When I'm Gone: A Novel (25 page)

Annie avoided eye contact, and Luke knew he was watching her defenses go up like homeowners boarding up their windows before a hurricane. She shook her head, hair bouncing off her cheekbones.

“Let me help you,” he begged, letting go of her arms with one hand, brushing a tangled clump of damp hair off her face. A few strands stuck to the corner of her eye, glued there by the silent tears trailing down her cheek. “Let me help you like I couldn’t help my mom.”

“I am not your mother,” Annie said bitterly, lips curled back. Luke snapped his hand away. It was over. She was going to leave, and there was nothing he could say to change her mind.

The doorbell rang. Annie whipped her head around, eyebrows raised in terror, as if she’d just heard a bomb explode instead of the doorbell’s one-note ping. As Annie brushed past him toward the front door, Luke grabbed her hand by her fingertips.

“You can call me if you are ready to leave him.” He stared at her slender fingers, nails painted a soft peach, and took a staccato breath. He couldn’t ignore the ache he’d been hiding from since his childhood. He’d ignored too many pains in his life. No more pretending. “But until then, please don’t contact us.”

“Fine. If that’s the way you want it.” Annie yanked her hand away, glaring at him. She was too far into her protection mode, far beyond his reach. “Good-bye, Luke.”

“Good-bye, Annie,” Luke whispered. She turned the corner into the foyer without looking back. Collapsing onto the couch, he covered his ears, trying to block out the sound of the front door opening and the echo of Brian’s tentative “hello.”

CHAPTER 25

Lying in bed, Luke wondered how he’d gotten here. In an empty house, empty bed, alone on his seventeenth anniversary. Natalie—gone. Kids—gone. Felicity—gone. Annie—gone.

He’d replayed Annie’s farewell over and over in his head for the past week. It followed him to work, to every meeting. It followed him and echoed off the walls of his strangely empty home. What did he do wrong? What should he have done differently? Every single scenario ended the same way, with Annie never talking to him again. At least this way, it was his choice.

A few hours after Annie left, Luke finally got up the courage to use the business card he’d dug out the night before. Dennis Bormet, the investigator from Brian’s new job. Nervous but determined, he dialed the number on the card. The phone rang, one, two, three times. Just when Luke was coming up with what he’d say in a voice-mail message, a man answered.

“Hello?”

“Hello,” Luke responded automatically. “Uh . . .” He cleared his throat, trying to remember the story he’d planned out before the call.

“I already know who you are if that makes this any easier,” Dennis Bormet groused, like Luke was interrupting him in the middle of something important. Luke realized, belatedly, he was calling on a Sunday afternoon.

“This is Luke Richardson. I spoke with you a few weeks ago about Officer Brian Gurrella . . . you called me about a security clearance check?”

“Mm-hm, yeah, so?” Eating, it definitely sounded like he was eating something. Luke made himself continue, focusing on the cuts on Annie’s feet and face, the thought of Brian losing control, going too far.

“I need to retract my earlier recommendation. Some new information has come to light, and I . . .” Luke faltered, sure his script sounded juvenile rather than sophisticated. Playing nice wasn’t going to get him anywhere. He took a deep breath and blurted, “Brian Gurrella is an alcoholic. I don’t know if you test for that or if it’s relevant, but I felt like you should know.”

When Dennis Bormet didn’t answer immediately, Luke wondered if he’d hung up the phone. Listening closely, he heard two long gulps and a muffled burp.

“What evidence do you have of Officer Gurrella’s alleged alcohol abuse?” Papers rustled in the background, and unless it was a bunch of very stiff napkins, Luke was sure he’d finally gotten the investigator’s attention.

“I saw him when he was passed out. I . . . I saw some unlabeled pills and . . .” He hesitated to mention witnessing Annie’s injuries. “Also there was evidence of violence in his home. Broken furniture, glass, everything.”

Dennis Bormet paused for a minute, letting an uncomfortable silence sit between the two men. Luke recognized the interrogation tactic from when he’d been questioned about his mother’s death. Pauses were very tempting to fill with more information.

“Mr. Richardson, I’d like to talk about this with you in greater detail. Can I call you Monday morning and get this all on record?”

“By ‘on record’ do you mean you’ll record our conversation?”

“Yes, sir. But it’s all confidential. No one will ever know you spoke with us.”

A thrill of danger and revenge sent a shiver through Luke. If he told them the truth, maybe they wouldn’t hire Brian. Annie would remain safely a few blocks away. If Brian tried to hurt her again, she could call Luke for help, and this time he’d call the police.

