Round 23 #2
The best part about living in a small town is the complete lack of traffic.
It means a four-minute commute—at worst—and pulling into my driveway right at six o’clock, just like I promised.
The fact that it's already dark out makes me yearn for the summer, for the half of the year when my twelve-hour shifts don’t leave me in a vitamin D deficit.
For the days when I’m not breathing white fog every step I take, and the trek from my truck to my front door doesn’t make my ears sting.
But I move quickly anyway, trudging across my snow-covered yard and onto the first step at the base of my porch. Slipping, I chuckle and grab onto the railing, then I dash up the stairs and hope I don’t find a terrified woman inside, hugging the fire poker and shaking all the way to her feet.
At least the lights are on tonight. Even the droning sound of the television echoes through my front door.
“It’s me, Rose.” I slip the key into my front door, stomping my feet on the mat to dislodge any snow and crap I’d rather not transfer into my house, then I push the door open, just a couple of inches at first to make sure I’m not headed into danger.
Then all the way when I’m yet to see my guest at all.
“Rose?” Frowning, I step into blissful warmth and the crackle of the fireplace.
A quiz show plays on the television, the ding-ding-dings of correct answers pulsing from the speakers.
Glancing around, I slowly peel my jacket off. “Rose? Where are you?”
“I’m here.” She pops into the doorway leading into the hall, an oversized hoodie dwarfing her frame, but a tiny pair of shorts giving her hips and legs a hell of a lot of shape. She wears fluffy socks that hug her calves, and shows off a pair of bony knees and trim thighs.
I take my time and study everything about her—the too-long sleeves of her hoodie covering her hands, and the droopy pocket on the front, heavy with… something tucked inside. Then I bring my eyes up and stop on her broad smile and wild hair.
Wild, like she fought The Abominable Snowman today… and won.
“Er… Hi.” I close the door with a tap of my foot and hang my coat on the rack nearby. “You have a good day?”
She points toward the television, where the host asks: What treaty marked the official end of World War I? And with a wolfish grin, she answers, “The Treaty of Versailles.”
My heart thumps heavily in my chest, bruising my ribs and knocking me back a step. But before I can think of a response, the host asks: Who is the influential figure responsible for leading the Indian independence movement against British rule? And she answers, “Mahatma Gandhi.”
“So… you read more encyclopedias today?”
“No!” She shoves through the doorway and dashes across the room, grabbing my hands and tugging me to the back of the couch.
“Watch this.” Beaming, she listens as the host asks: Which historical figure attempted to conquer Russia with an army of over 600,000 soldiers, only for his campaign to end in disaster due to harsh weather?
Then she meets my eyes, her cheeks burning a beautiful, bright pink, and answers: “Napoleon! It was Napoleon, Ollie! I just turned this show on a few hours ago, bored out of my brains after I spent my day outside, and I—”
“You spent your day outside? In this weather?”
In those shorts?
“I knew all the answers! Or, well, most of them, anyway.” Uncharacteristically excited, she bounces on her feet. “I knew the answers! So then I watched another episode. And then another. And then I moved to a different show with different questions, and I knew those, too! I remembered them, Ollie!”
My stomach whirls and spins, her thrilled energy transferring to me. But when I get it, it’s nervous. “Do you remember anything else? Your name? Your life before Plainview?”
“No.” Her electric smile turns to a sweet pout.
“I think this is the processing memory you talked about. Like tying my laces and talking. These aren’t memories, exactly.
Not from that part of my brain.” She looks to the television as the host asks: The Great Wall of China was primarily built to protect against invasions from which group?
Then she answers, “The Mongols!” on a bursting exhale.
Chuckling, I perch on the back of the couch and hold her hand in mine—Stop it, Oliver!
—and I take this moment to experience her happiness.
For the first time since she woke in the hospital, she floats on a cloud of bliss.
“So we learned today that the old you was a brainiac? Maybe you didn’t work with plants at all.
Maybe you just know the words because you’re a genius. ”
“Maybe! Which brings us back to my super-secret, super-badass job with NASA.” Snickering, she leans a little closer, her hair falling forward and dangling over her shoulder. “The NASA stuff is a joke, by the way. I doubt I’m a spy.”
“No, I got it.” I laugh. “If you were, they would’ve found you by now and wiped you out.”
