Page 15 of The Caretaker
My whole body burned now, down to my toes.
“That shouldn’t embarrass you,” he said. He was right. I hadn’t been myself and he knew it. If anyone understood that it would’ve been him.
I exhaled an extended breath. “You should have woken me up.”
“Seemed like you needed sleep more than I needed blood circulation.” His words were light, suggesting humor, but his amusement didn’t reach his eyes. “Really, I didn’t mind. How are you feeling?”
“Not good,” I said, and he nodded. I tried to ask him how he was doing, tried to form the words, but they got stuck somewhere in my chest. Probably right where the broken pieces of my heart lay scattered.
“I’ve been better myself,” he said. That familiar ache I witnessed on the porch returned, and I twisted around to see if the front door did, in fact, have a fist-size hole in it.
“My name’s Noon,” he followed up with, confirming the name I’d heard his wife call him at the museum. I stared mutely at him, so disoriented by pain that I couldn’t see straight. “If you’re going to drool on me, the least you can do is give me your name.”
Another stab at humor, even though his bloodshot eyes indicated the world of hurt he was in.
“You don’t need to worry about me,” I said, picking up on a theme. My husband played a role in ruining his marriage. How he could manage to care about my well-being and assuaging my embarrassment went beyond me.
“Sorry. Nasty habit of mine.” He slumped against the back of the couch like I’d given him the permission he needed to be weak for a moment.
“I’m Solace,” I said, suddenly conscious of how haggard I appeared, and that I was in desperate need of a shower.
“You caught them, didn’t you?” he asked, barely above a whisper.
“Yes,” I confirmed, and he turned away.
“She’d been crying,” he whispered, reminding me of her runny mascara. “She wouldn’t tell me what was wrong until we got home. And then she wouldn’t even tell me who he was. How they met. Wouldn’t give me a name.”
“His name is Patrick,” I said, wondering how he knew to come here if she hadn’t given him those details.
He huffed. “I know that now. No thanks to her. I got into her phone logs and took a chance on a number that popped up often. Too often. I called the number repeatedly but got no answer.”
That must have been how he got Patrick’s name. Through his voicemail message.
“Did you know there’s an app that spits out a list of possible addresses when you punch a phone number into it?”
I shook my head. I hadn’t known that.
“You were my sixth stop today. I’ve been making stops all week. I thought you were him,” he said. “When you opened the door, I remembered you from the charity ball.”
Patrick must have remained out of sight then, after their little clandestine tryst in the museum. Likely slipping out of a back door.
“Makes sense why you were so upset that day. I’ve been curious about whether you were okay or not.” The weariness was absent from his voice when he spoke again. Anger and determination replaced it. “Where is he?”
It crossed my mind that maybe he’d stayed in hopes of confronting Patrick. Then I thought about the rawness of his embrace outside, thought about the vulnerability in it, the way it wordlessly conveyed that he needed a pillar too. I thought about the ill-timed humor meant to lighten the moment, and how he’d put his own rage on pause while I rested. Thought about it all and knew without a doubt his reason for still being here had little to do with Patrick. He’d stayed for me. Forus. Something like gratitude took up space in my heart.
“He’s gone,” I answered, realizing he didn’t know.
“We’ll have the next three months together,”Patrick had said to his wife.
Noon shot up like a spring, his breathing loud and jagged. “They’re together,” he said roughly, giving me his back.
“Yes.” I hated that I had to be the one to tell him. Hated that he had to be told at all.
“Son of a bitch!” He tugged at his hair as he spun, gaze darting everywhere, as if searching for something to break. He must have remembered nothing here belonged to him, that he didn’t have a right to destroy any of it, because he strode briskly for the front door, tearing it open before charging out and roaring at the snowy night sky.
Our house was located at the end of a cul-de-sac, with nothing but woodland to the left and rear of us. There were still a couple neighbors along the street to take into consideration.I couldn’t find it in me to care if Noon’s bellows awoke them, though.
I sat with my head lowered, listening to him purge his agony, wishing I could do something for him. I was too busy screaming inside myself, though. Eventually the night fell silent again, and I went to check on him, finding him on his knees, chin lowered to his chest.
