Authors: Kim Holden
I finish out the week at home, but when Monday morning rolls around I force myself to go to work. Sunny, of course, insists that I take another week off, but the thought of another day alone with my grief and self-pity is nauseating. I need a distraction and though the house is paid off, I still need money for utilities and food. Work is a necessity now. I don’t want to touch my parents’ savings unless absolutely necessary.
I’m 18, and I’m officially grown-up.
I pack my lunch and grab my bag. As I turn the doorknob to head out the back door to the garage, anxiety grips me. I stand in the driveway, staring through the open garage door at Jezebel parked next to my dad’s truck and his old Porsche. It dawns on me that I haven’t been out to the garage since before graduation. Dimitri or Sunny drove me everywhere I needed to go for the past week. The cars are yet another reminder of the loss, but what aches most is the gaping hole where my mom’s Subaru is usually parked. It, of course, was the car they died in. It was completely destroyed, along with them.
Without realizing it, I’ve dropped to my knees on the driveway. Suddenly the nerve endings begin to scream in protest against the rocks now embedded in my right kneecap. I ease myself up and lift my skirt to get a look at my knee. It’s bleeding, but overall it looks worse than it feels. I brush away the rocks and pick up my bag. I’ll clean it up at work. I’ve got an early start, and Sunny won’t be there yet to fuss over me.
I put the imaginary blinders on and walk straight to Jezebel, getting in without a sideways glance at the other two cars in the garage. I blink through tears, but the cars are like a neon sign flashing in the darkness of my peripheral vision. The sign flashes: “Your parents are dead. You are alone.”
My tires squeal as I hit the gas and back down the driveway. I hit the button to close the garage door on my way down the drive, and I don’t look back making a promise to myself at that moment never to park in the garage again. The idea of opening that door and seeing the void is too painful.
As I suspected, I don’t see Sunny’s car parked out front. I sling my bag over my shoulder and gather my skirt up to avoid getting blood on it from the scrape on my bruised knee. I unlock the front door and march directly to the back room of the office. I drop my bag on the floor in front of the sink and wet a paper towel with water. A thin line of blood has trickled down my shin. Normally, the sight of blood makes me a bit light-headed, but I prop my foot up on a nearby chair and inspect the cut for rocks before I start wiping it off. No rocks. No nausea. Bonus. I dab at the cut cautiously.
“Hello young lady. You must be Miss Veronica.”
I jump back and the chair my foot’s resting on tips over with a crash. I turn to look behind me, in the direction of the unfamiliar voice, quickly running over escape options in my mind.
A short, white-haired man with a gentle smile stands in the doorway with his hands up in surrender. “I’m sorry to have frightened you, miss. That was thoughtless of me. Allow me to introduce myself properly.” He lowers his right hand and extends it tentatively toward me. “My name is Bob Carruthers. It appears we have the happy coincidence of finding ourselves co-workers.” He has a friendly, southern accent.
I unclench my fists—which I’d unconsciously raised to chest level, and exhale deeply. I’d been ready for the fight if escape wasn’t an option. I approach Bob and shake his hand. “I’m Veronica. It’s nice to meet you, Bob. I apologize; I’m not usually so jumpy; I just didn’t think anyone else would be here yet.” I walk back and set the chair back up on four legs.
“I realize it’s probably inappropriate for a gentleman of my age to be looking at your legs, Miss Veronica, but are you all right?” His face is creased with concern.
I swallow hard against the lump in my throat. “Yes, I had a … an accident of sorts this morning. I’ll be fine.”
His features soften. “Does Miss Sunny have a first aid kit around here somewhere?”
I pause, fighting against tears threatening to erupt. I cannot and will not cry in front of this man I’ve only just met. I’m sure he knows about my situation and I don’t want or need his pity. I clear my throat. “I think Sunny keeps one in the bathroom.”
Bob disappears to fetch the first aid kit before I can look up. When he returns, he looks anxious to help. He hands me a cleansing wipe, some ointment, and two bandages.
I glance quickly at his dark eyes, slightly magnified behind thick spectacles, and then look away. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, miss.”
I clean up my knee and Bob briefly brings me up to date on the project he’s working on. It’s something new since I’ve been away. Bob and I work side by side without speaking for almost two hours. The radio plays softly in the background. It’s tuned to some jazz station that Bob appears to be fond of.
