Page 7 of The Life She Had

Daisy

This is morethan a summer rain. It’s been raining for hours, with no signs of letting up. There must be a hurricane or tropical storm closer to shore, and we’re getting steady rain accompanied by a wind that threatens to send the shed Dorothy-express to Kansas.

I pull a finishing nail from between my teeth and use a rock to pound it in. Then I squint up at the roof. One never truly appreciates the phrase “leaking like a sieve” until one experiences it. I’d done a cursory examination of the roof when I arrived, and it had seemed solid enough, but it seems I missed half a dozen small holes. No matter. I can fix them.

I’ve been a carpenter since I was seventeen, conned into a Habitat for Humanity project by my suburban friends. They’d quit after a week. I was the one who stayed and discovered a passion.

It wasn’t veterinary school, but by then, I knew just how foolish a dream that was for a girl who struggled to get Bs in science. After my mother got sick, those grades plummeted. When graduation came, I clutched my diploma the way others might clutch a doctorate degree.

No veterinary school for me. No college at all. I needed a job that let me care for my mother as cancer dug in its claws and we ran out of belongings to pawn.

Discovering both a talent and a passion for a trade was like fate handing me a gift, more precious even than I realized at the time. No matter what fresh hell life dumped on me, there was always work for a carpenter. Even here in this shed.

I paw through my box of scraps and tools. The wood and nails come from a collapsed tree fort two properties over. A city dweller might have looked at that heap of half-rotted wood and declared it free for the taking. They might even tell themselves they were doing a good deed, hauling off a mess that the owner couldn’t be bothered clearing away. Knowing better, I’d assessed the value of the scrap and tucked ten dollars into the owner’s mailbox. Those people were not the woman in this house. They deserved to be treated fairly.

I select two more rusty finishing nails and give them a quick sanding. Then I use a small hatchet to chop a shingle-sized piece of wood from a chunk of lumber. The hatchet—along with a few other decrepit tools—came from a property where someone had been repairing a fence and left the tools out. They’d been there for years, half-sunk into the earth, which convinced me I could safely borrow them.

I’ve been fixing leaks all day in hopes of a semidry sleep. Night’s falling, and I’m finishing up by the sickly glow of my flashlight. At least I don’t need to hide it anymore. The woman knows I’m here. Knows and doesn’t give a shit.

That’s good, right?

Sure.

Don’t tell me you’re actually annoyed because she’s ignoring you.

Part of me is thrilled that she isn’t alarmed enough to even call the police. It is the best possible response, and I will take full advantage of it. As soon as this rain stops, I’ll move faster.

I’m about to tap in another nail when something crackles outside the shed. Even as I go still, logic demands I ignore the noise. It’s a storm. Of course things are crackling. Lightning. Broken branches. We even had hail earlier.

Still, something about that particular crack isn’t right. It sounds like something moving through the undergrowth, twigs cracking in its wake. Except, well, after hours of rain, nothing’s dry enough to crackle like that.

There’s a rotted spot along one wall, big enough to put my fist through. I have only loosely covered it to leave a peephole. I lift the board and peer out.

Something passes in front of the hole, and I fall back, stifling a yelp. I strain to listen, but all I hear is the pound of rain. I inch back, lift a floorboard and pull out my gun as I keep my gaze trained on the door. Then I crawl back and lift the board again.

Nothing.

I can’t see—

Someone steps right in front of the hole. My breath stops, and all I see is denim. One leg of worn blue jeans. Then the squelch of mud under shoes as the leg moves. I side-creep to the door and rise until I’m standing.

Silence.

I glance at the open hole. Through it, I see only the hazy green of distant ferns. Another squelch. Then a creak, and the door moves, boards creaking inward. I hold my breath, gun in both hands. The door moves again. This time, it hits the makeshift stopper I’ve set up so no one can enter without me knowing it. A solid shove, though, and it’ll pop open.

The door creaks. Whoever’s out there is testing it. I brace for the slam that’ll send it flying open, but all that comes is that creak. Silence. Then the squelch of retreating footsteps.

I count to ten and then ease open the door just enough to see footprints in the mud. Men’s prints, at least a size ten. A heavy work boot tread. I slip out to get a better look, only to have them disappear before my eyes, washed away by the rain.

Celeste

It’s dawn, and I have drunk enough coffee that if one of Aaron’s goons came crashing through my window, I doubt I could shoot straight enough to even hit him. I’ve been on this sofa all night, waiting for the doorknob to turn, a window to shatter, even a call on my cell, Aaron’s deceptively soft voice telling me to look out my back window. Instead, I’ve heard nothing but the steady pound of rain and that relentless voice telling me I’m being silly, being stupid.

You never were the brightest bulb, were you?

Whose voice is that? Aaron’s? Or my mother’s? In my memory, the two swim together in a single current that washes over me on nights like this.

Stupid. Weak. Silly. Worthless. Pointless.

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