Chapter 7 One Last Story #4
That’s fiction. In reality, I’d charge in there, whooping, only to be met by a shotgun blast. The newspaper accounts might mention a poker in my hand, but anyone reading the article wouldn’t imagine an old woman confronting an intruder; they’d picture her huddled in a corner, pathetically clutching her weapon.
That will not be my epitaph.
Instead, I’ll claim only the last part of that fantasy scenario. The one where the heroine drives away and calls the police.
I back along the counter, gaze fixed on the living room, poker ready. My hand goes out to snatch my keys and—
My keys aren’t there.
I know I put them on the counter. I remember that part. I came in, slapped them down and hauled in my bag.
The keys were here. Now they are not, and with that, my chest seizes and I gasp for air.
A floorboard creaks in the living room. I hold my breath and listen. Another creak. I spin, wildly searching for my keys, knowing I won’t see them, that this intruder stole them along with my shotgun, and the only thing they left me was my damn phone, because they know I don’t have service.
I’m about to stop looking when silver reflects in my cell phone light. My keys, on the floor, where they slid off the counter.
I snatch them up. As I back to the door, I catch a glimpse of something in the shadows. Is that the shotgun? Propped in the corner?
I ease forward. Then a footstep sounds in the living room. A shadowy figure steps into the doorway. It turns toward the shotgun. It sees the shotgun. One arm reaches out, and I wheel, yank open the door and barrel out.
I stop on the porch and stare into the darkness. Where is my SUV?
My gut plummets. The intruder has played a trick. Took my keys, moved my vehicle, and then left the keys on the floor, for me to find if I tried, only to discover there was nothing to use them on.
I hit the Unlock button, and a distant beep-beep sounds. It’s coming from down the lane. Right! I left the SUV there.
I cannot recall the last time I ran—the last time I dared run—but I run down that lane, slipping on damp patches and loose stones, cursing myself for parking so far away. I reach the vehicle, yank open the door, slide in, start the engine and…
It is only when the tires spin that I remember why I left the SUV here. It’s stuck.
Conveniently stuck. Where it had never gotten stuck before. Oh, I know about the overrun creek, but in that moment, I am certain I’ve been intentionally trapped, and what fills me isn’t terror but fury.
I will not die like this. I don’t care how carefully the intruder has arranged my death.
I spent my career putting my heroines in predicaments exactly like this.
A dozen escape options leap to mind. As I sort through the most realistic ones, I work on getting the vehicle free, hitting the gas in drive and then reverse—
The tires spin, and the SUV screams backward out of the rut. I hit the brakes, momentarily stunned by my success. Then a figure appears in the headlights, too hazy to make out with my shitty night vision.
I hit the gas again, my gaze on the reverse camera as I roar down the rutted road.
The driveway curves, and all I see through the camera is dark trees.
There’s an empty space to my left, and I pull into it for a three-point turn.
I’m almost around and glancing over my shoulder when I see a figure behind me. Someone is in my back seat.
I hit the gas. I don’t think. All I want is to get away, and I jam on the gas and the SUV lurches and veers.
“Marguerite! Watch—!”
The front end slams into a tree, and the world goes dark.
“Marguerite. Come on, Mags. Wake up.”
My eyelids flutter. I open them to see Richard. We’re in my SUV, and I’m slumped in my seat.
Did I fall asleep at the wheel?
I don’t care. Richard is beside me, and seeing him, the last twenty months evaporate in a blink. It was all a dream. The worst kind of “twist” in a story, but dear lord, I’ll take it.
The pandemic never happened. Richard didn’t die. My sister and friends didn’t die. Dolly didn’t die. Everything is fine, except for the part where I fell asleep at the wheel, and God, I’m going to lose my license, aren’t I? I don’t care. Don’t care at all. Better that than…
I see Richard then. And I see right through his opaque form to the windshield, the dark autumn night, and the deflating airbag.
My eyes fill with tears and I pull back sharply, smacking against the head rest.
“Mags?” he says.
I refuse to look at him, this delusion woven from my treacherous brain.
He moves into my field of vision. “I’m sorry. I only meant to spook you, not scare you into crashing the car.”
I don’t answer, just turn away as my eyes fill with tears.
“Apology not accepted?” he says. “I guess I deserve that.”
“You’re not real,” I mutter. “I’m imagining you.”
He pauses for a moment. “And everything that happened tonight?”
“My imagination.”
“Hmm.” He settles back into the passenger seat. “Well, at the risk of insulting your excellent imagination, I feel a bit slighted.”
I snort.
“Any chance it could really be me?” he says.
“No, because I don’t believe in ghosts. And even if I did, you wouldn’t suddenly pop up now.”
“Wouldn’t I? Wouldn’t I find some way to return when you need me the most? Give you the kick in the ass you need?”
I snort again. “By scaring the shit out of me?”
“Nah, just scaring the sense into you. Are you really ready to go, Mags? If you are, I won’t stop you, but I don’t think you are.”
Fresh tears well. “It’s not supposed to be like this. First, you. Then my sister. Then the damn dog.”
“Everyone abandoned you.”
I shake my head. “I have the kids, the grandkids, the great-grandkids…”
“But they’re okay, and you’re not.”
“I’m really not,” I say, my voice a whisper. Then I glance over at him. “Now you’re going to tell me to think of them. Of what it would be like for our family if I left this way.”
His brows rise. “Am I? I thought you knew me better than that. This isn’t about them. It’s about you. Your choice. I just don’t want you making the wrong one.” He pauses. “It was pretty cool, though, as exit strategies go.”
I peer at him.
“Oh, I know what you were doing. I know you. A grand mysterious exit, one that you told yourself you were doing for the kids, a last promotional burst to sell more books. Bullshit. There’s plenty of money, and they don’t need it anyway. You were just being dramatic.”
I open my mouth to protest. Then I glare at him.
“So maybe I am really here?” he says.
Tears well and spill down my cheeks. He envelops me in a hug that I swear I can feel.
“Soon, Mags,” he whispers. “Soon you’ll come to me. But let’s not rush it.”
I let myself stay in that embrace for a few minutes. Then I straighten and wipe my eyes.
“So now what?”
He points at my phone. “Well, for starters, you go through those messages and pick a damn puppy.”
I laugh, the sound bubbling through my tears. “Yes, sir.”
“Then you go back inside, pick up your laptop and continue that story.”
“I’m not sure I can.”
He rolls his eyes. “I saw you writing. I walked right past you, and you never noticed. You have a new story. Write it.”
“Yes, sir. And then?”
“Then you find a new story for yourself. One last story.” He meets my gaze. “I know you have it in you.”
I nod, and lean forward to brush my lips over his cheek. He points at the dropped phone. I pick it up and flip to the puppy pictures my grandkids sent.
Time to start one last story. And I’m going to make it a good one.