Leaving Paradise (11 page)

twenty-one

Caleb

I swear,
my
leg almost just gave out on me. Because the last person I expected to answer the door to Mrs. Reynolds’ house was Maggie Armstrong wearing a ridiculous, oversized dress with pink and green flowers plastered all over it.

I try and grab her arm when she loses her balance, but I’m too late. Once on the floor, she refuses my outstretched hand.

“Wh . . . What are you doing here?”

“What are
you
doing here?” I ask.

“I work here after school,” she says while trying to pretend she’s content to stay sprawled on the floor.

I quickly shove my Justice Department ID in my back pocket. I double-check the address again before saying, “I’m here to see a Mrs. Reynolds. This
is
her house, isn’t it?” Maggie’s hatred is evident in her stare. “Listen, seeing you here is a surprise to me, too,” I say. “The manager at The Trusty Nail sent me. This lady’s house is the next job site on the list.”

I watch as Maggie pulls herself up. It’s painful, I can tell just by watching her fingers curl into a tight fist.

God, watching her struggle is making me sick to my stomach. Because I indirectly did this to her. “I’m sorry,” I say.

“Tell it to the judge,” she mumbles.

“I did,” I respond truthfully. Not that it mattered to Judge Farkus. The guy wanted to make me an example for all delinquents who drank then got behind the wheel of a car. “What do you want from me, Maggie?”

“I want you to leave.”

“I can’t,” I tell her.

An old lady appears from the back of the house and shuffles to the door. “You must be from the community service program,” she says.

“Yes, ma’am.” I introduce myself and hand her my community service ID for inspection. It’s a requirement to show it before entering a house.

Mrs. Reynolds scans my ID, then hands it back. “Well, come on in. This here’s Margaret, my companion. Margaret this is . . . what did you say your name was again?”

“Caleb.”

Mrs. Reynolds tells Maggie, “Caleb is going to help us. Show him to the attic and explain our project while I check on some cookies I have baking in the oven.”

I set my backpack on the ground after Mrs. Reynolds is out of sight. “Another awkward situation, huh?”

Maggie is as still as a statue.

“I wish you never came back,” she says quietly, hugging herself.

I’m tempted to leave and face Damon’s wrath for ditching community service, but I won’t. I’m stuck here with her.

“I’m not going anywhere until I finish this job for the lady.”

Maggie’s eyes widen. Her mouth opens and closes, but no words come out. She turns around and walks farther into the house.

I silently follow her up a narrow staircase on the second floor to the attic.

Maggie points to a box. “That needs to be thrown out. I’ll put boxes there and you can dispose of them.”

I nod.

We work in silence. Maggie places the boxes in the discard pile and I carry them down the stairs. Mrs. Reynolds has me stuff the boxes in huge garbage bags and then lug them to the recycle bin at the end of the driveway.

Mrs. Reynolds comes out of the kitchen and hands me a plate of cookies. “Here, bring these up to the attic. You and Maggie can share them while you work.”

I enter the attic for what seems like the hundredth time today with the cookies in hand. Maggie throws a box in my direction, but I move out of the way to avoid it. It was intentional, no doubt about it. “Watch it, will ya?” I drop the plate on a trunk in the middle of the attic.

She turns her back to me and ignores the plate.

Maggie thinks she’s the only victim in this whole mess. But I have to keep my cool. No matter what happens, I can’t let her get under my skin and let the truth come out.

“Listen, Maggie, it was an accident. If I could take back that day, I would. If I could turn back time, I would.”

She turns to me now, her head tilted to the side. “Tell me, Caleb. Why does your apology sound so hollow to me?”

I stand, speechless, as she takes the plate of cookies and leaves the attic. Why can’t this be easy? I pick up the next box and don’t look up until all the boxes are trashed.

Maggie leaves Mrs. Reynolds’ house first, but I stay behind. The old lady is in the backyard when I hand her the completion sheet and pen. “Thanks for letting me work here,” I say.

“My husband, Albert, may he rest in peace, felt it important to help out the less fortunate. Don’t get me started on the juvenile justice system or we’ll be here for weeks. You did a good job today.”

I flash her a smile of appreciation.

She starts to sign the form, but stops herself. “It says here you have experience in construction. You know . . . I may have another job for you. That is, if you’re up to it.”

“What kind of job?”

“How good are you with your hands?”

“Better than most,” I say, then chuckle.

The old lady points to a tall pile of lumber stacked in the corner of the backyard. “Okay, Mr. Better-Than-Most. You think you could build me a gazebo out of this pile of old wood? You
do
know what a gazebo is, don’t you?”

Yeah, I know what one is. Building a gazebo will take at least a couple of weeks, probably even fill up enough time to finish my community service.

What am I thinking? I can’t work with Maggie. No way. It would never work.

Although it’s not like I’d actually be working
with
her. I’ll be on my own, building the gazebo. The way Mrs. Reynolds is looking at me with confidence strengthens my bruised ego. I’m not thinking about Maggie. I’m not thinking about what’s right or wrong. I blurt out, “I can do it.” I should be honest with the lady and tell her about why I was convicted. And, more importantly, who I was convicted of hitting. “Mrs. Reynolds, I have to be honest with you . . .”