“I’d be glad to speak with you tomorrow. Sorry I bothered you on your day off.” When he touched the red end button, Luke dropped the phone on his bed triumphantly. In the middle of his self-congratulations, an uncomfortable thought came to him—he wasn’t really doing this just because it helped Annie. He was doing it to make her stay.

Luke shrugged off the guilt. Calling Bormet might not be an entirely altruistic move, but that didn’t make it the wrong one. In the morning Luke had a long discussion with Dennis Bormet as he drove into work. The next morning he spoke with Bormet’s supervisor. Then Luke waited, keeping his phone in his hand as he slept, sure Annie would make her desperate phone call sooner rather than later.

Today he was avoiding sleep and avoiding leaving his bed all at the same time. Soon he’d have to get up and log in to make it at least look like he was working from home. He didn’t want to go far from home today. There would be a Natalie letter with the mail today, he knew it. And it would be all about their wedding day. Knowing Natalie, she’d write about every detail, how they wrote their vows together the night before, and then up past midnight before realizing he’d officially seen the bride on their wedding day. There was a time in his grieving process that letter would’ve been refreshing, could get him through another few days without her. But now the idea of reading a letter about the happiest day of his life only made his current situation stand out as even more depressing in comparison.

Eventually it was his bladder, not his stomach, that got him out of bed. Then the shower called to him, asking him to return to the world of fresh-smelling humans. After scrubbing himself till his skin tingled, Luke stood in front of a steamy mirror, wondering if he should shave or leave the day-old stubble Natalie always begged him to grow out. Closing the stopper in the sink, Luke grabbed a new razor from the clear plastic bathroom organizer. It rattled around inside the tub, half-empty without Natalie’s overflowing beauty supplies.

The sink reached its capacity, and Luke turned off the scalding water. Then a faint ding sounded from the main floor, followed by loud pounding.

“Damn it.” Seeing people was definitely not on his approved activities list for the day. When all the noise downstairs stopped, Luke leaned over the still-steaming sink, dipped his hands in, savored the stab of the superheated water, and splashed it onto his face.

The doorbell rang again. Luke sighed, yanked up the stopper, placed the canister on the counter, and pulled out a half-wet towel from the laundry basket to dry off. He snatched a thinning cotton T-shirt off his bed, grabbed his phone out of habit, and rushed down the stairs, barely getting the T-shirt over his head before the pounding started. With his free hand, Luke swung the door open. A tall, thin college kid with thick black hipster glasses frames stood on the other side, a blue ceramic vase packed with at least two dozen tulips cradled in the crook of his arm.

“Oh, hey, you Luke Richardson?” The guy read his name off a folded yellow invoice.

“Yes.” Luke opened the door a little wider, squinting against the late-morning sun.

“These are for you. Here.” He passed the tulips to Luke and shook the invoice open, offering the pen resting on his ear. “Sign here, at the bottom.”

“Um, sure.” Luke juggled the glass container of flowers and his phone. “Hold on, let me put these down.”

The delivery boy shrugged; his drooping name tag read
K
AL
. Using his elbow Luke moved the collection of mail to one side, making a spot where he could put down the vase. The thick glass hit the wood with a thunk, and a blue envelope fell out from its resting place inside the flowers.

Whoever sent the flowers had been delivering the letters. Without stopping to check the thickness of the letter or estimate a number of pages, Luke rushed around his front door and on his front porch.

“I’ll take that paper now.” The kid fumbled with the invoice, and Luke resisted the urge to yank the paper out of his hand. When Kal finally passed it over, Luke ran his gaze across the crinkly yellow page, not sure what he was looking for.

Deliver to: 9317 Orland Dr.

Flowers required: 2 doz. Tulips.

Payment: Cash.

Then he saw it, bottom of the page, a name, smudged by the carbon on the old-fashioned order slip.

From: N. Townsend.

The name was crossed out with a simple
X
and next to it was written:

Anonymous.

The flowers. The letters. Everything—they’d all been sent by the infamous “Dr. Neal.” Somewhere deep inside he’d known it ever since he saw Neal’s name on Natalie’s phone. But to see the proof in his hand, scribbled down by a careless florist, made his fist clutch the pen he’d taken along with the invoice. Why? Why was this man such an important part of Natalie’s life? Why did he keep showing up in every corner of her existence? Who the
hell
was he? That anger he’d been running from his whole life boiled deep in his gut, crawled up his arms and neck, and made him want to hit something.

