Читать книгу The Rest of the Story - Sarah Dessen - Страница 12

I woke to the smell of toast.

It was actually the second time I’d been up. The first had been at four a.m., when my dad, obviously so worried about how I was faring that he forgot about the seven-hour time difference, called me from Greece.

“Dad?” I answered, after fumbling for the phone in the dark for a moment. “Is everything okay?”

“What’s not okay?” he replied.

“What?” I said.

“Did you say you’re not okay?”

“No,” I said. “I asked if you were okay, since you’re calling me so early.”

A pause. Then, “Oh, no. What time is it there? I’m all turned around.”

“It doesn’t matter,” I assured him, even as I noticed the little clock on the dresser said 4:15 a.m. Which made this the second morning in a row I’d been awakened by a phone call at this hour, something I could only hope wasn’t a trend. “How was the flight?”

“Good,” he said. “Long. But we’re here now, in a taxi on our way to the hotel.”

“Hi, Emma!” Tracy called out.

“Tell her hi,” I said to my dad.

He relayed the message. “The important thing is, how are you? Is it all right there?”

I looked at the clock again, weighing how to answer this. Of course I didn’t want him to worry. I was fine, just a bit discombobulated. Also I had a lot of questions, most of which he probably couldn’t answer. “It’s good,” I said. “I had dinner with Celeste and her kids.”

“Great.” Hearing the relief in his voice as he said this one word made it clear how worried he’d been, and I was glad I’d chosen carefully. “How is Celeste?”

“She’s good,” I told him. “Raising a cousin’s kid, this ten-year-old named Gordon. Her mom is in Florida. I think her name is Amber?”

“Amber? No. She’s, like, ten years old herself.” A pause. “Or, she was the last time I saw her. Which I guess was about twenty years ago, now that I think of it. Keeping up with your mom’s family always made my head hurt. Glad to know some things don’t change.”

“Guess not,” I said. “Look, I’m fine. Go enjoy your trip.”

“Honey that moon,” he said, chuckling. “Call me when it’s a decent hour there, okay? We’re supposed to have service on the boat.”

“Okay,” I told him. “I love you.”

“Love you too, Emma. Bye.”

I put my phone back on the bedside table, rolling over to face the window. I could just see the surface of the water, the moon overhead. I looked at it, thinking of my dad and Tracy, speeding across a city I’d never seen and couldn’t even picture, until I fell asleep.

And now it was eight a.m., and there was toast, or at least the smell of it. Also, possibly coffee. Hopeful, I got up, pulling on some shorts and a clean T-shirt, then brushed my teeth and went downstairs.

“Morning,” a voice said as soon as my foot hit the bottom step. Startled, I jumped: Oxford, Mimi’s husband, was sitting at the table, a newspaper open in front of him. Otherwise the kitchen was empty, although when I glanced at the toaster, I saw the indicator light shone bright red, signaling it was on.

“Good morning,” I replied. I walked over to the counter, where, sure enough, I found a coffeemaker with half a pot left. Score. “Okay if I take some of this?”

“Help yourself.” He turned a page of the paper. “Milk and cream are in the fridge, sugar’s over here.”

I found a mug, filled it, then came over to the table, finding a spoon and adding some sugar before taking a seat. As I did, the toaster binged cheerfully, six slices popping up. Oxford didn’t seem to notice.

“You want some of the paper?” he asked me.

“Sure.”

“What section?”

I took a sip from my mug. Perfect. “Do you have the obituaries?”

He didn’t bat an eye, rifling through to pull out the local news. “One of my favorites. Always good to start the day making sure I’m not in there.”

“I’ll let you know,” I said, smiling at him.

“Do that.”

We sat there, reading in companionable silence, which was a strange thing to do with someone you’d only barely met. But reading the paper I did know, since Nana and I did it together every morning. After all the newness of the day before, it was nice to have something familiar. Of course, the moment I felt relaxed, Trinity showed up.

At first she was just shuffling footsteps, coming down the hallway. Then she appeared, looking half-asleep in sweatpants and an oversized tank top, her pregnant belly stretching it out. She did not look at or address either Oxford or myself, instead just walking to the toaster, where she retrieved the six pieces of toast, piling them on a paper towel, before going to the fridge for a tub of butter.

