Time Served Page 19

  The day is hot and sunny and there are a handful of cars parked alongside us. On one side of the lot is the cemetery, the other hosts a playground with picnic tables on top of a low hill. Children play while a teenage girl smokes and looks on.

  “God,” I shudder. “Who would put a playground here? And who would come?”

  Dean doesn’t answer, just climbs out and shuts his door, leaning against the side of the car and waiting for me. When I’d gotten the call about my mother’s death they gave me the name of the cemetery and the plot number where she’d be buried; I hadn’t written the details down, but I’d never forgotten them, no matter how much I swore I didn’t care.

  Before coming out today I’d searched online to find a cemetery map and located the area for Renee’s grave at the edge of the property, a few minutes’ walk from the parking lot. What I’d really like to do is steal the keys from Dean, jump in the car and drive back to Chicago, leaving him and Renee and this entire town in the rearview. Since I know how that battle is likely to end, I snatch up the flowers from the backseat and get out, fighting the urge to wilt against the car and blame the heat, not my nerves.

  “I won’t be long,” I say, not looking at Dean as I put on sunglasses and steady myself.

  “You don’t want me to come with you?”

  “No.”

  A pause.

  “Okay.”

  I take a deep breath and cross the parking lot to the small stone archway that marks the entrance. The Cranston cemetery is neat and orderly, the various tombstones arranged in straight lines on carefully trimmed grass. I pass the occasional bouquet of fresh flowers resting next to random stones, and avoid making eye contact with other mourners.

  I find Renee’s headstone exactly where I’d expected to. It’s a flat piece of concrete approximately the same height as the grass, with an engraved plaque on the top bearing her name and the years of her birth and death. No pithy quotes, no names of surviving family. Just the most basic of information for a woman who hadn’t cared about anything or anyone.

  I drop the flowers on the ground and sit next to them, stretching out my legs and waiting to feel something. It’s hotter than hell out today and I’m sweating again, but it has nothing to do with nerves. I’m sitting six feet above my mother’s body and I can’t even muster up a tear.

  Closure, I remind myself. I’m here for closure, not recriminations.

  But what do I want from Renee? Or for myself?

  I glance around to make sure no one is watching or listening, but I’m completely alone. I can’t see Dean or the parking lot from this position. I tug a daisy from the bouquet and pluck off the petals one by one, piling them neatly next to my knee. I wait for something clever to occur to me, some perfect string of words to provide that ever-elusive closure, but nothing comes. She sent me away for a reason; it’s the same reason I never came back. Finally I give up, and stand. “Take care, Renee. I hope you’re in a better place.”

  I wipe grass from my legs and stretch, feeling vaguely disappointed. I’d come all the way out here for nothing. Spent all that time with Dean just to get to the end—the undefined something he’d been making me feel turning out to be a mirage, just another angry brick wall where I’d hoped to find a door.

  I’m about ten paces from Renee’s tombstone when I see someone approaching from the parking lot. From here all I can really determine is that it’s a woman, though as we draw closer I see that she’s slight and wiry with long dishwater-blond hair. She’s wearing a denim shirtdress and white sandals and carrying a bouquet of flowers.

  I move to the side of the path and keep my head down, focused on surviving the return trip with Dean and getting back to my life. The one that may not have been entirely satisfying six weeks ago, but didn’t hurt like hell, either.

  “Didn’t expect to see you.”

  My steps falter and I look up in surprise at the woman stopped a few feet away. The sun beams down from just over her shoulder, and I have to squint to make out her face. Her forehead is lined and there are grooves on either side of her mouth, making her look older than she is. The outdated clothing and unkempt hair doesn’t help, either, but I recognize her. Ally Shaw, my old best friend. Kurt Cafferty’s wife. Sabrina’s mother.

  “Ally.” I make myself smile. “Wow.”

  She nods, unsmiling, taking me in. “About time you came back.”

  I look at the carnations gripped in her tiny hand. “Are those for Renee?”

  “Of course they are.”