“Uh, you sign there.” Kal pointed vaguely at the bottom of the page. Luke lifted the pen to sign but then had a thought.

“Is there any way I can get a copy of this?” Luke held the pen off the paper. If he signed it, Kal wouldn’t have a reason to help him anymore.

“I only get paid if I turn in the yellow sheet . . . with your signature.” Kal waited with his hands in his pockets, his grungy brown hair hanging into his eyes. “But you can take a pic of it if you want,” he added.

Yes. His phone. Holding out the paper, Luke centered it in the frame and enjoyed the sharp click of the phone’s internal camera. Finally some proof. After checking to make sure the quality of the picture was clear enough, Luke scribbled his name across the bottom and handed it back to Kal.

“Thanks,” he said, heading back inside, closing the door behind him. The picture on his phone was clear enough to read every line. Luke glared at the flowers. There was a small rectangular card from the florist shop with a handwritten note in unfamiliar handwriting.

July 30

Luke, Happy Anniversary. My love for you goes on forever.

Love, Natalie

“Liar,” Luke whispered. Yes. That’s what she was. Whatever she was hiding with Dr. Neal as her accomplice, it was something she’d been lying to him about for years, decades even. “Liar,” he said again, louder, his voice reverberating through the nearby stairwell. The room turned a hazy shade of red, his breathing coming fast, like he’d been running. He picked up the vase full of tulips, each happy blossom another reminder of all the beautiful lies she told him.
“Liar!”
Luke yelled.

The cool vase suddenly burned in his hand. He couldn’t stand looking at it anymore. Listening to the monster inside him, he hefted the vase, bouquet and all, across the room. The ceramic bounced off the wall with a thunk and then crashed into a million turquoise pieces when it hit the floor. Water, flowers, and glass spread out across the floor like blood.

“Damn it!” Luke slammed his hand on the side table. His knees buckled, and he fell to floor. Who was he anymore? Where was that life he—and everyone else—thought was so perfect? Broken. Just like the vase. And the parts of that man, his father, who he’d worked so hard to keep repressed, they were taking over.

The water spread across the floor, and one edge crept slowly toward the letter he’d accidentally dropped earlier. He watched it eagerly, both wanting it to stop short of the envelope and wanting to watch the letter consumed at the same time. When the water’s edge touched Natalie’s sealed letter, Luke stretched out one hand, ready to save it, read it, add it to the pile in the box on his end table. No. He curled his fingers back into his palm, pushed off the floor, and turned his back to the destruction behind him. He’d let her words drown.

AUGUST

CHAPTER 26

Luke grabbed another handful of dresses from the closet, including the floral one from their Easter pictures and the silky green one Natalie wore when they went on that cruise. He yanked on them till they flew off the hanger with a crack. Another one broken. Luke didn’t care, and he had a whole rack full of broken hangers to prove it. Beside him was a large black bag, like the ones he used when doing yard work.

He took in another deep breath through his mouth, trying to avoid inhaling her scent, forcing himself to live without it. Two more dresses, and then he’d be on to shoes. Each bag, once full, went to the attic. At first he’d planned on donating all the clothes to Goodwill, but as he stared to write down the items for his taxes, Luke knew he wasn’t ready to give away her things. Not because he thought she was coming back or even because he was sentimental, but because May would kill him. So, the attic it was until May was old enough to go through the belongings herself.

The attic was stifling. And after working six large bags through a human-size hole, Luke’s shirt was starting to stick to his back. Time to take a break, and also time to do what he’d been avoiding all day, for two days actually. Guiding the pull-down ladder back up into its resting spot, he wiped his face with the bottom of his shirt. Then Luke made his way downstairs to the thermostat, going the long way into the kitchen so he didn’t have to look at the shattered vase and wilted flowers on the floor in the entry.

Rummaging under the sink, Luke collected a garbage bag, a pair of yellow gloves, and rags from underneath the kitchen sink. Armed with these weapons of redemption, he forced himself into the entry, where the wreckage of his temper tantrum lay undisturbed. Slivers of thick blue ceramic dotted the floor. Starting at the door to the basement, Luke went to his knees, his joints creaking as he lowered himself to the floor. The yellow gloves were stiff and made his palms sweat as he picked up each piece of fragmented ceramic and dropped them into the empty garbage bag. As each piece clinked into the bag, Luke turned the fragments into a puzzle in his mind, trying to figure out which piece went where in the ruined vase.

