Lisa Gardner - Say Goodbye

“Aren’t you going to say congratulations?”

“Congratulations,” she said dutifully.

He wasn’t fooled. “I didn’t say anything right away because I didn’t know what to say. But I’ve been asking around. It’s a great assignment. It would mean a lot for my career.”

She couldn’t speak anymore. She went back to studying the linen.

Beside her, Mac sighed. “You’re not the only one who loves your job, Kimberly,” he said finally. “And you’re not the only one who’s good at it. It just so happens that in the past twelve months, I’ve helped uncover one of the largest meth labs in the state, plus broken up an entire network of dealers. I am making a difference, too, and I like it.”

“I know.”

“The FBI has some regional offices. They’re small, but maybe Savannah could use an extra agent. We could rent a house in the area, try things out. Last time we visited, we both remarked on how charming the place was. Close to the beaches, Hilton Head. It wouldn’t be a bad place to raise a child.”

She didn’t say anything.

“Or,” he forged ahead, “maybe, with the baby coming, now would be a good opportunity to take some time off, maybe a leave of absence. See what we think.”

“I’d stay home, you would work?”

“If you haven’t tried it, Kimberly, how do you know you won’t like it?”

She needed to find her voice. She couldn’t. She felt as if the wind had been knocked out of her. One day, they’d been sailing along and now…Now everything was up for grabs. His job, her job, the baby. She couldn’t find an anchor.

“Did you give an answer?” she heard herself whisper.

“You know I wouldn’t do that without talking to you first.”

“And this is our official conversation?”

“I guess so.”

She nodded, picked up the edge of the sheet, twisted it. “Do I have to answer tonight?” she asked.

“No. But probably I need to give them an answer within a week.”

“All right.”

“All right we can move?” he asked hopefully, but she could tell by his gentle voice that he was teasing.

“All right, we can talk about it for another week.”

“Okay.” His voice grew serious again. “But you know, Kimberly, for us to talk, you’re going to have to actually spend some time at home.”

“Sure,” she said, but they could both tell her heart wasn’t in it.

He sighed again, leaned over, turned out the light.

They hunkered down into bed, her body spooned into his, his hand on her stomach. The happy couple, the two about to become three. A joyous event in the lives of two people who loved each other.

She remained wide-eyed long after her husband had returned to sleep.

One a.m., she crawled back out of bed, into the kitchen. She dialed the number from memory, but got voice mail. She left a message she wasn’t sure she’d ever left in her life.

“Dad,” she said. “I need help.”

RITA WAS AWAKE. DID THAT SAVE HER LIFE IN THE end? She would never know.

It was dark out. New moon, so perfect there wasn’t even enough light to form shadows across the far wall. Damn nights were long enough without even a light show for entertainment.

And then she heard it. Scuffling in her yard, followed by the creak of her back door opening.

“Joseph,” she whispered, flat on her back in her old double bed, gnarled hands clutching the edge of the covers. “That you, Joseph?”

But of course it wasn’t Joseph. Since when did ghosts make a sound?

She worked on her breathing, slow and steady, as she heard more noise downstairs. The sucking pop of the refrigerator door opening. The whine of an old drawer grudgingly giving way. And footsteps. Lots of footsteps, light and quick, crossing the kitchen, heading up the stairs.

Breathing again, slow and steady. By gawd, she would not be scared in her own home. By gawd, she would not be spooked from her own bed.

And then the boy appeared at the foot of her bed. He looked her straight in the eye, both hands tucked behind his back.

She returned his look just as steadily, her right hand creeping beneath the sheet.

“Scott,” she said evenly. “Thought we talked about this.”

The boy said nothing.

“Rules are rules, son. A proper guest knocks on the door. A proper guest waits to be invited. A proper guest does not sneak into an old lady’s home in the middle of the night, scaring her nearly half to death!”

The boy still didn’t say a word.

Rita sat up. She knew she must look a sight. Thin gray hair sticking out like twigs, wool cap askew on the top of her head. She wore her customary green plaid flannel and yellow-stained long johns. She dressed for warmth and comfort, not to entertain impertinent young men.

The boy still didn’t move or speak. So she kept her gaze upon him. She let him know she wasn’t as frail as she looked.

“Show me your hands, Scott.”

Nothing.

“Boy, I’m only going to ask you one more time. Show me your hands! ”

For the first time, he trembled. Once, twice, three times. Then abruptly, he jerked his hands out from behind his back. He showed her his palms, and declared in a voice nearly shrill with panic, “I just need a place to stay. One night. I won’t be a problem. I swear!”

Rita took advantage of his uncertainty, throwing back the covers and swinging her legs out of bed. Her bones ached when she stood, but she felt better. Stronger. In control.

“Where do you live, Scott?”

He thinned his lips mutinously.

“Do you have parents I should call? Someone who worries about you?”

“I could sleep right here,” he whispered. “On the floor. I don’t need much. Honest.”

“Nonsense, child. No guest of mine is sleeping on the floor. You fixin’ to spend the night, we might as well do it right. Come on, I’ll take you to Joseph’s room.”

She set off in her shuffling gait, passing by the foot of the bed, brushing the boy’s shoulder. He fell back, assuming the submissive. Encouraged, she led him down the hall, to her brother’s room, where dusty football trophies still lined one dresser, and the quilt had been hand-sewn by her grandmother from pieces of their baby blankets. As the oldest son, Joseph had been given the quilt to pass along to his children one day. Instead, he had perished in the same war that had cost Rita her husband. Stepped on a land mine in France. There hadn’t been enough body parts left for a proper funeral. Her parents had buried his dog tags, her father retreating to Joseph’s room, where he had stayed for months on end.

Her sister Beatrice should’ve taken the quilt, but it had remained in Joseph’s room, where from time to time, each of them would visit, trying to say goodbye to Joseph in his or her own way.

Rita drew back the old quilt now. She smoothed back the flannel sheets, cold and musty from disuse. She drew the young boy forward and helped him onto the bed.

He was passive now, nearly limp to the touch, his slight frame collapsing into the bed. She brushed a lock of dark hair from his forehead, and he flinched.

“Rita,” he whispered. “I’m tired.”

And the way he said the word, she understood. He wasn’t tired, he was tired, a condition of the mind as well as the body. A state of the soul.

She pulled the covers up, tucking them beneath his chin.

“Stay as long as you need, child,” she said and meant it.

Then she shuffled back into her bedroom, where she felt along the far wall until she found the kitchen knife the boy had let drop to the floor. She picked it up, and placed it in the nightstand beside her.