaningless to her – military abbreviations.
Ammunition. 200 rounds. Her heart sped as she remembered Donovan wielding a knife in his sleep. Did he own a gun? It would only take one bullet to have devastating consequences. And she’d thought she’d made the house a little safer by hiding his knife…
She sank onto the bed, prying back the ammo box’s snaps.
The contents weren’t what she’d expected. The container was only half full, and there was no metal – only paper.
Breathing a sigh, she slipped a hand inside, pushing it through layers of paper until her fingertips scraped the bottom. Convinced that there was no secret store of ammunition or even a weapon, she leaned back.
In the absence of fear, curiosity made her spine prickle. An envelope protruded from the assortment of administrative-looking paperwork, and though the cursive script visible on one corner was nothing like Donovan’s handwriting, it was familiar.
Pulling the envelope from the box, she scanned the return address, her heartbeat spiking.
Viola Melvin
110 Meadowlark Lane
Willow Heights, PA
It was her grandmother’s address – the address of the house she currently sat in, snooping through Donovan’s things.
All scruples now firmly by the wayside, she slid a finger under the envelope’s flap, freeing the sheet of paper within.