Authors: Laurie Plissner
Ben looked at his watch. “I have to go soon, but I can stay for a few minutes. Tea would be good.”
He leaned against the kitchen counter, watching me measure out the tea, fill a pitcher with milk. We stood on opposite sides of the vast granite island, waiting for the water to boil. I crossed my arms protectively over my chest. Now that I was safely back home, and I had nearly accepted Ben’s psychic ability, my mind was free to focus on my embarrassment. My ears felt hot, and my cheeks burned. Was there any possibility that this person had X-ray vision as well as super mind powers? At this point, I was ready to believe anything.
“No, I can’t see through your clothes, silly. Who do you think I am, Superman?”
If you can see into my mind, I don’t think it’s much of a stretch to imagine you seeing through my clothes. And you did see me
. I hugged my body even tighter.
I don’t even know you
.
No one except the doctor had seen that much of me, and four years of being stranded on the social equivalent of a desert island had made me unnaturally shy.
“Don’t be ridiculous. You have no reason to be embarrassed. It was only for a second, but yes, I did look at you, and you’re beautiful.” He smiled, showing even white teeth.
Beautiful was not an adjective usually associated with me, and having no idea how to accept a compliment, I stared at the steam rising out of the kettle.
“I didn’t think you could get any redder, but you just did. Sorry. I’m a seventeen-year-old guy, and it’s genetically impossible for me to look away from a half-naked girl. It’s a fatal flaw, but I hope you can forgive me. Maybe if I take off my shirt for you, we can call it even.”
Before I could think of a response, Ben removed his shirt, and his torso was just as I had imagined, looking like the giant black-and-white photographs at the front of the Abercrombie & Fitch store. An unfamiliar, but not unpleasant, ache radiated in the pit of my stomach. I tried to suppress the thought that I wanted to run my hands across his smooth chest. As convenient as this ESP thing was, it was impossible to filter my thoughts, and I couldn’t hide these sudden and inappropriate impulses. I’m sure he heard the whole thing, because that little smile was back.
You can get dressed now. I suppose we’re even
.
Was he flirting with me again? My experience with the male gender was virtually nonexistent. I had no brothers, my father had been gone for four years, and Stuart was a raging metrosexual, whose hobbies ran to artisan bread baking and German opera. He never missed Wagner’s Ring Cycle at the Met, all fourteen and a half hours of it. Until I opened Jules’s birthday gift, what little I knew of men had come from her dating stories and the sex column in
Cosmopolitan
that I sometimes read at the drugstore, an incomplete and inaccurate education at best. Desperately in need of a crash course in how to deal with the opposite sex, I just stared at Ben’s chest, trying to look as if his wasn’t the first naked male torso I had ever seen close up that wasn’t made of marble. An image of him in nothing but a fig leaf floated through my brain. Something had clicked on inside me, and I wasn’t sure what to do with it.
My embarrassment was obvious, even to someone who couldn’t read minds, and I was grateful when Ben put his shirt back on. “It’s an incredible house, and I bet the views from all these windows must be something, especially when it’s snowing really hard. And it’s kind of nice to live without too much stuff distracting you. Very Zen.”
My aunt and uncle like everything clean and simple. Not that it matters. They’re hardly ever around anyway. All they do is work
. Now I had to smile.
Thank you for rescuing me—this time from myself
.
Trying to look busy, trying to forget the image of Ben’s ripped abs etched on my optic nerves, I took out mugs, spoons, and the sugar bowl. I fiddled with a package of shortbread cookies, carefully arranging them on a small glass plate, anything not to meet Ben’s eyes.
“Is that your family?” Ben pointed at a framed photograph on the wall.
That was our Christmas card picture from the year they died
. I liked knowing it was there, but I never looked at it.
“You look like your sister.”
Liz was much prettier
.
“That’s not true. She was older?”
Two years
. I didn’t talk about my family with anyone, not even with Charlotte and Stuart. Sometimes I would catch Charlotte staring at that picture, or one of the other fifty or so she had placed around the house, but she would just smile sadly and shake her head. What was there to say?