Our silence is uncomfortable at first. I feel rude for not striking up conversation, but the tightness in my throat is relentless. Bob, on the other hand, seems completely at ease with the silence. He works at a consistent and steady pace with a perpetually peaceful look on his face that always hints at a smile. He’s calming.
I began to relax as lunchtime approaches. Bob hums along to a song on the radio. His voice is unexpectedly pleasant. I look at him and smile.
He looks up, blushing. “I’m sorry, Miss Veronica, does my humming bother you?”
I shake my head. “Not at all.”
“Do you like Billie Holiday?” he asks.
“Is that who’s singing?”
He nods.
I smile. “It’s not bad. Different from what I usually listen to, but it’s … familiar in a way. I think I like it.”
He smiles triumphantly. “Tomorrow you’ll have to share some of your music with me. Sometimes I get stuck in a rut and forget that music has been made since 1950. I tend to stick with my favorites.”
The thought of this sweet older gentleman listening to “my” music makes me chuckle. “We have a deal, Bob. We’ll alternate days. You can school me on pre-1950 and I’ll bring you up to date.” I pause to look at his enthusiastic expression and smile. My heart softens a little. “Sometimes I forget music was made before the last five years. I could stand to expand
my
horizons.”
He nods. “Wonderful.”
The morning brings about an unpredicted, serendipitous friendship between an eighteen-year-old girl and a 75-year-old soul. By lunch we’re engaged in light conversation. Bob eats a peanut butter and butter sandwich on white bread, which he had wrapped in wax paper, and an apple sliced in quarters. When silence returns in the afternoon it’s accepting and legitimate; the kind of silence that can only be appreciated fully by the best of friends. We’ve also established an unspoken rule: he doesn’t ask about my parents and I don’t ask about his wife.
Sunny arrives just as we’re cleaning up to go home for the day and she’s surprised to see me there. “Veronica, I didn’t expect to see you here today, honey. I would’ve stopped by earlier if I’d known.” She’s clearly distressed in her usual motherly way.
“You do pay me to actually work, remember?” I change the subject before she has the chance to question my state of mind further and smile in Bob’s direction. “After we got introductions out of the way, Bob and I had a very productive day.”
“Oh heavens, I feel awful for not being here to introduce the two of you.” She’s fretting.
Bob is quick to defuse Sunny’s guilt with a gentle smile. “Miss Veronica and I were quite capable of introductions,” he says gently. “Though I’m afraid I may have frightened her near to death when I arrived. She’s feisty though, and was prepared to put up a fight. I can see why Dimitri fancies her. He’s smart, that boy of yours, always thought so. I must say I approve wholeheartedly of this match.” He winks at me before pulling on a felt fedora. He tips his hat to each of us. “Good evening, ladies. I’m off to catch my bus.”
We answer in unison, “Good evening, Bob.”
The door shuts behind Bob and I feel Sunny’s worried eyes on me. Hurriedly I offer, “Bob’s really nice. I like him a lot.”
Sunny smiles. “He is.” I can see that she is struggling with how to broach the subject.
I let her off the hook, trying to answer her unasked questions and concerns. “Sunny, I’m okay. I don’t need anything. I’m fine.” The words are unsettling, and hard to get out. The lump returns to my throat and I can’t continue. Hurriedly I hug her, grab my bag, and walk out the door.
I’m in tears by the time I reach Jezebel. Driving out of the parking lot I find myself unable to go home. Suddenly I want to be anywhere but home. I turn my phone off and drive until sunset. Eventually, not by conscious effort, I find my way home and park on the street, keeping my promise to stay out of the garage, and enter the house through the front door. I cannot remember ever unlocking the front door. We
always
use the back door.
This moment is symbolic.
I have to do things differently if I’m going to get through this grieving process.
Process
. What an impersonal term for such excruciatingly intimate and gut-wrenching feelings. Whoever coined the term clearly hadn’t been through the “process” firsthand.
The only familiarity I cannot do without is Dimitri. I turn on my phone and see that he’s tried to call several times. I dial and he answers on the first ring, his voice verging on desperation, almost breathless. “Ronnie?”
The churning in my stomach subsides with the sound of his voice. “Hi baby.”
He exhales, relieved. “Ronnie.”
“Have you eaten dinner yet?” He’s come over and eaten dinner with me the past few days, beginning a trend that I discover I want to continue.
“Nope. I’m starving. Can I come over? I have a new recipe to try out.”
I smile; the pain of the past few hours releases its clutch on my heart. “A new recipe? Okay.”