As if on cue, the phone rings. The old lady takes her cane and hurries into the house. “Just come back tomorrow and we’ll finish our conversation then.”

So now I run to catch the bus because I’m late. When I get on, Maggie is sitting up front so I head for the rear.

The fifteen-minute bus ride seems like an hour. At our stop, we’re the only two left on the bus. We get off and I let her lead the way while I follow behind.

My sister is outside. The expression on her face when she sees Maggie and me walking up the street together is priceless.

“Did you just come home with Maggie?” Leah asks, following me into the house.

“We were on the same bus. Don’t get all hyped up about it.”

“Don’t get all hyped up about what?” my mom says, coming into the room in the middle of a conversation I don’t want her to know anything about.

“It’s nothing,” I tell Mom, then narrow my eyes at my sister and say through clenched teeth so only she can hear, “so stop making a big deal about it.”

Leah runs up to her room and slams her door shut. My mom goes back into the kitchen, totally oblivious.

The Beckers are a picture-perfect family. A picture-perfect, royally-fucked-up family.

twenty-two

Maggie

On Monday I head for the bus after school. As I step into the aisle, I catch sight of Caleb already sitting in the back. It was bad enough working side by side in that small attic last week. If I have to work with him again I’ll quit.

But then I won’t be going to Spain.

And if I don’t go to Spain, I won’t be leaving Paradise next semester.

And if I don’t leave Paradise next semester, Caleb and his friends will be laughing all the way to prom while I sit home and prove them right.

Maybe he’s not going to Mrs. Reynolds’ house today and I’m going off on unnecessary tangents for no reason. Maybe he’s working somewhere else doing odd jobs. But as he follows me into Mrs. Reynolds’ backyard, my fears are realized.

“Now come inside, both of you. Irina brought over some pie.” Mrs. Reynolds walks into the house, not realizing that neither me nor Caleb has followed her.

“Took you long enough,” Mrs. Reynolds says when I enter the kitchen. “Here, I cut some pie for both of you.”

I sit down at the kitchen table and stare at the pie. Normally I’d dig right in, but I can’t. Caleb walks in and sits across from me. I focus my attention in the opposite direction, as if the painting of the fruit bowl on the wall is the most interesting object I’ve ever laid eyes on.

“Margaret, remember you told me I should have that gazebo built?”

“Yeah,” I answer cautiously.

Mrs. Reynolds holds her chin up. “Well, Caleb is going to help make that a reality. It may take a few weeks, but—”

A few weeks? “If he stays, I quit,” I blurt out. A few
weeks?

I hear the clink of Caleb’s fork hitting the plate, then he stands and storms out of the room.

Mrs. Reynolds puts her hands on either side of her face and says, “Margaret, what is all this nonsense about you quitting? Why?”

“I can’t work with him, Mrs. Reynolds. He did this to me,” I cry.

“Did what, child?”

“I went to jail for hitting Maggie with my car while I was drunk,” Caleb says, reappearing in the doorway.

Mrs. Reynolds makes some tsking noises, then says, “My, my, we are in a pickle, aren’t we?”

I look up at Mrs. Reynolds with pleading eyes. “Just make him leave.”

I can tell she’s going to do it, she’s going to tell Caleb to get out.

Mrs. Reynolds walks up to Caleb and says, “You have to understand that my first priority is Margaret. I’ll call the senior center and have them contact your community service officer.”

“Please, Mrs. Reynolds,” Caleb tells her, his voice pleading. “I just want to finish the job and just . . . be free again.”

Mrs. Reynolds looks back at me, her wise eyes telling me more than words could say.
Forgive
.

I can’t forgive. I’ve tried. If he’d innocently lost control of the car and hit me, it would have been forgivable. I don’t know how innocent the accident was. God, I can’t believe in my heart of hearts he deliberately hit me with the car. But too many questions have gone unanswered.

Questions I want to remain unanswered.

They said he left me lying in the street as if I were an animal.
That
is unforgivable. I don’t know if I can ever get over it.

Because it reminds me too much of what my father did. He left me without looking back. And worse, Caleb destroyed the one chance I had to impress my dad. I push my way past Caleb and head to the attic, a place that’s dark, secluded, and private. I’m not even thinking about black widow spiders as I open the attic door and hobble inside.

Gosh, I used to worship the ground Caleb walked on. He was tall, handsome . . . clearly one of the populars, where Leah’s and my status teetered on the edge. As if that wasn’t enough, nothing ever bothered the guy. Maybe it’s because guys like him always get what they want, they never have to work hard for anything. Maybe, deep down, I’m glad he’s having a hard time. And deep down I know it’s selfish for me to think this way. I shouldn’t thrive on someone else’s unhappiness.

But as the saying goes, misery likes company. And I feel miserable, inside and out. Isn’t it fair that the person who’s miserable with me is the guy who made me this way?

Mrs. Reynolds followed me, I can tell by the powdery scent that travels with her.

“This is a mighty interesting place to hide out. I thought you were afraid of spiders.”

“I am, but in the dark I can’t see them. Is he gone?” I ask hopefully.

