Читать книгу The Favour - Меган Харт - Страница 10

FIVE

JANELLE HAD NEVER wept when Bennett started school, not even kindergarten. And Bennett hadn’t been one for tears, not even as a baby. Today, with his breath puffing out in the frigid northwestern Pennsylvania mountain air, his cheeks red and lips already chapping, he looked as if he might break down, and that was enough to send Janelle’s heart surging into her throat.

“I’ll be okay, Mom.”

“Sure. It’s going to be a great school for you.” She nodded firmly. “I know it won’t be like the academy, but it’ll be great.”

“Don’t cry,” Bennett warned.

She’d always driven him to and from school. Montrose Academy had limited bus service, and Bennett’s after-school activities would’ve meant she needed to pick him up, anyway. Music lessons, sports and art classes, in addition to what the academy provided. No dance lessons; he’d never been interested in that. She’d spent hours ferrying him from one class to the next. Thousands of dollars, all to make sure he had every possible opportunity.

“And you get to ride the bus,” she told him. “That’ll be fun.”

His expression told her he didn’t believe her. The bus appeared at the end of the street and stopped at the intersection. For a moment it looked as if it would continue without turning onto Dippold Street. The first day of her senior year of high school, Janelle had had to run for the bus. She’d lost a ballet flat, had to go back. Everyone had been laughing at her when she got on the bus, red-faced and panting, the carefully tousled hairdo she’d spent an hour fixing a mess.

This time she’d called the school four times to make sure of the stop location so they’d be at the right place on this first day, but her heart still pounded uncomfortably until the bus made the lumbering turn and headed toward them. It screeched to a stop on the opposite side of the street with that distinctive braking noise. The lights flashed and the red sign flipped out to prevent the nonexistent traffic from passing. Bennett headed for the bus without a backward glance.

“Wait!” Janelle cried. “Do you have your...lunch money? Your gym clothes?”

She should’ve driven him to school, just this first day. Walked him to the office, made sure he had everything he needed. Switching from private to public school was a difficult enough transition without a cross-country move, including a climate change on top of it.

Bennett didn’t even look back. Janelle stared at the faces peering at her from the bus windows, and kept herself from running across the street after him. The bus driver waved. She waved back. The bus drove off.

That was it, then.

Her teeth were chattering and her fingers numb. The house would be warm, but before going inside she took the time to look up and down the street. Not much had changed.

Those Tierney boys, Janelle thought, turning to look at the big redbrick house next to Nan’s. It sat higher on the hill than hers. An intricately constructed railroad-tie wall had replaced the cinder blocks that used to keep the yards distinct. The same concrete walk led to the back porch door. It had once been lined with flowers, but now butted directly against the wooden ties.

And... Oh. Andy. He stood on the front porch, bundled in a bulky red coat, the fur-edged hood hanging down his back. He waved at her.

“Hi!”

Janelle tucked her hands into her pockets and quelled her chattering teeth long enough to cross to the edge of the Tierneys’ yard. The new winter boots her mom had given her for Christmas were too big, too heavy. In California, Janelle lived most of the time in flip-flops or sandals. Slow and unwieldy, she felt like she was walking on the moon, without the bonus of being able to leap and float.

“Hi, Andy.” Janelle waved.

He’d gotten older, of course, the way they all had. Yet she knew that face. The slope of his chin, his nose, the hollows of his eyes and cheeks. The silver glinting in his dark hair came from age, but the thicker stripe of white along the part hadn’t. That was from the bullet.

“You know me?” Andy rocked back and forth on his heels. In contrast to his heavy winter clothes, he wore bedroom slippers on bare feet. His ankles stuck out a few inches below the bottom of his flannel pajama pants.

“Yes. Do you remember me?”

Andy’s brow furrowed. “No.”

His lack of memory didn’t surprise her, but her disappointment did. Thick as thieves, that’s what they’d been once upon a time. Janelle and all three of those Tierney boys. She didn’t let even a toe prod the frosty grass of his yard.

“Janelle Decker. We—”

“Mrs. Decker lives next door.” Andy jerked a thumb at Nan’s house. “She makes the best cinnamon buns. But she hasn’t made them for a while.”