When the last few chunks of ceramic tumbled into the sagging bag, all the pieces came together into a mental mosaic. Only one piece was missing. Luke scanned the room, searching for the rogue blue splinter. The floor, the stairs, the front door—nothing. Then he saw it, a little piece of turquoise and white sticking out from under the dried-out, crinkled envelope of Natalie’s ruined letter.

Luke rushed over to the rectangle and tried to push it out of the way, but it clung to the floorboard greedily. He went down to one knee and reached out again, pulling at one of the corners until it came up with a rip. A patch of blue stuck to the floor, adhesive from the envelope trapping the last piece of his puzzle underneath. Pinching the shard between his gloved fingertips, Luke held it up to the light. It was the right one. He dropped it into the bag with a satisfying clink. As he was about to dump the damaged letter into the bag along with the vase, something caught his eye. A few words peeked out from the gash in the envelope.

“It was our little secret . . .”

Luke put down the bag of broken pieces on the counter and snatched the envelope out of the garbage. Without the usual time he took to anticipate the letter or estimate its length, he ripped it open, the fragile envelope dissolving wherever he touched it.

As soon as it was free, he unfolded the smudged pages. He’d been wrong; the letter wasn’t about their wedding anniversary. It was about a day he’d rather forget. Rushing through her niceties and anniversary wishes, Luke zoned in on the first mention of their other anniversary.

I’m having a good day today, so I thought it was time to write this letter. I’ve been dreading this one, but before I die I want you to know what that day was like for me. I want there to be a record of what I saw so maybe you can understand the choices I’ve made.

My father found your mother and sister in your parents’ bed at 10:00 a.m. Two officers drove up to your home within five minutes, an ambulance twenty, and a coroner forty-five minutes later. The police thought you were dead, and for about an hour, I believed them.

They were in our house, talking to my father about what he’d seen. They didn’t know I could hear them, but I could. Your mom and your baby sister, both dead. You and your dad, missing. They ran through so many possible scenarios my head started to swim. When they found your dad’s car up by the lighthouse, I almost believed their murder/suicide setup.

I knew about your spot on the stairs down by the Ganisters’ abandoned beach house. If you were alive you’d more than likely be there. I slipped quietly down the last three stairs and out the back door.

It was barely past noon, and between the sun and the humidity, nearly a hundred degrees outside. Feeling certain I was safe, I sprinted across the yard and headed to the shed. My emergency pack was there, with candy snuck from my mom’s supply, crackers, half a jar of peanut butter, and two or three juice boxes. I jumped inside before anyone could spy me from the house.

The shed was hot, like the kiln at school. I ran my hands along the wall of the shed, trying to remember where I’d left my pack. But I didn’t find my pack—I found you, huddled in the corner by a split in the boards. A glaring white slash of light fell across your lap and hands.

Your hands, arms, and chest were covered in dried blood, and you were lying so still that for a moment I thought you might be dead. When I reached out to touch you, I didn’t know if you’d be stiff and cold or warm and alive. I laid a trembling hand on your chest, relieved to find it was warm and I could feel your heartbeat through your shirt. At my touch, your eyelids fluttered. “Natalie?”

“Luke! You’re alive.” I ran a hand across your forehead, checking for any injuries.

You looked over your hands, stomach, legs, and feet as though you were almost surprised to be there still.

“Yeah,” you said, sounding disappointed, “I am.”

“I thought you were dead.” I couldn’t think about what I’d believed for the past hour. Instead, I leaned in and pressed my lips against yours. We’d kissed before, had quite a few make-out sessions in our little shed, but that day it was different. I know you felt it too.

The first kiss was soft and gentle, like a thank you for the fact that you were still alive. But the next kiss was stronger, like you were afraid I was going to run away and this was the only way to keep me there. I didn’t want to leave.

“I love you,” I whispered as you slipped my shirt over my head.

“I will never stop loving you,” you said, kissing my neck and shoulder as I worked to take off your bloody shirt, to get closer to you, comfort you.

As we fumbled in the darkness, I had no thoughts beyond those four walls. When you laid me down on the floor, I didn’t care that clumps of dried dirt were clinging to my hair or the air smelled like grass clippings and sweat. All I wanted was to stay with you forever, to make you forget whatever happened to you that night, to become one.