“If you take that, bring it back,” Oxford said, still reading. She did not reply, instead just going back the way she’d come, leaving us alone again.

The obituary section in the Bly County News—North Lake was too small for its own paper, clearly—was much smaller than the one in the Lakeview Observer. Which I supposed made sense: fewer people, fewer deaths to report. Today there were only two, starting with Marjorie McGuire, 82, who had gone to meet her Lord and Savior the previous week. In her picture, she had a beauty shop hairdo and was smiling.

The fact that I was interested in the obits made my dad uneasy. He worried it reflected my anxiety, fear of death, not dealing with my mom’s passing, or the triple bonus, all three. But it wasn’t about that. When Nana and I had first started our breakfast-and-paper tradition, I’d cared about comics and not much else. The obits were always there, though, on the opposite page, and at some point I’d started reading them as well. Then my mom died. She’d had no obit, for reasons I could never understand, so I got even more interested in how people chose to be, or were, remembered.

Most obituaries, I’d found, shared the same basics. The opening paragraphs rarely gave specifics, other than the person had passed “after a long illness” or “unexpectedly.” Occasionally someone died “at home,” which sounded like it might be a way of saying it was on purpose without using those exact words. The religious ones often contained scripture, if not a mention of where the deceased planned to go and who they hoped to see there. Next up was usually a summary of the life itself, with education, marriages, and children and a listing of career high points. The final paragraphs usually touched on a hobby dear to the person who had passed—travel was big, and volunteering for good causes—before providing funeral info and suggesting where to donate in lieu of flowers.

I always made a point to read each word of every obit. This would be the last way this person was remembered: Was I really too busy to take an extra three seconds to read about their commitment to the March of Dimes? Also, I felt reassured when all the day’s listings were people like Mrs. Maguire, who had lived a good, full life. An obit for a younger person, like my dad’s age, always made me sad. A teen or a child was heartbreaking. It just didn’t fit, like a rule had been broken, and I’d find myself trying to piece together the part of the story that wasn’t told.

When I’d first started reading the obits, they never mentioned overdoses or drugs as causes of death. In recent years, though, as more opioid crisis stories hit the front page, they made this section as well. Occasionally it was spelled out, with the deceased having “struggled with an addiction,” or similar. More often, though, you had to read between the lines, finding the references to battling demons, pride in a previous period of sobriety, or a family request to donate to Narcotics Anonymous.

Would it have made a difference, having a clipping from a paper with my mom’s name and dates, a recap of the things and people she loved, and those who were missing her? It would have been at least more closure than that night outside the building as the elevator doors closed. Maybe that was what I was looking for, all those mornings with Nana and now.

“Morning,” I heard a voice say. I looked up to see Bailey come into the kitchen in shorts and a red T-shirt that said BLACKWOOD on it, her hair pulled back in a ponytail.

“Morning,” Oxford said. “You working today?”

“At nine,” she replied. She went over to the counter, where she opened a loaf of bread, taking out six slices and dropping them into the toaster before turning it on. “Why?”

“Mimi’s knee is acting up,” he replied, folding down the top part of the sports section.

“Oh, no.” Bailey came over, sliding into the chair beside mine. “How bad is it?”

“Doc says he wants her off her feet for at least a week, but we all know that’s not happening. You want any of the paper?”

“Horoscopes, please.”

He handed her a section as I went back to my own reading about Wallace Camp, 78, who had passed surrounded by loved ones after a long illness. His photo was from his military days.

There was a thunk from upstairs, then the sound of a door opening. Jack yelled, “Can someone put in some toast for me?”

“On it,” Bailey called back.

“Thanks.” The door shut again.

“I can try to trade shifts with someone for tomorrow,” Bailey said, running her finger down the horoscopes before landing on Aries, which was my sign as well. “But it’s late notice for today.”

“Don’t worry about it. We’ll work it out somehow.”

The timer sounded—BING!—and she jumped up, taking a plate from the cupboard and bringing it over to the toaster. As she plucked the pieces out, one by one, the screen door slammed and Mimi came in. Gordon was behind her, in shorts over a bathing suit, a backpack over her shoulders.