Nan did make the best cinnamon buns, that was true. Janelle smiled. “Yep. We used to go to school together?”

She let the statement lilt at the end, though it wasn’t a question. They’d done a lot more than go to school together, but their adventures had been of the sort you didn’t just quote casually on a January morning after half a lifetime. Andy cocked his head.

“I’m sorry. I don’t remember you.”

“That’s okay. It was a really long time ago. I’m Mrs. Decker’s granddaughter,” Janelle said, wondering if that would spur any sort of recognition.

No light appeared in Andrew’s eyes. No miraculous recovery. She ought to have known better, but was still disappointed.

Andy’s hand crept up to stroke along the white strip. His expression clouded. “I don’t... There are lots of things...”

“It’s okay, Andy. Really. You don’t have to remember.” Impulsively, she hopped over the invisible boundary between grass and cement and up the small hill to the porch. Her boots gave her plenty of traction so she didn’t slip. She put one on the bottom step and held out her hand. “Nice to meet you. Again.”

Andy took her hand gently. His fingers didn’t curl all the way around hers; his grip was well-intentioned but weak. “Meetcha. What are you doing next door?”

“I’m going to be staying with her.”

“For a visit?”

Janelle paused, then shook her head. “No. For a while.”

“You’re going to take care of her because she’s sick.” Andy nodded as though it all made sense, as if he’d just put together the pieces of a puzzle and could see that the picture matched the one on the box. “She has cancer in her brain.”

Janelle swallowed. “Yes. She does.”

“Will she die soon?” Andy said this so matter-of-factly, so calmly, that all Janelle could do was gape. He gave her that look again. “I almost died once. Did you know that?”

Her mouth was dry, but she managed to say, “Yes. I did.”

Andy’s mouth tipped on one side. He’d once had a brilliant smile, just like both his brothers—wide and bright and infectious. When Andrew Tierney grinned, he did it with his entire face. Or had, until things had gone bad. Now only one-half really moved.

“But you’re here now. You’ll take care of her.”

Janelle nodded. Her shivering had stopped with the uprush of emotion heating her from inside. Her cheeks felt flushed, her armpits sweaty.

“Good. I was worried about her. We used to play cards all the time, but not since she went to the hospital. I haven’t gone over since she got back, because Gabe says she probably doesn’t want to be bothered. I would help her, you know. But this—” he knocked a fist against the side of his head “—makes me stupid. I’m stupid now.”

Janelle wasn’t sure what to say. Nan had never mentioned playing cards with Andy. She hadn’t said a word about any of the Tierney boys in years, not since she’d called to tell her about the accident. Janelle suddenly felt dumb. Of course, Nan wouldn’t say anything about them to her, but that wouldn’t mean she didn’t see or talk to them. Or, apparently, play cards with them. They were her neighbors, after all, and in a town the size of St. Marys you didn’t ignore your neighbors unless you had some reason to feud. Nan would have no reason for anger.

And Janelle didn’t, either, did she? Everything that had happened was long past, and the man in front of her had paid a far greater price for it than Janelle ever had. There’d be no sense in holding any grudges, and it was obvious Andy wasn’t capable of it, anyway.

His brother, on the other hand, obviously was. Gabe glared, first from the window, then the front door. His gaze skidded over her, then went to his brother.

“Get inside here, Andy. You’re going to freeze your balls off.”

Andy let out a guffaw of laughter and charmingly ducked his head. It was hard to tell if he was blushing beneath the wind-chilled red of his cheeks, but Janelle thought he was. He shook his head.

“Gabe!”

“Get inside. Your breakfast is waiting. Jesus.” Gabe stepped aside so Andy could go in.

He did, but looked over his shoulder at Janelle. “This is my brother Gabe. Do you remember him, too?”

“She remembers me. Get inside.” Gabe waited until Andy had moved past him, then closed the door a little too hard. He stared at Janelle. He wasn’t dressed for the weather, but if the cold bit at his bared arms or feet, he didn’t show it.