“Exactly! Oh my gosh. You should come look at what I did today.” She yanks me off the back of the couch and drags me across the room, tossing out an easy, “Queen Elizabeth the First,” to a question about blood poisoning. Glancing over her shoulder, she beams. “I’m a fricken genius.”
“Sounds like it. What’d you do today?” I peek left as we come into the hall, then right. But instead of answering, she pulls me into the kitchen, past the counter—spick and span—and all the way to the sliding glass doors.
It’s too dark to see outside, and the thought of heading back into the icy wind makes me cold all over. But instead of opening the doors, she flips the back lights on and reveals my deck.
My completed deck.
“I found the timber in your shed, and I already knew where the hammer and nails were. I started around nine this morning, three whole hours after you left. Those three hours took forever, by the way.”
“You finished my deck? On your own?” I plaster my forehead to the glass and look left. Right. “Rose!”
“Not quite finished. I didn’t make it all the way to the end before my back wanted to kill me, and the wind gave me chapped lips.
I could probably finish it tomorrow, but the last sections will need to be cut or there’ll be an overhang in some spots.
Also, I dropped your drill into the section about…
” Gritting her teeth, she points to a spot just off to the right of the door.
“I swear I didn’t mean to. And I don’t remember doing it.
But by the time I realized, I’d already covered that section.
I could’ve undone the work and jumped in to get it, but I used your Hey Google inside and asked how much they cost.”
“How much… the drill?”
“Yeah. And then I did the math and realized it would be cheaper to buy a new drill than to tear up the deck and risk splitting the wood.” Bright-eyed, she flips the lights out and drags me toward the table.
Snatching up a sheet of paper, she whips it around and shows me a list. “I’m keeping a tally. ”
“A tally of what?” Drill: $129.99. Coffee mug: $5.00. Loaf of bread: $4.00. Stunned, I bring my eyes back to hers. “What the hell?”
“I’m gonna replace everything I use. Everything I break. Everything I lose.” She blushes, warm and charmingly sweet. “Once I get my life straightened out, that is. And good news: I’m smart! Which probably means I have a decent-paying job to go back to eventually.”
“You’re not paying me back!” I scrunch the sheet and shove it into my pocket. “Absolutely not. I never asked you to keep a list, Rose.”
“And because I’m a genius, according to that TV show, I knew you would do that.
” She digs her hand into her hoodie pocket and takes out another piece of paper, folded into a small square.
“My instincts were right, and that list was nothing more than a decoy.” Playful, she spins on her socks and unfolds the non-decoy.
“I’ve consumed five cups of coffee today. Added those to my list.”
“Five cups? No shit. You’re practically bouncing off the walls.”
“The drill pushed me over the edge. A bologna sandwich felt a little petty to start a list over, but the drill…” She peeks over her shoulder, scrunching her nose.
“That was bad. So since there is now, officially, a list, I’ve added everything.
I had crackers and cheese around eight thirty, since it had already been three hours since breakfast, and every minute you were gone felt like a lifetime.
Then, I started working on the deck. Made not one bologna sandwich for lunch.
But two. I’d worked up an appetite, and you’re always on me about eating, but then I felt bad when I couldn’t finish the second, which is entirely wasteful, by the way.
So,” she taps the list. “I found cans of Coke in your fridge, and even though it's cold as balls out, I was working hard. So I ended up drinking two of those.”
“Oh, good. Five cups of coffee and two cans of Coke. You’re probably smelling colors by now.”
She re-folds the list and turns, grinning impossibly wide. “I’m happy because you’re home. And I have energy because I’ve discovered something new about myself. This is a good day.”
“Seems that way.” I meander forward—I’ll steal and destroy the list soon enough—but for now, I flatten my palm over a wild, straight-standing chunk of hair and press it to her scalp. “I’m glad you’re happy. I worried the whole twelve hours I was gone.”
“How was your day?”
I drop my hands and carefully, so fucking sneakily, hold her hood pocket between my fingers. “It was busier than I expected it to be. Otherwise, I would’ve snuck out and checked on you. Delivered a baby.”
“Shut up!” Her jaw falls slack. “Seriously?”
“Seriously. Mom started about seven o’clock last night, but she held that baby in till I arrived this morning, ‘cos she didn’t want Dawes delivering her.”