She shakes her head. “We need to talk.”

“Do I have to?”

“Let’s just put it this way. You’re not leaving the attic until you hear me out.”

Defeated, I sit on one of the trunks. “I’m listening.”

“Good.” She takes a seat on the chair, still left here from the other day. “I had one sibling,” she says. “A sister named Lottie. She was younger than me, smarter than me, prettier than me, with long, slender legs and thick, black hair.”

Mrs. Reynolds looks up at me and continues. “You see, I was the fat kid with bright red hair, the kid you look at and have to stop yourself from cringing. During summer break from college one year, I brought a boy to my parents’ summer home. I’d lost weight, I wasn’t in my sister’s shadow anymore, and I finally started feeling like I was worth more than I ever thought I deserved.”

I can picture it in my mind. “So you overcame your fears and fell in love?”

“I fell in love, all right, head over heels. His name was Fred.” Mrs. Reynolds pauses, then sighs. “He treated me as though I was the most amazing girl he’d ever seen. Well, he did until my sister came to the summer house for a surprise visit.” She looks directly at me and shrugs. “I found him kissing her by the docks the morning after she arrived.”

“Oh my God.”

“I hated her, blamed her for stealing my boyfriend. So I packed up, left, and never talked to either one of them again.”

“You never talked to your sister again?” I ask. “Ever?”

“I didn’t even attend their wedding two years later.”

My mouth drops open. “She married Fred?”

“You got it. Had four kids, too.”

“Where are they now?”

“I got a call from one of their kids that Lottie died a few years ago. Fred’s in a nursing home with Alzheimer’s. You know what the worst part is?”

I’m riveted by her story. “What?”

Mrs. Reynolds stands, then pats me on my knee. “That, my dear, is what you’re going to have to figure out all by yourself.”

“You think Caleb should stay and build the gazebo, don’t you?” I ask when she starts walking to the door.

“I’ll leave that decision up to you. He won’t go back to jail if it doesn’t work out, I would never let that happen. I just figure he’s a boy who wants to right his wrongs, Margaret. He’s waiting downstairs for your answer.”

She walks out of the attic. I hear her orthopedic shoes shuffling as she takes each stair. Can I just stay here forever, living with the spiders and cobwebs and antique trunks filled with an old lady’s memories?

I know the answer, even as I stand and head down the stairs to face the one person I’ve been dying to avoid.

He’s sitting on the couch in the living room, leaning forward with his elbows resting on his knees. When he hears me enter the room, he looks up. “Well?”

I can tell he’s not happy I have the control. Caleb used to always have the cards and knew which ones to play to get his way. Not this time. I’d love to tell him to leave. That’s his punishment for not loving me back. But I know that would be idiotic, childish, and stupid. Besides, I don’t love Caleb anymore. I don’t even like him. I’m convinced he can’t hurt me anymore, physically or emotionally. “You can stay.”

He nods and starts to stand.

“Wait. I have two conditions.”

His eyebrows raise up.

“One, you don’t tell anyone about us working together. Two, you don’t talk to me . . . I ignore you and you ignore me.”

I think he’s going to argue because his lip curls up and his eyebrows furrow as if he thinks I’m an idiot.

But then he says, “Fine. Done deal,” and heads to the backyard.

I find Mrs. Reynolds in the kitchen, sitting at the table drinking tea.

“I told him he could stay,” I inform her.

Mrs. Reynolds gives me a small smile. “I’m proud of you.”

“I’m not.”

“You’ll get over it,” she says. “You ready to plant more bulbs today?”

I pull old, worn overalls out of my backpack so I can spare myself from having to wear the muumuu.

Caleb’s back is to me when I walk outside. Good. I take a bag of bulbs and slowly, carefully sit on the grass. With a small shovel in hand, I start digging.

“Don’t forget, Margaret. Six inches deep,” Mrs. Reynolds says from behind, leaning over me to inspect my work.

“Got it, six inches.”

“And make sure you place the bulbs right-side up.”

“Okay,” I say.

“And scatter them. Don’t place them in a pattern or else it looks funny.”

The old lady takes a lawn chair and places it right next to me so she can oversee my work.

“Why don’t you supervise him?” I ask, pointing to where Caleb has taken panels of wood and seems to be attempting to put them in some kind of order.

“He’s doing just fine. Besides, I don’t know the first thing about building a gazebo.”

I dig three holes, carefully make soft soil pillows for them, then place the bulbs into the holes and scoot myself down to plant more. After a while Mrs. Reynolds falls asleep in the chair. She usually does this at least once a day, and when I tell her she dozed off for an hour, she totally denies it. I’m surprised she can sleep with all the hammering Caleb’s doing, but the lady hears, as she more often than not admits, like the dead.

I glance up at Caleb. He’s a fast worker, already starting to nail planks together as if he builds gazebos every day. His shirt is soaking wet from sweat in his armpits, chest, and back. And it obviously doesn’t bother him that one of my conditions is that we ignore each other. He does an incredible job of ignoring me. I don’t think he’s even glanced in my direction once.

But now he stops hammering, his back still to me when he yells, “Would you stop staring at me?”