Chapter 40
SASHA
I head from that jarring brunch straight to work on Sunday.
Luckily my shift is four hours where I get to pretend my brother didn’t just track me down to try to use me as an out for whatever political mess he’s gotten himself into.
The best part is chatting with Glo about a hypothetical business idea I have, where we dress up women like that single mom who came in for interview clothes, getting designers to provide donations so they’re free or low cost for the women.
“We could do it, you know,” Glo says as I’m leaving. I laugh but see she’s serious. Fired up.
I don’t have time to think about that, though, because I have to run home and throw some clothes of my own into a bag for my stay at Cass’s, and check on Chester one more time before I’m gone for a few days.
But the minute I walk in the door, I spot my laptop on the coffee table.
I vowed I wouldn’t think about Sam; that I wouldn’t get involved in his messes ever again.
But I can’t help that sliver of worry that maybe he was right. Maybe I should be worried, even if he thinks Creelman’s gone.
The results are mostly in the news section of the search engine.
Sam didn’t just resign—he took off. He didn’t show up to any of his meetings at the end of last week. Reports say very little information is being made public. All anyone knows is he left a letter on his desk, resigning his post. He hasn’t been heard from in—I tally the time—four days.
And police want him for questioning.
My hand’s at my mouth, but I make myself lower it.
No. This is a mess, but it’s not mine. I meant what I said about him needing to fix it himself. But I can’t help that nagging feeling that won’t go away that maybe Sam’s not just trying to protect his own ass.
I hesitate, then I do what I haven’t done since I got to Quince Valley—I text my mom.
SASHA: Hi, Mom. It’s Sasha. New number. Have you heard anything from Sam?
She answers only a few seconds later.
MOM: No, have you?
I shouldn’t have done this. I’m in the process of writing back to tell her never mind, but it takes a while on the old flip phone. Another text comes before I finish.
MOM: It’s atrocious. Just atrocious.
MOM: Where are you? Isn’t it time you come home?
MOM: Anyway, I saw Celina Moore the other day…
I lower the phone. I can’t believe it. Celina Moore is the mother of Robert Moore, a boring-as-hell hedge fund manager who my mother will not stop trying to set me up with.
She doesn’t even care about Sam anymore.
More texts come from her, and exactly none of them are about him or about me. Nothing about how she misses me or hopes I’m well.
As my phone keeps buzzing, I have the sudden liberating thought: I’m done.
I’m done trying to pretend we have a good relationship. I’m done trying to seek validation or approval from her.
Things may not be perfect here, but since I’ve been in Quince Valley, I’ve felt more accepted and loved and cared for than I ever did at home.
Griffin has shown me more love than I knew for even a moment with my family.
Feeling my chest swell, I ignore the texts from my mom and send one to Griffin.
I wasn’t going to tell him about Sam until he got back, but I do now just in case, reasoning he’ll respond when he’s not so busy.
A few minutes later, I’m bringing my overnight bag outside to drop in the truck before heading over to Chester’s when my phone rings.
I’m surprised to see Vivian’s name on my screen amid all the text notifications.
“Hey, Viv,” I say congenially, only because I know she doesn’t like pesky things like friendly greetings.
I’m sure she’s going to tell me I messed something up during my shift, which she usually does when she just wants to chat. But to my surprise, she says, “Do you know a Mr. Chester Brown?”
My stomach flips. “Yes. I’m actually on my way over to see him. Why?”
“Well, you’re not going to find him at home. He’s here at Greenville General.”
I drop my bag. “What? Is he okay?”
“Not really. He’s making a very big fuss because they won’t let him leave by himself.”
“Viv, is he okay?”
“Okay enough to act like that cartoon cowboy with the guns.”
Yosemite Sam. I’d laugh if this was remotely funny. “How did you know to call me?”
“I thought this is the neighbor you talk about with his…tooth situation.”
Now I do laugh, though it’s quick and humorless. I pick up my bag, setting it on the hood of the truck as I pat my pockets for my keys. They’re not there. “So does he need a ride? I can be there in fifteen.”
“No, no, I’m already here with my sister. We’ll bring him home. Just meet us at his place. Give me the address.”
I try to argue, but she threatens to hang up on me if I don’t tell her where to go.
I give her the information, then run back inside to find my keys.
It takes me a good five minutes of frustration to find them, emptying my pockets and tearing up the place before spotting them on the couch where I sat with the laptop earlier.
When I get to Chester’s, I pace his front walkway, questions flying through my head. What’s he doing at the hospital? Is he going to be okay? It’s only when I peer around the side of his house that I see his old car. There’s a huge dent in the front bumper.
This time my fingers actually make it into my mouth.
It occurs to me while I’m waiting that I should text Cass to let her know I’m going to be late—and might not make it at all—but when I pat my pockets and find them empty, I realize I must have left my phone back at Griffin’s when looking for my keys.
I’m annoyed with myself for getting distracted by that search for Sam, then flustered when Viv called.
But I don’t want to miss Chester, so I continue pacing instead.
A few minutes later, a shiny dark green Jaguar comes tearing down the drive. Vivian drives like a maniac. I rush to the car’s back door, but Chester’s already getting out, cussing at me to get out of the way. He’s wearing a hospital gown and robe and doesn’t have any shoes on.
I don’t even have time to be shocked at his appearance or how grumpy he’s being, because Vivian starts pulling away before I’ve even got his door closed.
“Wait!” I yell, chasing after her. She brakes, rolling down her window a crack, as if I’m going to try to sell her something.
I see why a moment later. Her sister, who I’ve never met, sits in the passenger seat.
She’s ghostly pale and thin, her eyes closed.
She looks like a sickly version of Vivian, and I realize with a shock that I had no idea how sick she was.
