Page 23 of The Life She Had

Daisy

I won’t be fixingthe leak until tomorrow morning. I checked when I snuck into the attic this morning, and the leak is bigger than expected. Even if Celeste’s tools would do the job, she doesn’t have the materials I need.

Before dinner, I put on a temporary patch to stop the constant drip of water behind the interior wall. When I point out the drywall damage to Celeste, she curses, but I assure her it won’t need to be replaced immediately. Soon, though, to avoid mold... which I can already see growing in a few other spots. She’s not thrilled by that, but it’s not as if I’m here as a contractor, pointing out “problems” in hopes of making a few extra bucks. My task is the leak, and I’ll do it tomorrow, after picking up the tools from Tom’s shop.

With any luck, Tom himself won’t be there when I do so. I won’t pretend it wasn’t good to see him. I’ve often wondered where he ended up in the world, and the answer might not be what I’d wanted for him, but he’s running his own business and seems happy, so I’m pleased.

I’m even more pleased to see he hasn’t changed. I’ve known other kids raised in our hardscrabble lives who’ve ended up falling into the patterns of their parents, like cars that veer from the track, only to be towed back onto it.

Those kids grew up into adults I barely recognize. Disappointment changed them. Hardened them. Sapped out their kindness as it stole their hopes. That doesn’t seem to be the case with Tom, and if I could cast the die of fate and choose whether he’d achieve his goals or remain himself, I’d pick the latter. “Both” would be the best answer, but we so rarely get that option. I certainly didn’t.

Tom landed on his feet, and I am pleased to see it. Now I will withdraw from his life, like a ghost who flits past only to check on those she knew.

Speaking of Tom, I bought food at his store to ensure I wouldn’t use Celeste’s. Is that consideration? Pride? Or self-defense, warding myself against the evil eye of her grudging hospitality? A little of all three, I think.

Also, I can’t afford to piss her off. I need to be the perfect houseguest, helpful and unobtrusive. I can’t afford to give her any reason to kick me out.

Tom’s shop isn’t exactly a supermarket, but I’d put together a package that would give me a chicken dinner, a pasta lunch and an omelet for breakfast using the leftover veggies from the first two. I offer to make dinner for Celeste, and she agrees, though she eyes my sad grocery selection doubtfully. She can’t hide her surprise when the result turns out to be lightly fried chicken thighs on rice pilaf with a vegetable medley, all cooked from memory.

After dinner, I clean up, over her protests, and then I retreat to the lanai with a book that I found in the shop’s second-hand collection. I curl up, and I’m asleep before dark falls.

Celeste

She’s in the house. It’s past midnight and had I been asleep, I’d never have heard her. But I’m restless tonight, on edge. When the steps creak, I bolt upright, blinking. I sit there, straining to hear and—

Another creak.

I should have locked the back door. I’d been about to, and then I hesitated. Having admitted that I “almost locked it” earlier, does that give me an excuse for doing so again? Or does it negate that excuse? In the end, I left it open.

And now she’s in the house.

Another creak on the steps. There’s no reason for her to come up here. The bathroom on the main level is tiny and crude—installed when stairs became too much for an eighty-year-old woman—but Daisy has been using it.

I slip from bed and ease open the top drawer of my nightstand. There’s a gun inside a sleep-mask sack. I used to keep a weapon under my mattress, only to learn that’s the first place someone will look. The problem with my current solution is that I need to get it out of the bag first.

I pick it up, bag and all, and scoot behind my door, where I carefully unwrap the gun as I listen. The footsteps hesitate outside my door, and I hold my breath, gun in hand, watching the knob. It doesn’t turn. Ten long seconds of silence. Then the footsteps back up.

Is Daisy in retreat? Does she realize I’m awake... or was she listening at my bedroom door to see whether I’m asleep? Her destination answers that question—the footsteps pause at my office. I press my ear to the door. A squeak of shoes as she heads inside.

A drawer opens. Papers whisper as she riffles through them.

There’s nothing incriminating in my office, no sign of my past life. That’s all in the attic, and while my stomach still clenches at the thought of her being up there, I don’t believe she’ll find anything, and there’s nothing in my office except my legitimate work as a freelance graphic designer.

That doesn’t mean I’m about to return to bed. She’s trespassing. Worse, she’s snooping, and I have every right to barge out there, gun in hand, and catch her in the act as I pretend that I mistook her for an intruder. I won’t shoot her, of course, but I can still scare the shit out of her.

Scare the shit out of her and frighten her off, which I don’t want to do. She will be useful. Yet if she’s a threat, it’s better if I let her go. Find another solution to my problem.

I turn the doorknob, as quietly as I can, and I’m easing open the door when there’s a bang. Not a gunshot but a crash, as if something fell. I still freeze, and that’s all it takes. A dark figure streaks from my office, no more than a blur before it’s at the stairs, galloping down.

I race into the hall, but she’s already rounding the midpoint landing and—

“Hey!” she shouts.

A smack. A raised voice and the thud of a falling body.

“Get back here!” Daisy yells.

A hiss of pain underscores footsteps thumping down the hall. A yelp, high-pitched and breaking off into curses. The footsteps recede, and the screen door slaps shut as Daisy shouts.

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