“Oxford,” Mimi said, dropping a cordless phone receiver on the table beside him. “Answer this if it rings. I’ve got to take Gordon to camp.”

“Where’s Celeste?”

“Early shift. She left at six.” Mimi looked at me. “Emma, honey, did you eat breakfast?”

“Not yet. I’m fine, though.”

“Let me make you some before the bread’s all gone,” she replied, crossing the kitchen to load the toaster up with slices again. “If the Sergeant’s spending his money on this fancy thing, we should use it.”

The toaster being idle couldn’t have been an issue. By my count we were at eighteen slices now and counting. I asked, “The Sergeant?”

“Trinity’s fiancé,” Oxford explained, not looking up from his own section of the paper. “Deployed right now.”

“Where’s the butter?” Bailey, now peering into the fridge, asked.

“Your sister took it,” Oxford told her.

Bailey sighed. “Trinity! Bring back the butter!”

“I’m getting dressed,” her sister replied. “You can come get it.”

“Honey, I’ve got to take Gordon to camp!” Mimi yelled in the direction of the hallway, starting the toaster again. “So you’ll be starting on your own today.”

“Are you serious?” Trinity replied. “I’m huge. I can’t even bend down to get under the beds.”

Mimi exhaled, looking at the ceiling. “We’ll talk about it when I get back. Gordon, come on.”

“Trinity!” Bailey yelled as they left, the door again slamming behind them. “I need the butter.”

“I told you, I’m getting dressed. Damn!”

“You two stop yelling, before you chase me out of my own kitchen again,” Oxford warned.

“Fine,” Bailey said, ripping a paper towel off the roll and folding two slices up inside it. “I’ll eat it dry on the way to work. If I choke to death on the way, you’ll know who to blame.”

With that, she was gone, the door banging again behind her. A beat later, the toaster popped up: BING! Oxford reached over, extracting the slices and dropping them on the plate Mimi had left for this purpose. Then he put it on the table between us, taking one before looking at me.

“You want butter?”

I smiled. “Nope.”

“Wise move,” he said, and went back to his paper.

The two obits read, I pulled over the horoscopes to read Aries for myself. Apparently, Bailey and I were both going to savor something delicious in the day ahead. My thoughts drifted back to Trinity, who was coming back down the hallway, dressed now in shorts and a tie-dye, carrying the butter. She went straight to the toaster, loading it up again with what I could not help but notice was the last of the bread. Suddenly Celeste’s frustration the day before made sense.

“Here,” she announced, dropping the butter in front of me, as if I’d been the one demanding it. I didn’t say anything, instead just picking up my dry toast and taking a pointed bite. I was pretty sure she didn’t notice. “Is Bailey going to come clean today?”

“She’s got to work,” Oxford replied.

Trinity’s expression, already sour, grew more so. “Great. So it’ll just be me turning over four rooms before check-in.”

Oxford did not reply to this. I said, “I can help you, if you want.”

“You?” She narrowed her eyes, as if I was so small she couldn’t see me otherwise. “You’re on vacation.”

This stung, for some reason. “Not really.”

“Well, tell it to Mimi. That’s what she said.”

Oxford glanced at her, then me. I thought he was about to say something, but was glad when he didn’t.

BING! went the toaster, six slices popping up. Trinity retrieved them before bringing them to the table on a paper towel. She reached across me for a knife, which she then used to briskly butter each slice, the scraping sound hard to ignore.

“I’m late,” Jack, also in a BLACKWOOD T-shirt, said as he came down the stairs. “Is there any—”

Wordlessly, Trinity picked up two pieces of buttered toast, holding them over her head. As Jack passed, he grabbed them. “Thanks.”

“No problem.”

“We’re short a cleaner,” Oxford said as he started for the door. “Mimi’s knee. Ask Roo if he wants some hours.”

“Will do,” Jack said, heading for the door. “Thanks for the toast.”

“Thank the Sergeant,” she replied. “He’s the one who bought that huge thing.”

I looked at the toaster, remembering how my dad had remarked that it was new. Apparently, there was a military aspect to it as well. In this house, even the appliances were complicated.

“Trinity?” I heard Mimi yell from outside. “Best get started on those rooms.”