I’m ashamed to say this only makes me think of Chester, who’s currently hobbling to the front door with a white plastic bag in his hand marked Personal Belongings.
“What?” Vivian snaps.
She’s never told us about her sister. She hides her.
I tear my eyes from the woman in the passenger seat.
“Vivian, what happened?”
“Don’t you know? I thought you were his friend?”
Guilt rocks me. “No! I mean yes, but he hasn’t told me about…any of this.”
Vivian looks exasperated, but also like she pities me.
She shoves her stick into reverse but doesn’t move.
“He said he wasn’t getting ‘poked and prodded’ anymore and he started making a big stink.
Then they said he needed to be accompanied home.
He said the taxi driver would be his ‘goddamned chaperone,’ but they didn’t like that.
” She huffs, then shakes her head. “Guess he’s your problem now. ”
She rolls up the window before I can respond, backing up too fast and narrowly missing a tree before peeling away.
When I look up at Chester, he’s only made it to the bench on his porch. He’s looking at me, his hands curled in his lap, his pale, skinny legs sticking out of the patterned hospital gown.
He looks painfully small.
I walk toward him, my heart in my throat.
“What did she tell you?” Chester asks.
All other worries have vanished in the face of this new development. A lump the size of a goose egg lodges in my throat. “Not much. But I’m putting the pieces together.”
Chester sighs, his small chest rising up and then down again. He slides over, making room for me.
It’s freezing out here, the bench cold and hard.
“It’s already humiliating not driving myself down to somewhere I don’t even want to go,” Chester says after a while.
I think of the big dip in his bumper. “Is your car not working anymore?”
“It works. I just hit a damn tree. People already think I’m unfit to drive. They see me driving in town with a tree shaped dent in the front? That’s a ticket to lose the old gal altogether. I took a taxi down there, thinking I was bein’ so clever. Just look at me now.”
He folds his scrawny arms over his chest. When he rubs his upper arms, I realize it’s not just because he’s frustrated.
“May I?” I indicate the bag.
He nods, and I open it, pulling open his coat. He lets me lay it over his shoulders.
We sit in silence a moment. Then I ask, “How long have you known?”
“What, that I’m on my way out?”
I laugh, like this is a joke. But it’s not. The laugh gets stuck in a sob. “Chester—”
“It’s only been a couple weeks. I didn’t even want to go back there, but the doctor looked so sad I told her I would. Then they brought all these needles out.” He waves his hand in the air. “I ain’t goin’ back. What’s the point?”
The point is you have people who care about you. Who want you around a little longer.
But I don’t say any of that. Tears well in my eyes. I blink them away, knowing Chester will just start worrying about me if he sees me crying. “Why didn’t you tell us?” I ask. “We could have helped you. Taken you to your appointments. Gotten you more help—”
“I don’t need any help. There’s nothing to be done about it now.”
I swallow hard on that goose egg. Again and again. But it’s no use. The tears come, and they don’t stop coming. I reach for Chester’s hand. “I’m sorry,” I whisper.
Chester shakes his head. His eyes are wet, too. “Don’t be sorry, sweetheart.” He takes my hand, resting it on the bench between us. His hand is thin but warm. “There’s plenty to cry about in this world.”
We stay like that for a long time. Long enough that the light starts growing dim and, despite everything, my stomach starts to rumble.
“We should get some food into you,” I tell him.
“You, too, by the sounds of it. Good lord, girlie.”
I laugh at that, a teary-eyed laugh that breaks my heart and soothes it—if only for a moment—all at once.
While we’re waiting for the casserole to heat up in the oven—thank God I remembered to bring that—I pick up some of the papers Chester pulled out of the pocket of his gown.
The flyers have titles like Pain Control and We’re Here to Help. Words like progressive illness and managing your comfort float through the air after I’ve put them down.
“They want to move me to a home in Greenville,” he says. “But this is home.”
I excuse myself and head to the kitchen, mumbling something about setting the table. I refuse to break down while he’s only a few feet away from me. I take a few big, deep breaths that only sort of work at calming me down.
I so desperately want to talk to Griffin, but I don’t have my phone, and I refuse to leave Chester’s side.
When I come back out with plates and utensils, smiling brightly, Chester’s still seated at the table where I left him. Only now, he’s staring down the hallway.
“You okay?” I ask, then feel stupid for asking.
He smiles at me, making my heart splinter. If this is how I feel, having only known Chester for such a short time, I can’t imagine how it’s going to affect Griffin, who’s lived next door to him for a decade.
I’m suddenly glad Griff isn’t here.
“I’m not gonna go,” Chester says.
“What?”
“To the home. I think I’ll stay right here. But maybe if you’re not too busy…” He trails off.
“Anything,” I say, trying to fight off tears again. I want to argue with him. To tell him to listen to the doctors and go back to the clinic and stay with us as long as he can. But all that can wait. Right now, I’ll do anything this sweet man wants.
“Maybe if you’re not too busy, you can stay with me tonight.”
In the kitchen, the oven’s buzzer goes off.
“I’m here, Chester,” I manage to get out.
“I’m not going anywhere. I’ll sleep on your couch tonight.
And tomorrow we’ll get someone here who can help you look after things.
” I dry my eyes. It feels good to think about practical matters.
A nurse. A housekeeper. I know Griffin will move a whole team in here if that’s what it takes.
But Chester shakes his head. “None of that right now, sweetheart. Let’s just worry about tonight. And gettin’ some food in ya.”
I smile. “Okay, Chester.”
But as I head to the kitchen, I can’t help following where his gaze has returned: down the hallway. Because there, in the dim light cast from the dining room, I see what he’s looking at.
The door to the spare bedroom at the end of the hall is no longer closed.