Page 1 of The Caretaker
Noon
“HALEY COVE TAVERN.”I read the sign above the stone facade multiple times but it meant nothing to me. I waited for a memory to come barreling through my brain, because between the receipt in my pocket and the way my body hummed with anxious energy, this place—this quaint town—shouldmean something to me. But…nothing.
“Fuck!” I bashed the heels of my palms against the steering wheel repeatedly before gripping and jerking it in an attempt to rip it from the dashboard. To provide some semblance of control, even if it was only an illusion; even if the only thing I could control was the destruction of something.
My phone chirped with an incoming text, snapping me out of my daily rage ritual. Rage. I wasconsumedwith it.
Heaving out a breath, I continued to stare beyond the manic swishing of the windshield wipers doing little to combat the heavy snowfall. I drowned out the sound of the whirring engine, of the heat blasting through the air vents, of the oxygen pumping at a fast clip in and out of my lungs. It all faded away as I concentrated on remembering—to no avail.
The phone rang this time, and I screamed until my voice gave out, until a couple stumbling arm-in-arm to their Uber were startled out of their drunken stupors. I hadn’t realized I’d begun thrashing in my seat, or that the truck now rocked with my movements. This had been my last hope, and it was slipping away from me.
I yanked my hat off, my shaggy hair falling to my shoulders as I dragged aching hands down my overgrown beard. I was a wreck, and I didn’t care. I’d lost my wife, the only person who my love still burned bright for, and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t get my life back on track. I was beginning to not care, beginning to entertain no longer being here, no longer existing, and that scared me the most.
Sometimes I wished I didn’t remember Stacey so vividly, if only so I could have a moment of peace from the pain of missing her. Not even in my sleep did I get a break. Her love haunted me there too. In some ways I was grateful for the unending dream. It conjured up this overwhelming feeling of love that saw me gasping awake in a cold sweat, and helped to keep that love front and center during the long months of rehabilitation and grief.
The scene never changed. She and I passionately entangled, our bodies writhing on top of an unkempt bed. The lovemaking was untamed, almost violent, sweat licking down her spine as I wrapped her long hair around my fist.
I could never quite make out her face, but the wild emotion that filled my heart and soul during those sleeping hours made one thing pretty clear: I would forever love my wife, with all of me. So I clung to that one dream with every useless scrap of my life.
Another chirp, and I knew without looking that it was Leland doing his weekly check-in. If I didn’t reply, he’d keep trying to reach me. He used to be my best friend. Insisted he still was. Claimed we’d reconnected after having grown apart nearly a decade prior when I left Seattle for New York. The reconnecting years were gone for me, though. Lost amongst the two most recent years of memories that the accident had wiped away from me. Our history was incomplete on my end, which left me less enthusiastic about him than he was about me since the accident.
Not even Stacey had escaped what I couldn’t recall from that time period. Those years were completely gone. Not a hint of them remained.
I desperately wanted that time back, wanted every moment I’d spent loving her during those years back. It was what brought me to Haley Cove. I refused to believe I’d driven hours to the tip of New York state for nothing.
Cutting the heat off, I pressed my sweaty forehead to the steering wheel and focused on my breathing, like my therapist said I should whenever I sensed a panic attack on the horizon. It was the only good tip she’d given me before I fired her. None of them knew how to help me. Not her, and not the others before her.
Only once I’d calmed, could I check my text messages.
Leland:Are you okay?
Leland:Hello?
Leland:Dammit, Noon. Just let me know you’re okay.
Me:I’m fine. Stop treating me like a fucking child.
I hit send, and his response came in immediately, as if he’d been watching the screen for my reply.
Leland:I’m sorry. Just worried about you.
He cared, and that triggered my guilt, because all I seemed to do was make him pay for giving a damn about me. Sometimes my guilt weighed just as much as my grief. In moments like this it overshadowed it. I didn’t know whether to be thankful for the reprieve or to be upset by the momentary distraction from my sorrow.
Leland stubbornly refused to give up on me, though, no matter how much I pushed him away. There were enough photos taken of us together to prove he wasn’t lying about any of it, but the truth didn’t matter if I couldn’t feel it, if I couldn’t see it in my mind’s eye. The man standing beside him in those photoswasn’t me. Not the version of me I’d been living for the past nine months, if what I’d been doing could even be called living.
Tucking my phone into my pocket and grabbing my satchel, I exited the truck and headed inside the tavern.
The interior of the building was reminiscent of an earlier time, much like what I’d gleaned so far from the town. I had my pick of seats at the bar—business looked slow tonight—but opted for one of the creaky leather and wood booths near the back instead.
Pulling my camera from my bag, I snapped a few photos of the place to look over later if nothing jogged my memory now.
“What can I get for you?” a bubbly waitress asked, withdrawing a notepad and pen from the apron tied at her waist. Her name tag read Liz.
“I’ll take whatever you have on tap,” I said, my voice scratchy from all the screaming I’d done.
“Anything to eat?”
I lowered my camera to the table and quickly scanned the menu slotted between the condiments and napkin holder. “Burger and fries. Medium well,” I answered, waiting for her to scribble it down. “Can I ask you how long you’ve worked here?”