In response, Trinity sighed loudly enough I literally felt a breeze from her direction. Then she pushed back her chair, grabbing a piece of toast. Oxford said, “Mimi’s got no business cleaning. Her knee can’t take it.”

“I’m pregnant,” she replied unnecessarily. But she got to her feet, yelling outside to Mimi, “Coming!”

As she left, I looked at the table. Only three pieces of toast remained. On the counter, the bread bag, defeated, was crumpled into a ball. The clock on the stove said 8:58 a.m.

I stood up, carrying my plate over to the sink, which was again full of dishes. They don’t want your help, I told myself, even as the urge hit, then grew, to start washing them. But I rinsed only my cup, putting it on the (empty) dish rack as Oxford grabbed a final slice of toast and the phone, taking both with him as he left. After so much noise and commotion, the house felt so still suddenly, with only me in it and the whole day ahead. What do you do when no one wants you to do anything? I wasn’t sure. But I did put the butter away.

It’s so boring, oh my God. I mean, I’m happy Grandpa’s ok. But I am so sick of hospital cafeteria food and trying to keep my brothers quiet.

It was late morning now, and I’d finally heard from Bridget. Her grandfather was recovering in the hospital, the boys were driving her nuts, and there was nothing to do in Ohio. These were the headlines.

I understand, I wrote back. So glad he’s getting better, though.

Me too. What are you doing?

What was I doing? At the moment, sitting on the front steps of Mimi’s house, wondering how to keep myself busy while everyone else was at work. So far, that had entailed reorganizing my already neat clothes, reading part of an Allies book Gordon had left in the living room—the sixth book from the second series, according to the back cover, but I’d had no trouble dropping right into the mythology—and, now, watching the hotel guests converge on the beach for the day.

Guests emerged with beach bags, wheeled coolers, and more children as they made their way down the plank walkway to the water. They set up camp on the covered part of the dock or the sand, spreading towels and dragging chairs into position as kids were wrangled, protesting the application of sunscreen.

The office of Calvander’s, in the opposite direction, was the other center of activity. All morning long, people had been coming and going: Mimi, of course, even though she was supposed to be off her feet. Oxford, wiping down the glass door with Windex and weeding the sparse garden. I even glimpsed both Taylor and April popping in before they walked off down the street, out of sight. Between the constant activity of both the beach and the office, I felt even more frozen where I sat on the steps.

Getting used to this place, I finally wrote back to Bridget.

What’s the boy situation?

Immediately, I had a flash of Roo the day before, shirtless, holding out a hand to me at the raft. That gap in his teeth. Which was ridiculous, I knew.

All related to me. Or might as well be.

Seriously?

Just then, I saw Mimi coming down the motel sidewalk, pushing a cleaning cart. She now wore a Velcro brace on one knee and had the office phone between her ear and shoulder as she stopped by a door marked 7 and pulled a ring of keys from her pocket. She let herself in, and a moment later the front blinds were rising, revealing a streaky window.

I thought of how I’d offered help to Trinity earlier and the way she’d so easily grouped me with the guests now out on the beach. She’d said it was Mimi who made this clear, and possibly she had. But maybe sometimes you had to ask twice. I walked over.

“No kidding,” I heard her saying as I approached the door to room seven. “In a perfect world, my body wouldn’t be breaking down. But this is the world we’re in.”

The room was dim, and it took my eyes a second to adjust. Once they did, I saw the walls were made of cinder block painted white, the carpet a dated flat orange. There were two double beds, both stripped, a rattan bedside table between them. The TV was one of those ancient kinds, huge and mounted up high on the wall, a bunch of cords snaking out of the back. Against the far wall was a small fridge and stovetop, a microwave and a sink, three skinny cabinets above. The only other furniture was two faded canvas chairs, and between them a low table with a flyswatter and an ashtray on it. Who even smoked inside anymore?

“… okay, well, keep me posted,” Mimi said as she stepped out of what had to be the bathroom. Her arms were full of towels, which she dumped onto a pile of sheets already under the TV. “I’d better run. We’ve got two check-ins today plus housekeeping. Okay. Bye.”

