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Chapter Twenty-Two
Gina
It comes to me in the dead of night, what I’d sensed at the dance but couldn’t put my finger on. Joel Miller is the guy from my vision. The guy that Will Davenport said he had lunch with. He looked a little like the man I’d imagined, but different, kind of like how in a dream the person doesn’t look exactly like the person you know they’re supposed to be. I don’t know how or why this matters, only that it somehow does.
I liked Joel well enough. Enough that I tried my damnedest to seduce him, though it was to no avail. What kind of man turns down no-strings-attached sex? Certainly not the kind who could have written those letters.
It doesn’t make sense.
Something doesn’t add up about Joel Miller.
Somehow, this only adds to my attraction.
Why? I don’t know. Only time will tell.
I guess this explains why I can’t sleep for thinking about it. I just lie there tossing and turning, listening to Daddy’s raspy breathing through the thin walls.
Eventually, the first morning light filters through the curtains, casting a pale blue shadow around the room. The first thing I see when I open my eyes is a photograph of Mom, her face frozen in a smile. The photograph I’ve seen hundreds of times. But the frame is new and so is its placement. It looks like a cheap thing from the craft store, with a wooden frame and gaudy turquoise paint. It hadn’t been there when I went to bed, had it? Had Daddy placed it here? Had Mona brought the frame?
I stare at the photograph for a long time, trying to make sense of what I’m seeing. Trying to understand why it’s there. But I can’t. And eventually I give up and get out of bed, my mind still racing.
Mom looked happy in the photograph, her skin glowing and her blonde hair perfectly coiffed. The photo was taken years ago, before everything changed. It was the kind of photograph that would have required a photographer to come to our house, setting up lights and everything. Serious business, that.
This image of Mama in the photograph looks nothing like the woman she had become the last time I saw her.
I press my ear against the wall, listening for any sounds from Daddy’s room. His ragged breathing has morphed into full-on snoring.
Both relieved and exhausted, I climb back into bed and blink at the ceiling for a while, trying to fall back to sleep. When that plan fails, I get up again, go to my desk, and start making some notes.
The phone rings, jolting me out of my seat. I glance at the clock—it's six a.m. Who would be calling this early?
The shrill ring pierces the early morning silence. No one ever calls at this hour. Although, ever since the ad, well, things could be a little unpredictable.
In the time it takes for me to throw my robe around me and trudge downstairs, I deal with the following: a ringing phone that won’t stop, floors beneath my feet that are freezing cold, and an uncharted minefield of boxes. The staircase is an obstacle course, filled with dark spaces and looming shadows. I trip, stumble, and feel my way through the darkness. Annie follows close at my heels, pressing her cold, wet nose to the backs of my knees.
Once I finally reach the bottom of the staircase, I dart toward the kitchen, breathless. I hope the ringing hasn't woken my father. He needs his rest. I am torn between two dangers: the dark hallway and the aforementioned minefield. I choose the hallway, and after I pass the living room, I see that the kitchen lights are on.
I take a deep breath and answer the phone, my heart pounding in my chest.
“It’s Joel,” he says, his voice is gentle and apologetic. “I hope I didn't wake you.”
“No,” I tell him with a huff. “Just the rest of the house and all the farm animals for miles around.”
“I was wondering if you might want to watch the sunrise?”
“I’m watching it now,” I say, glancing out the window. The sky is beginning to lighten, but the sun is not yet visible.
“I meant together.”
“Um…” I hesitate, not sure what to say. I don’t want to give him the wrong idea, but I am curious to see where this is going.
“I'll throw in breakfast.”
Before I can ask if bacon is involved, he says, “Great, then. I’ll see you in twenty,” and hangs up the phone.
I throw on a sweater and a coat and a pair of old blue jeans. I am sitting on the stoop when he pulls into the driveway. He parks the truck and steps out; he isn’t smiling, but he isn’t frowning either. He looks like he did at the dance, only sleepier, standing there in a flannel shirt, jeans, and no coat.
I watch as he teeters on the heels of his boots and stuffs his hands in his pockets. I realize he is waiting for me to invite him in. To which I reply, “My father is still asleep. I’d rather not wake him.”