  “That’s nice of you.”

  “Somebody had to do it.”

  Renee hadn’t been cruel in life, but she hadn’t been kind, either. And she hadn’t treated anybody better than she’d treated me, which makes Ally’s sudden defense of her more than a little strange. But I’m not going to stand here debating it.

  “It’s still a nice gesture.”

  Ally scoffs. “Kurt said he saw you. Didn’t think you’d be back though.”

  “Congratulations on getting married, having kids. I met Sabrina.”

  She ignores the compliments. “So you’re an attorney now, huh?” She says the word like it’s an epithet.

  “Yes. What do you do?”

  Her mouth twists in what might be a smile. She’d been cute when we were teenagers; now she’s just bitter. “I’m head cashier at the grocery store in the plaza where you met Kurt.”

  “That’s great.”

  “Yeah. It’s a real fucking dream.”

  I raise my eyebrows, unwilling to fight with her. “Well, it was nice to see you. Take care.” I stride past, alarmed when she starts to follow.

  “Did you really think people were going to forget what you did?”

  I don’t turn around. I don’t care if they forget, do I? Avoiding this kind of life is exactly why I did it.

  “You stole everything that woman had and you took off and you built some fancy life for yourself and you never even had the decency to come back and look after her when she got sick.”

  I freeze, three steps from the parking lot. I turn slowly to look at Ally, her face angry and indignant. “What are you talking about?”

  “The money, you thief. You took Renee’s life savings and she nearly starved to death because of it. And when she got sick and needed to go to the doctor, needed pills, she didn’t have money for it. She just had to suffer. She had to take whatever she could for the pain.”

  “I didn’t steal anything.”

  “You took three thousand dollars! She told everyone!”

  “She gave me that money and told me to go. I didn’t even know she had it.” I think back to that night, how Renee had sounded so much more lucid and awake than normal. Did I make that up? Did I somehow imagine it? No, I know what happened. My memory is fine. Ally is that one that’s confused.

  “Sure. Because that woman could afford to give up all her money and her car—”

  “That was my car. I saved my money from the truck stop and bought a car. You used yours for cigarettes and self-tanner. That’s your own fault.”

  I turn to go.

  “You’re using him again, aren’t you?”

  I step through the arch into the parking lot and immediately spot Dean sitting at a picnic table on the far side, talking to Kurt. Sabrina is next to them, watching two other children play on the swing set.

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” And I can’t be bothered to turn around and clarify. All I want at the moment is to get the hell out of this place—again.

  “Of course you don’t. You’ve got a fancy degree and a big-shot job and you don’t know a single thing.”

  I know Dean sees me because he straightens, but he doesn’t get up. He’s got the car keys and I can’t get in without him. Ally seems to know this, because she follows me all the way to the car.

  “What does he have that you need?”

  I watch Dean’s lips move as he exchanges a few words with Kurt, who glances over at us and waves. I force myself
to wave back, trying my best to telepathically communicate with Dean: get your ass back here.

  “Nothing,” I say without thinking about it.

  “Because you think he’s trash. You thought that about everybody. I always knew it.”

  “Great. You’re a mind reader.” I check the doors but they’re locked. I give up on waiting and move toward the playground just as Dean stands up and shakes hands with Kurt, saying goodbye.

  “I took care of your mother that whole last year. You should have heard the stuff she had to say about you.”

  “I’m sure it was poetic.”

  Dean’s about twenty yards away; why the hell isn’t he hurrying?

  “You think one visit is going to make up for ten years?”

  “I’m not trying to make up for anything,” I lie, going to the passenger side of the car. “Believe it or not, I don’t owe you anything and I don’t care what you think.”

  “This whole town went to shit, and you were the one who got out. You never thought about anybody but yourself.”

  Dean’s ten feet away.

  “Leave, if you hate it so much,” I tell her. “There are grocery stores in every city.”

  Ally looks as though this is the cruelest thing she has ever heard. “You bitch.”

  “So I’m told.”