He knocks on the backdoor exactly seven minutes later, even though the drive from his house should take at least fifteen.
I open the door to a bewildered expression on his handsome face. “Why is Jezebel parked out front?”
I fumble for words. “Um, yeah, I just decided I wanted to park out front tonight. The garage door is … the garage door is broken.”
He turns to go back outside. “I’ll take a look at it before we eat.”
I grab his shoulder. “No, you’re starving and so am I. It’s late, let’s eat. You can look at it another time.”
He turns and steps back in the house eyeing me suspiciously. “Okay.” He knows I’m lying, but he doesn’t push it.
Dimitri pulls out a recipe card from his pocket, and we set to work. It’s a recipe of Sunny’s—chicken cacciatore—and though he is admittedly challenged in the kitchen, he’s trying so hard to impress me. He told me once that he couldn’t cook anything but grilled cheese and I’ve discovered this past week that wasn’t far from the truth. We’re polar opposites in the kitchen: I measure ingredients by sight and taste. Dimitri measures ingredients with painstaking accuracy, using any and all available utensils or devices. I don’t follow recipes. Dimitri never deviates from them. Cutting, chopping, even using a can opener seems foreign to him. It’s almost comical to watch him struggle with something, especially something I’m good at. It definitely doesn’t happen often.
Surprisingly, the meal’s not too bad. “Good job, Dimitri, this is almost edible.”
He glares playfully at me.
“Kidding.”
“If you must know, I watched the Food Network all afternoon,” he says.
I raise my eyebrows.
“I’m determined to figure this cooking thing out, alright?”
I smile at the effort. “It’s actually pretty good. Thanks for cooking. I had kind of a hard day, and I wasn’t really looking forward to making dinner. If it were up to me we probably would’ve ended up eating cereal and toast.”
He frowns. “I suspected you probably didn’t have a good day when I couldn’t get you on your phone earlier. Do you want to talk about it?” He reaches across the small kitchen table to take my hand.
“No, I don’t think I do. But thanks for asking.” I have trouble looking him in the eye. I almost always feel better when I talk to him. But tonight, I just feel sad and don’t want to even try.
The saddest smile crosses his lips for only a second, and he waits patiently for me to speak again.
I don’t.
“You did get to meet Bob though, right?”
Bob, sweet Bob. “Yes, Bob’s great. Very cool. We listened to jazz. Have you ever heard of Billie Holiday? She’s good. You’d like her.”
He smiles that knowing smile. “Yes, I’ve heard of Billie Holiday. She’s amazing. What song did you hear? Good Morning Heartache? Lover Man? God Bless the Child? That one’s my favorite.”
I’m astounded. I realize everyone doesn’t live in my insular world, but Dimitri always surprises me. Excellent memory aside, he’s a walking, breathing encyclopedia.
He’s smirking at me and knows I’m impressed. “Well, Ronnie, which song was it? I could name a few more to jog your memory.”
“I don’t remember the name of the song. Bob hummed along, and it was lovely,” I say. Suddenly, I’m agitated.
He’s still smirking. “You have to be careful of Bob, always the southern gentleman. He’s incredibly charming. I’ll have to watch myself or I may end up losing you to an older man.”
Funny, but where did this vast knowledge mid-century jazz come from? I finally shake my head and the agitation begins to wane. “How do you know Billie Holiday anyway?”
His smile widens. “I like to think of myself as … cultured.”
I can’t resist his confident smile and the twinkle in his gray eyes. I exhale completely as he reels me in with his charm, though I haven’t lost my sarcastic edge. “You’re
something
alright.”
“Hah.” It’s guttural and unforced. “You know you secretly love it … I impress you.”
Was that a question? “Incessantly,” I say.
His voice drops and the corners of his mouth allude to his notorious, mischievous grin. “Incessantly … I like that.”
The flame is rising through me and it awakens my body from the numbness that’s consumed me for over a week. Slowly, life, or more accurately lust, is inching its way back into my veins. My ears begin to hum. Life, lust, whatever it is—I’ll take it. I stand up and walk around the table to stand in front of him, leaving myself completely unguarded and vulnerable, waiting for a further invitation, ready and willing for whatever may come. His eyebrows pinch slightly as he tries to read my face. The flash of a smile ghosts across his lips so quickly I wonder if I’ve only imagined it. Finally, without taking his eyes off mine, he pushes back his chair and extends the invitation, pulling me down to sit on his lap.