Page 16 of The Two of Us

6

NOW

I’m an intruder in my own home.

I know these walls and I know these floors, but I feel like an intruder all the same. The creaks in the walls at night are no longer familiar and my insomnia makes them hard to ignore. A part of me expects the comfort of my childhood home to lull me to sleep.

It doesn’t.

Laura flits through the house like a hummingbird, completing tasks, while I remain a background player. I can picture her now, beckoning me with that gentle smile of hers, encouraging me to try adjusting my dad’s oxygen mask or change him into a fresh set of pajamas, but the coward inside pulls me to the chair in the corner of his room every time. Unlike that damn dog who elicits a smile every time he leaps onto my dad’s bed, I resign myself to the silence I know I can’t fill and spend my nights working on my laptop in my little corner when Laura heads home.

That’s where I am tonight when I expand the tab on a project Helen’s listed as important, the blue glow from my screen the only light in the room. The consistency of his faint wheezes a few feet away keep my concern at bay. Otso lays claim to the corner of the bed, his shadow a monstrous shape in the dark. It must be nice being a dog. So oblivious to the heartache we’ll soon endure. As if we aren’t enduring it already. If I had the privilege of such ignorance, I’d run around licking people’s faces too.

I click the mouse pad, enlarging my inbox. My fatal flaw is that I respond to emails faster than text messages. It’s a pathetic sort of high, filing them away in the little categorized folders I’ve created. A ping notifies me of a new email from Helen.

To: Mara Makinen

From: Helen Redford

Date: Thursday, October 12, 2021, 10:45:33 EST

Subject: Urgent!

Health House wants more one-on-one attention than we previously discussed, so I’m having them sign an agreement for your billable rate. Please print and sign the attached form below and send it back to me as soon as possible.

Thanks,

Helen Redford

I groan. Didn’t we, as a society, graduate to e-signatures years ago? They’re much more convenient and the cursive fonts provided always upstage my chicken scratch handwriting. I rub my eyes, unsure of where I can access a printer at this hour. The library is already closed, and it’s not like the city where I can run to a Staples until eleven p.m. I sit up, suddenly remembering the printer in my old room upstairs. My dad is sure to have packed it away by now, but it wouldn’t hurt to check. It’s unlikely Helen would chew me out for sending the form tomorrow, but I want to make a good impression.

Since coming home, I’ve avoided my childhood bedroom, too afraid to look inside because I already know what I’ll see—emptiness. But a part of me wants to retain the image of my room from the past rather than let it be replaced with something so foreign.

I traipse up the stairs, the light sound of paws padding behind me. Otso’s closing the distance between us, eager to join, and I turn, narrowing my eyes at him. “Stalker.”

He responds by panting and plopping drool onto the floor.

Classy.

I continue up a few more stairs and glance back when he doesn’t move.

“What are you waiting for, an invitation?”

He gruntsand follows me into the room. I don’t want to see the room in its entirety, so I retract my hand before it hits the light switch, opting instead for the flashlight on my phone. Boxes are scattered against every wall, stacked on top of each other at differing heights. It reminds me of New York City and I yearn for the other half of my double life. The easier half.

An oak desk sits in the corner as the only piece of furniture left. I move closer to inspect it and jump in excitement when I see the clunky printer resting on top. I plug the dinosaur machine into the nearest outlet and do a victory dance when the green light sputters on. I’m not superstitious, but I should have knocked on the wood of the desk because the red blinking light next to the green one informs me that there’s no ink. Morning field trip to the library it is.

The dust-infused room makes me sneeze four times before I walk to the window that looks out onto the cul-de-sac and crack it open, letting the crisp night air in. Every house but one is swallowed in darkness. I envy the families sleeping soundly in their beds, taking advantage of the rest night offers.

Chalking my rashness up to exhaustion, I sneak a glance at the house across the street. Once so pivotal in my life, it now looks like any ole house. Nothing’s changed in seven years and the front yard is still well maintained.

A black jeep pulls into the driveway and it has me pushing my nose against the glass for a better view. My legs weaken at the thought of catching a glimpse of Mr. and Mrs. King, but I can’t look away. The body that steps out of the driver’s seat is tall and all I can make out is that it’s a man. Even the shadows can’t hide his broad chest and thick arms. He walks around the hood of the car, stopping at the passenger side to open the door. I haven’t seen Mr. and Mrs. King in years, but this isn’t them.

A petite body sways outside of the car, falling into the man’s arms. She practically climbs him like a tree to bury her face into his neck. She looks like she’s about to collapse, but his grip is firm on her waist. Steady. My pulse quickens, but I ignore the voice urging me to look away. The voice that I’m sure is my rationale. They chat for a minute, neither one making a move toward the house.

I’m still mulling over their identities when the porch light flickers on, casting them under a direct spotlight. Ambrose stands in clear view and my heart plummets. He and the woman remain unmoving in place. She’s beautiful, even from a distance. Her skin glows in the moonlight and the long silky hair falling down her back looks more pearl white than blonde. She resembles the fairy doll I used to play with when I was five and before I decide I don’t like her, I remind myself that I have no right to be jealous over the man across the street cocooning her in his arms.

Ambrose’s quiet confidence can make any woman swoon, but I’ve never allowed myself to imagine him with a partner over the years. The dust must be compromising my remaining brain cells because I crack the window another inch, attempting to eavesdrop on their intimate conversation.

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