  I hear a beep as the car unlocks. Dean comes to my side and pulls open the door, nudging me in with a hand on my hip. “Rachel, get in the car,” he says as though it’s been my decision to stand outside.

  “Don’t come back,” Ally calls. “Your mother hated you, I hated you and you should have heard what this guy had to say about you.”

  Dean slams my door and strides around to his side. I can hear him clearly through the glass. “That’s enough, Al. You said your piece.”

  “I’m glad you brought her here, Dean. No way she would have come on her own. Coldhearted bitch.”

  “Go be with your family.” Dean drops into the driver’s seat, shuts his door and starts the car. It’s stifling hot and I feel sick and claustrophobic.

  “Drive,” I order when he lingers, waiting for the air-conditioning to kick in.

  “You okay?”

  Ally’s still talking but I can’t hear her over the rush of the lukewarm air spilling from the vents. “Just drive, Dean.”

  He hesitates as if he wants to say something, but puts the car in gear and pulls out of the spot, avoiding Ally’s ranting form.

  I run a hand over my mouth, trying not to be sick. It’s just the heat, I tell myself. It’s the air stuck in the vents that’s blowing in your face. It’ll pass. You’re sweating because it’s hot. You’re dizzy because you’re hot. It’s the heat. All of it.

  “You told them I was coming?” I hear myself ask the question before I even know I’m thinking it.

  Dean pauses and it’s answer enough. Then, “Yes.”

  “So she could do that?”

  “I didn’t know what she would do.”

  I bury my face in my hands, indescribably sad. I hate the fact that I’m crying, that what Ally said got to me, that Dean’s admission hurts my feelings. In seconds I’m sobbing so hard it’s almost impossible to breathe. My chest aches, my throat is hot and tight, my sinuses sting and my hands are soaked with tears.

  “Rachel...”

  I feel his heavy hand on my shoulder and I jerk away. “Don’t touch me,” I snap through my fingers. “Just drive home. Is there anyone you need to call to tell I’m coming? Anyone else you think needs closure?”

  Dean doesn’t answer, just takes the exit back onto the highway and accelerates. I press my forehead against the window and close my eyes, letting the tears roll down my cheeks. I’m just hot. And tired. It’s been a long week. This was just bad timing. I should have come to Cranston another time. And I should have come alone.

  “What she said...”

  I whip my head around with a renewed burst of energy. “You brought me here for that. And you stayed up in the playground when you knew what she was doing. You made me stand there and listen to her.” My breath rattles out in a painful sob.

  “Yes.”

  I feel my shoulders shake. “It’s not up to you, Dean!”

  He rolls his lips over his teeth as though trying to figure out what to say, then says nothing at all, glancing out the driver’s side window, away from me.

  “You didn’t get your ass-fucking revenge so you decided that she should have hers? Did it get you off? Do you have closure now?”

  That muscle in his jaw ticks.

  “Do you remember what closure means?” I sneer. “Or should I remind you?”

  Dean jerks the wheel hard to the right and I grip the door, whipping my head around to see that he’s steering us down the next exit ramp to a rest stop.

  “Get back on the highway!” I tell him. “Don’t stop this car. And if you do, get the hell out because there is no way—”

  The rest stop is abandoned, just another low, forgotten structure promising bathrooms and garbage cans. Dean speeds into the parking lot, straddling the yellow line dividing two spots and stomps on the brakes, making me jerk against the seat belt, teeth clacking together. He shuts off the car and has both our belts unbuckled before I can figure out his intentions.

  But even as he yanks me over the armrest and into his lap, holding me against his chest, my wet face pressed into his neck, I cannot understand. He’s trying to comfort me, like an attacker suddenly trying to staunch the blood flowing from a wound they had inflicted. A wound they dreamed of inflicting for ten long years.

  “Let go!” The words are muffled by his skin, the thin flesh of his neck hot against my lips. I feel his pulse beneath my mouth, his very life just millimeters away. I want to bite him, I want to tear a hole in his skin, feel him bleed, taste it, make him hurt the way I hurt.

