Chapter Forty-two
The next morning dawns clear and sunny. Except for a few downed tree limbs and puddles, there’s little evidence of the storm. My internal alarm clock has me up before seven. Mom is still asleep in the recliner when I set to work cleaning the mess upstairs.
When I’m finished, I cast a critical eye around the bathroom. The brushed-nickel fixtures sparkle. The glass and mirrored surfaces are finally streak-free. Even the toilet’s been scrubbed, just to be thorough.
“You really didn’t need to do that, Faith,” Mom says as she puts a load of whites in the washing machine.
She must have switched my clothes to the dryer sometime during the night because I found them there when I went to do it myself.
“You did an admirable job wiping everything down last night. Besides, the cleaning service is coming later. They could have gotten what you missed.”
“You have a cleaning service?”
“I won a month of service in a raffle last winter and . . .” She ducks her head. “I guess I got spoiled. I signed a contract and everything. They come once a week. Keep the place neat and tidy.”
“Sweet.” I laugh. “I wondered how you managed without me around to do the dirty jobs.”
“That’s one of the privileges of being a parent, Faith. Free slave labor.” She smiles. “But then they grow up, and you’re stuck cleaning your own toilets. It’s so unfair to—”
The doorbell rings.
Mom looks at her watch. “That’s probably them now. Oh, dear.” She frowns, wide-eyed. “Janey’s still outside, isn’t she?”
“Yeah, why?”
“Does she still do that thing where she sneaks up behind people and growls?”
“Um . . .”
“I better let them in before Kay has a heart attack. She’s petrified of dogs.” Mom slams the door of the washing machine. “Do you mind starting this up for me? The soap’s in the—”
The doorbell rings again. “I’ve got this. Go let your cleaning lady in before she files a lawsuit against me.”
I start the machine. My ratty old backpack leans against the wall by the pocket door to the bathroom.
It didn’t make it into the washer last night, but I have a spare in my apartment, the one I’ve been saving for school.
Rather than take the filthy thing home, I decide to chuck it, but when I pick it up to deliver it to the trashcan, it’s heavier than it should be.
Our mailbox.
How had I forgotten it was in my bag?
I try turning the lid, but it’s still stuck. I take it to the sink, tossing the now-emptied backpack into the nearby trashcan as I go by.
The dirt washes off quickly. Inside the jar, I see a tiny piece of paper and . . . a small, silver charm—the comedy/tragedy masks, atop a treble clef—on a matching chain. The paper is a . . . receipt? Yes. From The Smoked Salt Grille. And there’s writing—familiar penmanship—on the other side.
Still holding on, Noah.
But . . . he didn’t come.
Apart from breaking the jar, there’s no way to get that charm and note out. But do I really need to?
Does it matter?
Noah may have left a token of his promise for me to find, but whatever it meant when he put it in the jar, it clearly no longer carries the same meaning.
If it did, he would have come.
Closing my eyes, I hug the jar to my chest. I have to accept this. He made his choice, and it isn’t me. I have to let him go.
In just three steps, the jar and its contents can join the backpack in the trashcan. But I can’t make myself take those steps.
Yes. It’s the right thing to do.
Eyes still shut, I take one step.
Please. Lord. Let him be safe and happy.
I loosen my grip on the jar, holding it away from me in one hand, as I take the second step.
“So that’s where it went.”
My eyes snap open. My knees lock. Every bone in my body jolts to attention.
In the doorway of the mudroom, in white socks, with mud caked onto the hem of his jeans and splattered across his gray t-shirt and tentative smile, Noah Spencer stands, twisting the brim of a red baseball cap.
“The jar, I mean.” He clears his throat.
“I tried to get here on time, Faith. Really, I did. But the—the weather. My flight was diverted to St. Louis, and I—I thought maybe you’d left a note for me in the Dutchman’s pocket.
But the jar was missing, so I decided that rather than go back out to my car, I’d hike the other way, toward Parre Hills, and hope the restraining order had expired.
But I got a little turned around in the woods—not so familiar with your side, I guess—and I . . .”
I gape, blinking rapidly, like the opening and closing of my eyes will make this illusion disappear. That one of these blinks will eventually prove him a figment of my imagination. But he stays.
He’s explaining something about hail and a rental car with a broken windshield, but his words come so quickly, like a flowing velvet river.
He’s picked up a bit of an accent.
And he needs a shave.
But he’s here.
Here. In my mother’s house.
“So, as you can see, I got rather filthy in the process. I’m sorry.”
He’s not real. He can’t be. I’m still asleep and caught in the clutches of a cruel dream.
But if I’m dreaming, why does he look . . . older?
Tired.
Taller. Not much, but maybe an inch . . .
Agony and bliss ripple through my body. Noah. Is. Here.
The jar slides from my grasp.
I take a step forward.
“Faith, stop! The glass! You’re barefoot.”
“Faith?” Mom sticks her head around the doorway. Her face has lost all color. “Faith? Are you okay? I thought I heard—Oh, dear. Don’t move. I’ll get the broom.”
Every breath reverberates in my ears, each inhalation and exhalation faster than the one before. My head is as light as a helium balloon. Love, joy, desperation—my brain is infused, saturated, with so many emotions, but it refuses to settle on just one.
I look down. Sparkly. Someone spilled diamonds on the floor.
Diamonds on the floor? Impossible.
Tears flood my eyes. Cruel dream.
My vision pin-holes. Oohh . . . dizzy.
I look down, at my locked knees.
I’m a performer. I know better than to lock my knees. But I can’t seem to . . .
So . . . so dizzy.
I try to lift my head, but the sensation of falling steals the strength from my neck.