Thoughtfully trying to change the subject, Ben said, “This is totally different from our house. We’re renting an old saltbox colonial down by the beach. Whoever owned it before restored it perfectly. It’s like stepping into a time warp. You’ll have to come see it. There’s something about you that’s very old-fashioned. You would fit perfectly in that house.”
My blood ran cold and I sank to the kitchen floor, fighting the blackness that was creeping into my field of vision.
“What’s the matter? Did those creeps hurt you before I got there?” Ben sat down next to me and pulled me close to him, rocking me back and forth. “Maybe I should take you to the hospital. Is there a car in the garage we can use? Or should I call 911?”
I’m okay … really, I am
. Taking slow, deep breaths, I concentrated on remaining conscious.
“Are you sure? You just went white as a ghost. What happened?” For all his mind powers, Ben was flummoxed.
7 Seashell Lane. 7 Seashell Lane. 7 Seashell Lane
. My mind was totally blank, except for that.
“What? That’s right. So you know it. It’s got one of those landmark plaques on the front. My mom said it’s one of the oldest houses in town.” As he spoke, Ben gently rubbed my back, still believing, in spite of his ESP, that my fainting spell was a delayed reaction to getting jumped in the park.
I know which house it is, because it’s my house. It’s the house I grew up in. After my family died, I never went home again. When I got out of the hospital, I came straight here to live with my aunt and uncle
.
“My mother said the house had a story, but she didn’t want to talk about it, and I thought she meant something that happened a hundred years ago. Like Lizzie Borden and her ax.”
I never even thought about what happened to it, not until this moment, never wanted to know, and Charlotte never told me. Now you’re living in my house?
How many other memories had I barricaded up on the top shelf of the deep, dark closet of my mind? What a weird, random thing to meet the person who had moved into my old house, and under such insane circumstances. And why had I suppressed all the memories of the place I had lived in my entire life?
How long have you been living there?
“We moved in right before Christmas. Before that we were living in Italy. My parents were visiting professors at the University of Florence last year, and we stayed on a few extra months. My father was researching a book, and when he finished we came back to the States.”
How did you end up here, in this dinky little town, and in my house?
“We were going to get a place in the City, but my mom wanted a garden, and she saw some article in a magazine about the Shoreland Garden Club. And your house has a beautiful yard. It’s overgrown, but my mom said all it needed was a little attention.”
Unbelievable
.
The dizziness had subsided, and my breathing returned to normal. A house was just a building. My home was with Charlotte and Stuart. No reason to flip out.
“Yeah, it’s a weird coincidence. Maybe fate intended for us to meet. That’s the only explanation I can think of,” Ben said, tilting his head and looking directly into my eyes.
I felt as if he were staring straight into my soul. My heart skipped a beat, but I decided not to comment on his theory. Talking to boys was like learning a foreign language. Did that mean he was glad we had met? Did he like me, the way that boys like girls—an experience I didn’t think I’d ever have—or did he suffer from white knight syndrome and was just happy to stumble upon someone in dire need of rescuing? Not knowing what to say about that, I just kept nattering on about the house.
I wonder what it looks like now. Where’s all the furniture?
Had anyone lived there the last four years before Ben moved in? Now I was excited, but afraid as well. Although I wasn’t in great shape, at least I was functioning, and I worried that digging up my emotional backyard might loosen my tenuous grip on my semi-normal life.
“All our stuff is in storage until my folks decide where to settle, so we rented it furnished, dishes and everything.” Ben paused.
So he was eating off my plates, probably sleeping in my bed, a bed I hadn’t even remembered I owned.
“I’m sorry—those are your things. I feel terrible, springing this on you, especially after what just happened in the park.”
It’s okay
. And strangely, it was.
On one level, I was incredibly curious to go back home, but I worried that seeing the last place my family had lived, the last place we were together, safe and happy, would destroy any chance I had at recovering my voice. If I crossed the literal threshold into my old life, I feared I would end up rocking back and forth in the corner of some asylum, totally withdrawn from the world, my sanity irretrievable. Dr. O’Rourke was considered the best in the business, but she was no miracle worker, and if she hadn’t been able to help me regain my voice thus far, I held out little hope that she could rescue me from the abyss I would fall into if I couldn’t handle a journey into my forgotten past.
