Page 12 of A Deeper Darkness
A different woman might have been tempted to open up the closet door, drag out that brown box she kept—the before box—and look through for a picture she knew was in there.
But she didn’t. Samantha Owens wasn’t the type of woman to look back.
She kept telling herself that. If she repeated it enough, it might even come true.
Relief came a few hours later, when the alarm began to buzz. Shower, coffee, cornflakes, a relatively quick drive across town. The airport wasn’t crowded, the lines for security mercifully short. She glided through—apparently women weren’t being X-rayed this morning, only the men—and had plenty of time to grab another coffee from the Starbucks.
She lined up dutifully when her time came, got on the plane, sat and pulled the bottle of Purell from her plastic bag. She rubbed the antibacterial gel into her cracked palms, and remembered the last time she was supposed to fly. Their vacation had been a spur-of-the-moment thing, and she realized she’d never called the airline to let them know they weren’t coming. She may even have a credit. She’d have to check. It went into her mental database of things to do that she’d never really remember, the file that flitted through her life like little birds hopping up and down the branches of the river birch in her yard. She told herself that she remembered the things that mattered. That made her strong. It got her through.
* * *
The flight landed, bumping her back to reality. Another chunk of time gone. She gathered her things and left the plane. She managed to avoid eye contact with the people around her. It was better that way. She couldn’t seem to look at anyone these days without imagining them pale and chilled, arms spread akimbo, a hard plastic block under the third thoracic vertebra, spreading the chest wide for her scalpel. It always bothered her when television crime shows, which purported to be accurate, showed bodies at autopsy under sheets with the block under their necks. Then again, normal healthy people didn’t want to know the details of what happened when Sam took over their loved ones’ lives.
At the end of the hallway, before she got to Baggage, there was a driver with a sign that read OWENS in chicken-scratch black marker. Kind Eleanor, no doubt. Even respecting the name, unlike so many others. Eleanor understood what it was like to lose. Sam had dropped her husband’s name. It was too much of a reminder.
Not everyone agreed with her choice.
She had no bags—just the overnight case she’d slung together with two changes of clothes in it; she didn’t plan to stay long enough to need more. Swoop in, do her due diligence for Donovan and get home.
Home.
As if she knew what that was anymore.
She let the driver take her carry-on, followed him out of the terminal to the curb.
It was overcast, cold and rainy, typical Washington spring weather. She got settled in the back and watched as the driver silently pulled into traffic and pointed them toward town. Within moments she could see the Washington Monument, the best orienting spot of any city in the world. The Monument meant center west, the Capitol exactly 1.2 miles east up the National Mall, and the city tidily moved from those points outward on a fine grid. Lettered streets went east to west, numbered streets went north to south, states went at an angle through the city. Four quadrants—northeast, northwest, southeast, southwest—delineated by time, race and society. Independence Avenue and Constitution Avenue were the main thoroughfares along the Mall, and the whole city was ringed by parkways and freeways, parks, trees, monuments, bridges. It was hard to get lost downtown. Just look over your shoulder, see where you are in relation to the monument, and change course as needed.
It was a beautiful city, one made more so in spring, when the delicate pink-and-white cherry blossoms took over.
Sam could see them across the Potomac and the Tidal Basin opposite the parkway, like puffy snowballs suspended in midair. They were at their peak, but the cold rains were causing them to wilt. A pity, though they matched her mood. They’d be jubilant tomorrow or the next day, when the sun returned to the sky.
The driver took the exit for Key Bridge and ferried her across to the edges of Georgetown. Eleanor lived on Q Street, just up from the old haunts Sam and Donovan used to frequent. They were stopped at the light in front of one of them right now: Dixie Liquors, a building that had been the source of every kegger she’d attended during school.
Sam realized she was smiling. Funny that the thought of upside-down keg hits brought her right back to a freer, easier time. Maybe it was just being out of Nashville. Then again, she had always loved D.C.
By the time the driver deposited her at the front door to Eleanor’s elegant Georgetown Federalist town house, she could almost feel the weight starting to lift from her shoulders. Like her wings might eventually unfold again, curling lush and firm from her back, where now they lay dormant, desiccated husks that felt like they would never bring her flight.
Fine time for optimism, Sam. Standing on the doorstep of your dead lover’s mother’s house.
The house hadn’t changed on the outside—three stories of rust-brick and black shutters, a welcoming red door and two dormer windows peeking out onto the street. Classic. Unending.
She raised her hand to knock, but Eleanor must have been waiting. The door opened and the older woman launched herself into Sam’s arms.
It felt good. To be touched. Even if mournfully.
“Oh, Eleanor, I am so, so sorry.”
Eleanor gave her another squeeze, as if she knew Sam needed that extra bolstering, then stepped back. Her hair had long since gone gray, but was colored in D.C. denizen style, an ear-length bob lowlighted with stormy streaks that gave depth to her silver. Her eyes were blue and moist; she’d lost weight since Sam saw her last. God, what had that been, eight years ago? No, just five—Sam had been back for her reunion, and had met Eleanor for coffee.
Right when Donovan was headed into Kirkut.
“You look like hell. Come on in. I’ve made some tea.”
Dear Eleanor. Never able to lie, even decorously.
“That sounds lovely.”
* * *