I’ll never regret losing our virginity together on that day. Our passion didn’t last long. When it was over, I curled up into your side, your skin stained red. I’ve gone back to that moment hundreds of times in my life, especially lately. In the middle of the ruins of your life, we found one beautiful moment together, and in that shed we performed a magic no sorcerer or magician could ever achieve—we froze time. But like any great magic, it couldn’t last forever.

“I can’t believe my mom finally called the police,” you said dreamily.

I sat up, your arms still looped behind me. You didn’t know.

“Luke.” I kissed you again. My lips had worked once; maybe they could help again. “My dad called the police.” I looked into your eyes, praying you’d see the truth there so I wouldn’t have to say it.

“Shit. Why did he do that? My mom is gonna be so pissed.” You sat up and pulled your shirt over your head, searching for your shoes, then realizing you didn’t have any. I sat back, replaced my blouse, and adjusted my shorts.

I told you to slow down. I reached out to touch your arm, but you pulled it away. I put my arm around your shoulder, trying to stop you from frantically gathering your belongings. You shrugged me off with a growl and took a step toward the door. I stood and blocked your way.

“Natalie, get out of the way. I have to go. If he finds out, if he comes back, he’s gonna hurt her.” You spoke to me, but you didn’t look at me.

I told you to stop. I pushed you back, trying to make you listen, but instead of calming you or shaking you out of whatever frantic haze you were in, the gentle pressure of my hands on your skin triggered something. You reared back, your face twisted with anger. I didn’t know that face, the person who lived behind that face. You used to be the boy who wouldn’t hurt a lightning bug, but in that moment you turned into a new person—a man who would hit a woman. When your hand made contact with my cheek, I was already in far more pain from knowing that I’d been wrong about you.

My eyes filled with tears of pain and betrayal. I covered my cheek where it burned from your slap and stepped back. I wasn’t going to try to stop you again, but you didn’t leave. Your face softened, your blue eyes catching one of the rays of light peeking in from the ceiling like a prism. It was your real face, your real eyes, but I still flinched when you reached out toward me. You apologized and then looked at your hand like you wished you could cut it off. I didn’t feel sorry for you. I wasn’t going to end up like your mom.

“Your mom is dead,” I spat, inching backward toward the only exit. You looked at me like I’d slapped you back. I didn’t care. I wanted it to hurt. “Yup. Dead.” I cracked the door open, the heat of the midday suddenly feeling like a cool breeze.

You tried to argue with me but then trailed off. I took the opportunity to escape. You begged me not to leave, reaching out, grabbing me by the forearm. Your touch didn’t thrill me anymore—it scared me. I yanked my arm away.

“Don’t you touch me,” I rumbled, tripping backward, nearly falling on my back.

You called my name and rushed forward to help, but I dodged away, putting more distance between us.

Somehow I got out the words, “Go home, Luke. Go home,” before running into my house. I covered my face with my hands and escaped to my room.

A few hours later my mom came up and told me the whole story: your mom died from a hemorrhage, your father had been arrested, and you had been taken away by child protective services. She asked if I wanted to see you one more time before you were shipped off to live with some distant relatives out of state. I rubbed the tender spot on my cheek and said, “No.”

I never told anyone about our little secret—our intimate moment in the shed and the violent one right after. I was so angry at first that I was glad you were gone. But the longer I lived without you, the more I realized how special we’d been together. There were other boys, not many, but some. I could never really love them while you were still lodged in my heart. I couldn’t get you out even though I desperately wanted to.

When we met six years later, I wanted to love you again, trust you again, but was terrified you were going to transform into the monster I met in that shed. I told myself that if I saw even a glimpse of him, I’d turn around and leave. But he never returned.

That’s when I realized you are a far better man than your father, and knowing the demons you conquered only made me love you more. Before I go, I need you to know—I forgive you. I love you, and I’m lucky to be able to call you the father of my children.

But, Luke, even though you are not your dad, I do worry about the anger you keep bottled inside, the punching bag in the basement, how you’ll handle your grief and the demands of being a single dad . . .

There was a whole other page of writing, but Luke put the letter down. He wouldn’t read any further. Was she really so cruel that she could possibly want to force him to relive the worst moment of his life? He’d changed his life because of what happened between them that day. He’d learned how to lock away the beast, and until recently, it had stayed subdued.

Wasn’t a lifetime of happiness enough for Natalie, or was she still trying to pay him back? Is that what all this was—one last shot at revenge? Luke crumpled the letter in one hand, compressing it into a ball inside his fist. He took aim and tossed it into the open garbage can, knocking the lid down with an open palm. No more letters. No more.