  I scratch and claw but Dean’s arms are like metal bands, an unyielding vise that holds me against his chest, legs stretched over the armrest, feet kicking futilely against my locked door. “Stop it!” I screech. “I hate you. I hate you as much as you hate me.” The tears are coming in earnest, more than should be humanly possible. Every agonizing breath hurts my ribs, makes my stomach twist, my throat burn.

  “Let me go!” I slap at Dean’s face and hear him inhale when my palm makes solid contact with his cheek. His grip tightens slightly and one of his hands lifts up to grasp my hair and tug back so I’m almost lying against the door.

  “Don’t do this!” I gasp, writhing against his unrelenting hold. “I trusted you and you set me up. Let me go. Get out. I hate you. Get out.” Even as I say them, the words are losing steam, growing tired and heavy. The tears are running out, thank God. Lethargy is stealing in even as the tears cool on my face and neck, salty and sticky.

  “I’m tired of being the bad guy,” I moan pitifully. “You don’t have to keep telling me.” I feel Dean’s lips move, very, very gently, over my skin, tracing the tear tracks that cover my neck.

  “Stop,” I whisper.

  His hands move too, featherlight, stroking up and down my back, my arm, from my hip to my neck, coddling me, a stark contrast to the hot, hard body that won’t let me escape the unwanted attention.

  “Don’t,” I say again. My voice breaks on the word; it feels like something inside me is cracking in two. The last time I lost Dean I was the one who did the leaving. It was the dead of night, I didn’t have to see him, I didn’t have to face the hurt. I’d buried myself in my job search and then in school, deftly eluding the feelings that would have broken me. But now he’s here, and I feel him everywhere, even as those big hands do nothing more than stroke me in a soothing, methodical rhythm.

  “Come here,” he murmurs, cradling my head in a hand that brooks no argument, holding me in place as his mouth covers mine.

  I whimper against him, my mind racing even as my body goes limp in his arms. I don’t know what he’s doing. I didn’t think Dean liked kissing; at least he doesn’t seem to like kissing me, avoiding it w
henever possible. But now his lips and tongue are everywhere, exploring every corner of my mouth, swallowing every sob.

  I’m exhausted. My limbs feel like they’re weighed down with stones, and it’s hard to move, even when Dean’s free hand glides over my hip and gathers my skirt above my waist. One of my legs is stretched across the seat in front of me, the other is on the floor, leaving me open and exposed.

  I make a confused sound of protest and acquiescence when Dean’s hand covers me through my panties, stroking lightly.

  “Shh,” he soothes.

  “I don’t want to have sex with you.” It’s true; I can’t stomach the thought of Dean’s cock inside me, seeing his face harden as he comes, knowing what he really thinks of me. What he’d rather be doing.

  “I know.” He kisses me again, his lips impossibly soft even as they take what I’m not sure I want to give.

  I feel the scratch of his fingertips on my inner thigh as he pushes my panties to the side and covers my bare flesh with his hand, my folds damp and swollen, as conflicted as my emotions. Dean circles my opening with one finger before pushing in slowly. He burrows in deep but gentle, giving me the only thing he thinks he has to offer.

  I break the kiss and turn my face away, feeling his hot breath on my cheek, his tongue tracing the shell of my ear, then my jaw. My heart is hammering in my chest and my breathing is uneven, turning into a startled gasp when he inserts a second finger, fucking me soft and slow.

  “Let go, Rachel,” he urges quietly, turning my face back to his. “Let it out.” His fingers curl forward as though coaxing me, calling forth an orgasm I can’t imagine I have the strength for. I feel my slippery wetness coat his fingers, recognize the ease of his penetration, the clenching spasms low in my belly.

  All the frustration, the fury, the hurt feelings, everything gathers between my legs. Dean’s fingers torment me mercilessly, manipulating the sensitive flesh until my hips are writhing against his hand, begging silently for release. He kisses me thoroughly, his mouth as skilled as his fingers, tongue dueling with mine with predictable results.