Gabe also had silver in his hair, at the temples and dark stubble at the scruff of his neck. Maybe a glint or two in his bushy brows and most certainly in the tuft of hair curling up from the V-neck of his white T-shirt. Time had been good to him, and Janelle wasn’t surprised. Gabe Tierney had a face that could make angels weep and devils dance.

He crossed his arms over his chest and stared at her. Daring her, but to do what?

“Hi, Gabe.”

“You’re moved in.”

Janelle glanced toward Nan’s house. She supposed she should start calling it home. She looked back at him. “Yep. Me and my son. Bennett. He just turned twelve.”

Gabe didn’t crack even half a grin. “It’s been a long time.”

She knew that well enough. “Seems like it hasn’t been so long. Not much has changed.”

Gabe put a hand behind him to twist the knob of the front door without turning. It stuck, so he pushed it with his foot, hard enough to force it open. He shook his head once, twice, slowly. “Nothing ever does.”

Then he went inside.

Janelle let out a breath that frosted in front of her face. As kids they’d held their fingers to their lips and exhaled, pretending to smoke. As teenagers, they’d actually lit up. Now she let the air in front of her face fog her vision for a second or two before she took her foot off the front step.

“Nice to see you, too.” More frost hung the words in the air, frozen. If she reached out, maybe she might’ve been able to knock them to the ground like something solid, but instead Janelle slipped down the icy hill toward the back door of Nan’s house.

On the enclosed porch, she stamped snow from her boots and slipped them off, dancing a little in the cold that seemed strangely deeper now that she’d come inside. Unzipping her coat, she went into the family room to find Nan at the table. There was no formal dining room in the house, just this overlarge space where they all gathered to eat every meal and watch TV or talk. Oh, and play cards, she thought. That was where they did that, too.

Nan had an array of bottles set out in front of her, carefully lined up on a small plastic tray, with the labels facing her. She also had a piece of lined notebook paper filled with looping, familiar handwriting. She pointed to one of the lines. “What’s this say? I don’t have my glasses on.”

“Let me see.” Janelle craned her neck to look at the paper, which listed different medications for high blood pressure, anemia, pain management. “This says you need to take your Ferradix in the morning with food.”

Janelle read a few of the other instructions, most stating the dosage for each pill or liquid, the time of day it needed to be taken, with food or without. It was complicated, the paper creased and the ink smudged in places. She’d have to see if she could rewrite it, maybe even type it up on her laptop and print it out in bigger letters so Nan could see it more easily. She watched Nan fumble with one of the pill bottles, the childproof cap giving her trouble. The bottle slipped, and her grandmother hissed in pain or irritation.

“Nan, let me get that for you.”

It was the wrong thing to say. Nan looked up at her with both eyebrows raised. “I can do it.”

“I’m going to make myself some breakfast. Can I get you something?” Janelle backed off, careful to tread the line between being solicitous and overbearing. It was a line she often missed with her son, but for the moment Nan seemed happy enough to accept the offer.

“English muffin with some peanut butter, honey, thank you. I made coffee. You can bring me a cup of that, too.” Nan sighed and looked at the bottles. One of them had a small cup tipped over the lid, like a shot glass, and she poured a dose of brown liquid into it and tossed it back with a grimace. “Oh, that’s nasty.”

The coffee turned out to be pitch-black and full of grounds. Janelle had yet to unpack her own sleek coffeemaker that not only ground the beans but also had different temperature settings and a milk frother, but seeing this mess she resolved to make finding it a priority. Nobody who liked coffee could drink that swill, and Janelle didn’t just like coffee, she considered it its own necessary food group. When she lifted the plastic top to peek inside at the filter, she found the basket overflowing with sodden grounds that looked as though they hadn’t been dumped in weeks. Digging a cautious finger into the mess, she unearthed a patch of mold.

“Nan,” she said in the doorway, careful to keep her voice neutral. “When’s the last time you made coffee?”

Nan looked up from a bottle she was trying to open. “Oh. I don’t drink it much, when it’s just me. Making a whole pot seems like such a waste. But now that you’re here, honey, you’ll drink it, won’t you? You like coffee.”

