“My pleasure.” He stops in front of my house. “And don’t worry about T.J. He’s a big boy. He can take care of himself. You’ve got enough on your mind with Jeremy. He’s the one who needs you now. And he’s lucky to have you.” He leans down and kisses me goodbye. “Call me if you need me.”
A glow from inside the house spills over the lawn. It flashes on and off as the TV images change. I guess we didn’t break the television. There’s no sign of Rita, but her car is here. The last thing I want to do is talk to her.
So I do something I haven’t done in way too long. I dig out the lawn mower. It starts on the first try, although I don’t know how much gas I’ve got.
Mowing our lawn is tough going because of the weeds. But once I make a clean swipe the length of the front yard, it feels great looking back and seeing what I’ve done. Maybe that’s why I like mowing. That, plus the fact that it gives me time to think. Mostly, my thoughts keep bouncing back to the way my hand felt in Chase’s, the way his finger felt on my lip, the way his lips felt on mine. I can almost feel him here with me as I walk back and forth across the grass, bringing order to the chaos of our lawn.
Then, just like that, my mind flashes back to T.J. outside the antiques store. His hair is wild, his eyes too deep into his skull, like somebody pitched them there too hard. I don’t want this image of T.J. in my head. I try to picture him in his Panther jersey at a ball game. I can see Jer in his uniform and T.J. in his, but I don’t have a single memory of Jeremy and T.J. together. Why is that? T.J.’s never been mean or rude to Jer, like some of the guys were. But he and Jeremy have never been friends either. I accepted that. Maybe I shouldn’t have.
My mind spirals down to Jeremy, and a whole tangled ball of nerve endings shoots through my brain. Jeremy. I miss him. I miss walking into his room and plopping onto his bed so I could tell him everything about my day at school while he placed one of his jars on a shelf. I miss “talking” with Jeremy. He’d write his calligraphy almost as fast as I could talk. Sometimes we’d sit outside, each of us with a notebook, and we’d write miniletters to each other, exchanging them, then writing again. My handwriting always looked like somebody was elbowing me, but Jeremy’s was perfect, each letter a piece of art.
I haven’t seen a note from Jeremy in weeks. They let me visit him in jail twice, with a plate of glass between us and two phones, which didn’t help much because Jeremy wouldn’t pick his up. I tried writing notes and holding them to the glass window: “Jer, pick up the phone!” “Are you OK?” “Write me!” Jeremy smiled at me and touched the glass with both hands. But he wouldn’t write.
By the time I finish mowing, it’s pretty dark, but I go ahead and weed anyway. My eyes are used to the dark. I’ve caught Rita peeking out from the living room window a couple of times and from the back door once. I act like I don’t see her.
I’m almost finished outside when the front door opens and Rita steps out. She’s wearing too-tight blue jeans and a peasant blouse tugged down over both shoulders.
She stops when she gets to me. I’m kneeling by the sidewalk, and I brace myself for Rita’s attack. But she gazes around the yard and says, “It looks real nice, don’t it, Hope? Real, real nice.”
I stare after her, still waiting for the punch line. It doesn’t come.
When I go inside, my arms and shoulders cry out for a long, hot bubble bath. I start the water, then remember to close the shades and curtains. I’m struggling with the living room curtains when I catch sight of something white across the street. It’s the pickup truck.
How long has it been there? Was someone watching me while I mowed? I shiver, thinking about it, picturing it. What if they were waiting for Rita to leave?
Fast as I can, I lock the doors. Then I edge toward the window and peer out.
Nothing moves.
No cars drive by.
If the pickup is still there, I can’t see it. But I didn’t imagine that truck.
I hear the bathtub water running and dash in to shut it off before it overflows.
911. I need to dial 911. I race through the living room looking for my cell. I don’t know what I did with it. I don’t have time to look.
Heart pounding, I run to the house phone. I reach for it, and the phone rings. I jump back.
Ring! Ring! Ring!
I watch as my arm stretches down and my fingers wrap around the receiver. I lift it to my ear, but I don’t speak. I don’t breathe.
Someone’s there. There’s a rustling noise. I think I hear an engine, a car. Then he-or she-says, “I’m watching you.” The voice is calm, firm, as sexless as it is faceless.
“Who are-?”
“Quit poking around where you don’t belong. Leave… it… alone.” The line goes dead.
I stand there, receiver to my ear, until it buzzes. I drop the phone back onto the holder.
Almost instantly, it rings again. I stare at it.
Ring, ring, ring. It won’t quit.
I jerk the phone off its hook. “Stop it! Stop calling here! You leave me alone!”
“Hope? What’s wrong? Did they call again?”
It’s Chase. I burst into tears.
“Hope, is Rita there with you?”
I shake my head. “No.”
“Hang on. I’ll be right over.” There’s a click, then nothing but the scream of the dial tone.
28
I curl up on the couch, pulling the afghan blanket around me. And I wait. Pipes creak. The fridge roars. Branches scratch the roof. Each noise is louder than the one before.
Outside, I hear a car drive up. A car door slam. Footsteps running up the walk. A knock. A banging at the door. It gets louder and louder.
“Hope! It’s me! Open up!”
I fling the blanket to the floor and rush to the door. The lock won’t turn. My hands are shaking. Finally, I yank the door open and throw myself into Chase’s arms.
Without a word, he picks me up and carries me to the couch. He has to go back to the door and lock it.
“Chase?” I call.
“I’m here.” He kneels beside the couch and wraps me in the blanket. “You’re shivering.” He rubs the blanket, warming my arms and legs. “Tell me what happened.”
“The truck was outside.” I start to sit up. “It might still be there!”
He eases me back down. “It’s okay. I didn’t see it out there. Go on.”
“The phone… rang. They said to stop poking around, or something like that.” I can’t finish because that scratchy, breathless voice is in my head, telling me to let it go or leave it alone.
Chase sits on the couch and holds my head in his lap. He strokes my hair, and I wonder if this is what children feel like when their parents take care of them when they’re sick or frightened. I think it might be.
“Hope?” His voice is as soothing as his fingers on my hairline. “Talk to me. Tell me again what the caller said.”
I tell him. It’s easier now. I’m safe.
When I finish, Chase lets out a breath, like he’s been holding it during my account. “Did the person on the phone sound like a man?”
“Yes. At least, I think so. I guess it could have been a woman. It didn’t even sound human. But I thought it was a man.”
“It’s got to be the same person who’s stalking you,” Chase says, “the guy in that pickup. I wish I’d seen him.”
“You believe me, don’t you?”
“Of course I believe you,” he answers quickly. “I’d just like to be able to tell my dad that I saw it too, with my own eyes.”
“I knew he didn’t believe me.”
“I’m not sure he would have believed me either, to tell the truth. I doubt if he even sent that patrol car over here to watch out for you.”
A shiver passes through me, shaking my whole body.
“You need something hot to drink.” He stands up, gently settling my head on the arm of the couch. “Do you have any tea without caffeine?”
“I don’t know.” Since the trial, I haven’t gone to the grocery store regularly. I haven’t felt much like eating. My clothes are baggy, and I haven’t even cared. I start to get up to search the cupboards for tea bags.