Page 142 of Intermission
Mom looks at her watch. “That’s probably them now. Oh, dear.” She frowns, wide-eyed. “Janey’s still outside, isn’t she?”
“Yeah, why?”
“Does she still do that thing where she sneaks up behind peopleand growls?”
“Um . . .”
“I better let them in before Kay has a heart attack. She’s petrified of dogs.” Mom slams the door of the washing machine. “Do you mind starting this up for me? The soap’s in the—”
The doorbell rings again. “I’ve got this. Go let your cleaning lady in before she files a lawsuit against me.”
I start the machine. My ratty old backpack leans against the wall by the pocket door to the bathroom. It didn’t make it into the washer last night, but I have a spare in my apartment, the one I’ve been saving for school. Rather than take the filthy thing home, I decide to chuck it, but when I pick it up to deliver it to the trashcan, it’s heavier than it should be.
Our mailbox.
How had I forgotten it was in my bag?
I try turning the lid, but it’s still stuck. I take it to the sink, tossing the now-emptied backpack into the nearby trashcan as I go by.
The dirt washes off quickly. Inside the jar, I see a tiny piece of paper and... a small, silver charm—the comedy/tragedy masks, atop a treble clef—on a matching chain. The paper is a... receipt? Yes. From The Smoked Salt Grille. And there’s writing—familiar penmanship—on the other side.
Still holding on, Noah.
But . . . he didn’t come.
Apart from breaking the jar, there’s no way to get that charm and note out. But do I really need to?
Does it matter?
Noah may have left a token of his promise for me to find, but whatever it meant when he put it in the jar, it clearly no longer carries the same meaning.
If it did, he would have come.
Closing my eyes, I hug the jar to my chest. I have to accept this. He made his choice, and it isn’t me. I have to let him go.
In just three steps, the jar and its contents can join the backpack in the trashcan. But I can’t make myself take those steps.
Yes. It’s the right thing to do.
Eyes still shut, I take one step.
Please. Lord. Let him be safe and happy.
I loosen my grip on the jar, holding it away from me in one hand, as I take the second step.
“Sothat’swhere it went.”
My eyes snap open. My knees lock. Every bone in my body jolts to attention.
In the doorway of the mudroom, in white socks, with mud caked onto the hem of his jeans and splattered across his gray t-shirt and tentative smile, Noah Spencer stands, twisting the brim of a red baseball cap.
“The jar, I mean.” He clears his throat. “I tried to get here on time, Faith. Really, I did. But the—the weather. My flight was diverted to St. Louis, and I—I thought maybe you’d left a note for me in the Dutchman’s pocket. But the jar was missing, so I decided that rather than go back out to my car, I’d hike the other way, toward Parre Hills, and hope the restraining order had expired. But I got a little turned around in the woods—not so familiar with your side, I guess—and I...”
I gape, blinking rapidly, like the opening and closing of my eyes will make this illusion disappear. That one of these blinks will eventually prove him a figment of my imagination. But he stays.
He’s explaining something about hail and a rental car with a broken windshield, but his words come so quickly, like a flowing velvet river.
He’s picked up a bit of an accent.
