Once inside, I can’t stop shaking. I collapse to the floor and cover my head with my hands, letting my hair make a tent around my face, shutting me off from everything and everyone.
31
A noise makes me look up. A sob, or a sniffle. Rita’s sprawled on the floor, leaning against the couch. In her lap is a shoe box, and in front of her, spread out in a semicircle, are photographs. She holds one up and cocks her head to the side. I don’t think she knows I’m here. At first I think she must be drunk, but I don’t see a glass or a bottle.
My mother is crying. She is, in fact, sobbing.
“Rita? What happened?”
She doesn’t answer.
I move in closer. She’s holding a baby picture, taken at a hospital. The baby wearing a white pointy cap and wrapped in a white blanket looks like every other baby I’ve seen in hospital photos. Only somehow I know it’s Jeremy.
I sit beside her and finger through the photos scattered on the carpet. Half a dozen look like the one she’s holding, Jeremy a couple of minutes old. But there are other pictures of Jeremy-outside on a lawn somewhere, in the back of a faded car, in a building with other kids his size, no older than two. I’ve never seen these pictures. Where did she get them? How did she manage to hold on to them? Why did she?
“He’s my boy,” she says, not looking at me. “My own little boy.”
I don’t know what to say. This isn’t the Rita I know. It makes me think of what Chase said about me: The Hope I know…, something about how the Hope he knew wouldn’t give up on Jeremy. And the Chase I just left in the car, was he the Chase I know? The sickly Caroline Johnson on the stand, was she the same woman who screamed her hate at her husband? The T.J. who ran away without looking back, who scared me, was he the same T.J. who brought me mermaid tears and ate lunch with me at school every day?
I pick through the pictures of Jeremy. This is the Jeremy I know, sweet, innocent.
Are we different people every single moment of our lives?
“I have to testify for Jeremy,” Rita says, not taking her eyes off a photo of a much younger Rita and her son.
“What? Why?”
“I’m Raymond’s star witness.”
“Wait. Did Raymond call and tell you he wants you to testify?”
“Yep. Saved the best till last.” She leans back and takes a deep breath that turns into a cough.
I think I may hurl. Rita’s going to testify? And she’s the last person the jury will hear from? I don’t understand why Raymond would do this, even with his stupid kitchen-sink strategy… unless Caroline Johnson really did that much damage.
“Rita, did you and Raymond rehearse what you’re going to say?”
She wipes her eyes with the back of her hand, the same hand that’s holding the photograph of Jer and her. “I got to get to Raymond’s.”
I call Bob and ask him to drive her. Rita isn’t drunk. She hasn’t been drinking. But she’s shaking, shaken and stirred. I don’t trust her behind the wheel of a car.
I volunteer to cover for them at the restaurant, but Bob says he doesn’t need me. In twenty minutes, I have Rita dressed and ready.
“Don’t you leave the house again!” she calls to me on her way to Bob’s car. “Not like you ever do anything I say,” she mutters. Then she’s gone.
I put away the pictures of Jeremy. With Rita gone, the house turns up its noise volume-a hum from the fan becomes a roar; water leaking in the toilet, a waterfall; and the fridge groans like it’s being tortured. I lock the doors and windows, trying not to think about the stalker. What if he knows I’m alone, really alone now? No Rita, no T.J., and no Chase.
Exhausted, I lie down on my squeaky mattress, and my thoughts go to Chase. I miss him already-not just his help, but him. I miss his slow smile, like he’s grinning against his better judgment. And the way his voice gets deeper when he’s trying to explain about his life in Boston. Raising my hand, I think about how his large fingers feel interlocked with my small ones.
What have I done?
Chase has been so good to me. Did I really accuse him of caving to his “daddy”? He didn’t have to help me in the first place. But he did, even when his dad tried to keep him away from me.
I need to apologize. If I never see him again, he has to know how grateful I am for everything he’s done. I don’t think I could have made it this far without him.
Since the last person I called was Chase, I take out my cell and hit Send. His phone goes directly to voice mail. No way I can say what I want to say on a recorder. I hang up. In a few minutes, I try again. And again. I don’t know how many times I dial Chase over the next hour. Finally, I give up and decide I can, at least, text him. He’ll have to read that, and I can delete before sending if I screw it up. I punch in: I’m sorry. Hope. Then I change it to: I’m sorry! Hopeless.
I send it and wait, staring at the screen until it goes blank. I picture Chase hearing the beep. He glances at the number, sees it’s me, and…
No answer.
I try again: Please, Chase. Can’t we talk?
I send it and go back to waiting. Jeremy and I used to text each other before Jer lost his cell. Our exchanges were as fast as phone calls.
I’m not giving up. Chase said it himself. The Hope he knows is no quitter. I send another text: Meet me tonight? Now? I don’t want him to come to my house, and I sure don’t want to go to his. So I keep typing: At school? Driving practice? He’ll know what I mean. He’ll remember that day when we were so close we read each other’s thoughts, when he didn’t get mad at me, even after I wrecked his car.
I wait for a reply. While I’m at it, I should text T.J. too. We were friends for a long time. I stare at the screen, trying to think of a message for him. But I can’t.
My phone beeps. It’s Chase. I have a message: OK.
It takes me five minutes to change into jeans and brush my hair. I’m as nervous as if it’s our first date. I try to tell myself not to get my hopes up. He’s agreed to talk. Nothing else.
I hurry outside and up the walk in the direction of the school. It’s muggy out, and a cloud of gnats hovers around me. I shoo them away and keep going.
Behind me a car starts up. Headlights pop on and shine through me, turning my shadow into a jagged ghost.
Coincidence. But I walk a little faster.
The car creeps along behind me. I want it to speed up. I want the lights to vanish when I turn onto Walnut Street. But the headlights stay with me, like two giant flashlights keeping me in their sights. I walk faster. It’s all I can do not to break into a run.
The car pulls up beside me, keeping pace with me. Then I hear a voice: “Hope?”
“Chase! How did you-?”
“Get in.” He’s ducking low from the driver’s side so we can see each other.
I climb in, my heart still jittery, maybe more so. Then I scoot as close as I can get to him. “Chase, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
“I know. Me too.” He reaches out an arm, and I fall into him.
I close my eyes and let myself soak up everything about this moment, his strong arms around me, my head on his chest, rising and falling with his breath. I want to dissolve into him, to lose myself in Chase Wells.
Suddenly I pull away so I can see his face. “Were you out here the whole time?”
“Yeah. As soon as Dad finished yelling at me-which only happened because he had to go in to work-I came over here. I was pretty sure he was never going to have a patrol car on your street, so I thought I’d better keep an eye on things myself, in case that pickup came back.”
“You’ve been guarding me? Even after I said those horrible things to you?” I snuggle closer.
“I admit I was pretty mad when I drove away, but not mad enough to leave you for the stalker.” He grins down at me. I want to freeze that look, the dimples, the warmth.