Janelle did indeed, but the stuff in the kitchen looked like a harbinger of the zombie apocalypse or something. A couple swigs and she’d become Patient Zero. Still, Nan had her pride.

“Something happened to it. I need to make a fresh pot, okay? It will be a few minutes. Unless you’d rather have tea?”

Nan looked thoughtful. “I wouldn’t mind a nice cup of Earl Grey, honey. Sure. But if you want coffee...”

“I’m fine.” She’d have to be, at least until she cleaned the coffeemaker or unpacked her own.

Janelle filled a teakettle and found the tea in the corner cupboard where it had always been kept, on the shelf above the candy jar. The candy inside, sour balls in multiple colors, had melted and stuck together into an inedible mess. Janelle put the jar in the sink and filled it with hot water, hoping to dissolve the candy enough to wash it. Behind the jar she found a couple bags of unopened candy, the same sour balls and starlight mints, along with an ancient package of gummy spearmint leaves. It was the candy she remembered from her childhood, and from the look of the packages might’ve been purchased that long ago.

“Nan...” Janelle, candy in one hand, went to the doorway. At the table, her grandmother had put her face in her hands. Candy forgotten, Janelle rushed to her. “Nan! Are you okay?”

She looked up, her forehead creased and her mouth thin. She looked unfocused for a second, then pinned Janelle with her gaze. Her eyes had once been the color of a summer sky fluffed with clouds, but they’d gone a duller, dimmer blue. Washed out, Janelle thought. Everything about Nan had faded.

Janelle took her hand and chafed it gently, mindful of the arthritis. “What’s wrong?”

“Oh, I just got a little headache. My pressure might be up a bit too high, that’s all. I b’lieve I’d better lie down for a while.” She drew in a shuddering breath, but found a smile and patted Janelle’s hands. “It’s time for my nap, anyway.”

“Nan, it’s, like, eight-thirty in the morning.”

Her laugh, at least, hadn’t faded. “When you’re as old as I am, honey, your sleep gets all messed up. I was up at four this morning.”

At four this morning, Janelle had been tossing and turning, in the midst of a series of weird dreams in which she tried desperately to send text messages, but was unable to read them. She remembered peeking at the clock around that time. Maybe a noise from downstairs had woken her. Knowing Nan had been up and about without anyone else awake made her frown.

“You don’t want to eat your muffin first? How about your tea?”

Nan shook her head. “If I drink it now I’ll just have to pee, and I don’t want to have to worry about getting to the bathroom on time. I don’t always make it.”

Something twisted inside Janelle at Nan’s casual admission, but she didn’t let it show. “How about I help you to your bedroom and let you sleep, then.”

“I don’t need you to help me,” Nan said. “I’m fine.”

“Of course you are.”

Still, Janelle pushed back her chair and held Nan’s arm to help her up from the table. The chair legs caught on the thick orange shag Janelle remembered from her childhood. She’d get one of those plastic mats from the office supply store, Janelle thought as her grandmother grunted but finally shoved the chair back far enough to get up. Or better yet, replace the old carpet with something more up-to-date and salable.

“I’m fine,” Nan said in a steely voice.

Against her better judgment, Janelle let go of her arm. When her grandmother sounded like that it was better to do what she said. Janelle stepped out of the way so Nan could get around the table, her slippers shuffling on the carpet, then on the linoleum. She walked slowly, bent, but she seemed steady enough. From the kitchen, the kettle whistled, and Janelle followed Nan to take it off the heat.

“You’ll have plenty of time to get yourself situated.” Nan paused in the hallway, one hand on the basement door frame for support as she turned. “And honey, I’m so glad you’re here. So glad. You’ve been gone such a long time.”

I promise to visit soon, Nan. I promise.

But she never had. The years of phone calls, cards, letters, all the same. Reminding her she had a place here in Nan’s house, that she was always welcome. No matter how far she’d run—dancing as a chorus girl in Las Vegas or selling newlyweds their first town houses in California—Janelle had never been able to leave this place and that year behind. And yet she’d allowed herself to be kept away by what had happened.

“I’m glad, too, Nan.”

It was almost even true.