She sighed as she hung up, still not seeing me. I didn’t want to startle her, so I knocked on the door lightly. When she didn’t hear me, I did it again.

“Oh, hey,” she said, breaking into a smile. “You need something?”

“No,” I replied. “I just … I heard you could use some help.”

“I always need help,” she said, starting toward the door. Her brace creaked with each step. “It’s an ongoing condition in a resort town. But nothing you can do, I’m afraid.”

I stepped aside as she came out to the cart, grabbing a stack of paper bath mats and a handful of individually wrapped soaps. “I can clean. I’m actually pretty good at it.”

She looked at me. “Oh, honey. You don’t want to do that. Motel work is gross.”

As if to emphasize this point, Trinity emerged from room six, carrying a plunger. “Got out the clog, not that it was pretty. There’s a damn sign saying not to flush anything other than toilet paper. Can’t people read?”

“Shhh,” Mimi told her.

“Nobody’s listening to us.” She leaned the plunger against the cart. “You have linens yet?”

“Nope,” Mimi replied. “Grab some, would you? Get them for six too, we’ll do all the beds at once.”

Trinity nodded, then turned, walking to a nearby door that said STAFF ONLY and pushing it open. As she did, the smell of chlorine bleach filled the air, along with the banging of what sounded like a dryer.

Mimi turned back to me. “Why don’t you walk down to the Station, see what’s going on there? There’s usually a group at the arcade or the snack bar.”

She turned me down so easily; it was frustrating. “I can help you,” I said, emphasizing the words this time. “Really.”

“Honey, I don’t want you to,” she replied. I felt unexpectedly hurt, hearing this. Which must have shown on my face, because she added, quickly, “Saylor, you haven’t been here in over ten years. I want you to enjoy it. That’s what your mom would have wanted, too.”

Trinity walked past me, carrying a stack of folded linens, and went into room seven, dropping them onto the bed closest to the door. On the cart the phone started to ring and Mimi picked it up, just as a white van that said ARTHUR AND SONS WINDOWS pulled up to the office.

“Hello? Oh, hey, Tom. Yes, it’s unit ten. Okay. Meet you there in five minutes.” She glanced at the van, then sighed again. “Lord, and there’s Artie coming for an estimate. Everything’s happening at once today.”

The man in question was climbing out of the van now, carrying a clipboard. He lifted a hand in our direction, and Mimi, looking stressed, waved back. As she started making her way to meet him, I opened my mouth to say something, then closed it. Three times might have been the charm, but it could also mean not taking a hint.

“Why do you really want to help?”

I turned around to face Trinity. “Why?”

“Come on,” she said. “You’re the spoiled rich cousin and everyone’s been told to make sure you have fun here.”

I’d been tiptoeing around her so much the flare of temper I felt, hearing this, was welcome. “Not by me,” I said, an edge to my voice.

“Who cares? Why not just kick back and enjoy yourself? I would.”

“Well, that’s you,” I told her. She raised her eyebrows. “Look, you don’t have to like me or the fact I’m here. But don’t pretend you know me. Mimi let me come stay here with zero notice. The very least I can do is help her out when she needs it.”

“Yeah, but have you ever actually held a job?”

I’m only seventeen, I wanted to say. Just as I thought this, though, I realized she’d probably been working for years. Things were different here. Out loud I said, “I can help you, if you’ll let me. It’s up to you.”

She looked at me for a second, and I leveled my gaze back at her. Finally she said, “Go by the office and tell Mimi you need the keys to room ten. Then go let Tom in. Don’t give her a choice.”

“Okay,” I said, surprised at how victorious I felt. “Then what?”

“You need something else?”

“What I need is to not feel I’m just sitting around doing nothing while she’s working on her bad knee,” I told her. “That’s something I’m pretty sure my mom wouldn’t have wanted.”

She glanced out the door, toward the office. “Okay. Come back here after. I’ll show you how to do the beds.”

I nodded, then started down the sidewalk. Of course she hadn’t denied not liking me, not that I really expected her to. But I’d take her offer. Since arriving, I’d felt like not family and not a guest, the sole inhabitant of this weird place in between. It felt good to have a job and task at hand. Like the chaos that was this trip could actually get a bit more organized, and I might just find my place in it.