We sat on barstools at the kitchen counter, surprisingly at ease with each other considering the unusual circumstances of our introduction, chatting in our unorthodox way, Ben’s lone voice resonating in the cavernous great room. Our conversation was spontaneous and effortless. The only downside, and it was a big one, was that Ben was picking up on
all
my thoughts, even the ones I wasn’t consciously sending in his direction. No matter how hard I tried to keep those thoughts at bay, bury them deep in my frontal lobe, he must have been well aware of my attraction—not just to his mesmerizing smile and sculpted abs, but also to his sweetness.
He looked at his watch. “I’m sorry, but I really have to go. Thanks for the tea.”
You’re welcome. Thanks for defending my virtue
.
What does one say to the person you’ve just met who saved you from a gang assault? A mere thank you seemed pitifully inadequate, but offering to be his slave for life would probably be a little over the top.
“My pleasure.” Ben bowed chivalrously. “Seriously, are you sure you’re okay to be alone? When are your aunt and uncle coming home?”
Soon. I’m fine
.
I didn’t want him to leave me, but he must know that, and he had to go, or wanted to go, anyway. Begging him to stay with me until … forever … sounded stalkerish, even to my inexperienced, desperate ears.
“I’ll see you tomorrow at school. Um, I’m sorry we had to meet the way we did, but I’m glad we met. You know what I mean?”
He put his mug in the sink—gorgeous, brave, gentle,
and
tidy. Where was his halo?
I’m glad, too
.
What I had thought was going to be the second worst night of my life had done a total one-eighty. Was this more than just a Good Samaritan following through on his good deed? Could my chronic bad luck finally be turning?
“And I’m sorry for blurting out the house thing like that. I had no idea.” His expression was truly remorseful. “You’ve had quite an evening.”
It’s fine. You couldn’t know. I didn’t even know
.
He hugged me briefly, and I leaned against him for a few seconds, absorbing his warmth, savoring his clean, male smell—all shaving cream and Irish Spring. I could’ve stayed like that for a month. Standing in the doorway, I watched him walk away, turning to wave before he disappeared behind a hedge. He was gone, and I was all alone again.
My near miss in the gazebo had left me feeling dirtier than I’d ever felt. I turned on the shower as hot as it would go and slowly undressed in the steamy bathroom, examining my naked reflection in the full-length mirror on the back of the door. Was I pretty? Was that why they came after me? Or was it just because I was so vulnerable? The latter, for sure. Tears flooded my eyes and blurred my vision as my body disappeared in the film of steam frosting the glass. Twenty minutes and a thousand gallons of scalding water later, I emerged, my skin the color of a freshly cooked lobster, and wrapped myself in a soft white towel. If nothing else, I felt like I had removed the top layer of skin and along with it any traces of those unwanted hands on my body. Unfortunately, I had also washed away all traces of Ben, and that made me sad. I wondered if he could read my thoughts all the way from Seashell Lane. I hoped so.
The front door slammed and I heard two sets of footsteps. “Sasha, we’re home,” called Charlotte.
As I stepped out of the bathroom in a cloud of steam, Charlotte walked into the bedroom.
“Sash, you don’t need to use up every drop of hot water when you take a shower. Besides, you’re going to burn yourself one of these days.” She gave me a peck on the cheek. “We brought home Chinese food, so hurry up and get dressed before it gets cold.”
Despite the enormous kitchen with miles of countertop, a commercial stove, and two huge ovens, our kitchen saw very little action beyond boiling water and the occasional bread-baking marathon. Charlotte and Stuart worked insane hours in New York, and a home-cooked meal was not high on their list of priorities. At seventeen, I was old enough to pick up the slack and probably should have been shopping and cooking for the family, but even going to the grocery store was traumatic for me. I was so afraid that someone would ask me a question and I wouldn’t be able to answer without my machine, and then I would have to explain my mental illness, that I avoided most situations that required me to interact with strangers. Hurting but true. Consequently, we had become connoisseurs of takeout, and dinner from You Can’t Fu Me was a regular fixture in our fast food rotation.