Nicole Young: Love Me If You Must

She grunted and came at me again. I spun away at the last second, avoiding her crashing blow.

The cistern grew foggy. The fever took its toll. I didn’t know how long I could avoid the inevitable. It would be so easy just to give up and let her finish things. What did it matter, anyway? No one would even miss me.

On instinct, I jerked to the left. My ears rang from the sound of metal on cement. That one had been close. I dug deep for the strength to keep fighting.

Rebecca lifted the shovel. While it hung in the air, I attacked. Momentum took us both to the ground. I heard a dull thunk as I landed on top of her on the hard concrete. I scrambled to pin her arms beneath my knees, a move I’d learned in prison. I held the chisel over her head, ready to plunge it into her neck if necessary.

But Rebecca never moved. A wet patch formed beneath her head.

I gulped in deep breaths, half crying, half laughing. The cistern grew gray with fog. I slid off Rebecca and onto the concrete floor. I curled into a ball and thanked God I was still alive.

I woke in my cot with a pounding headache. Winter sun poured gray into my meager master suite. I must have passed out in the cellar. Apparently someone found me and put me to bed.

I sat up. Throbbing blasted my ears. My cell phone danced on the wood planks as if it had a life of its own. The whole house vibrated. At first I thought the din came from an approaching train. But as the cobwebs cleared, I realized a jackhammer pummeled the concrete one floor below.

I rolled over and covered my head. They were digging up Sandra.

Memories of the night in the cellar engulfed me. I didn’t yet have the strength to look back. Pain knifed through me at even a vague recollection.

The knot in my throat gave way to tears.

I must have cried myself back to sleep. The next time I woke up, I felt refreshed. The reverberation of the jackhammer was gone from both the basement and my mind.

Off in the kitchen, a spoon clanked against a pan. I smiled. My neighbor Dorothy must be fixing me breakfast. My stomach gurgled at the thought of food. I couldn’t wait to get some nutrients into my system. The fever had left me weak and groggy. It would probably be a day or two before I was back to myself.

I sighed. A day or two before I could get back to the business at hand, renovating the Victorian.

I thought about the months of work ahead of me, and waited for that swell of anticipation I always got midway through a project. The feeling never came.

Today something inside me felt different. Did it really matter if I gave the house a total facelift? It was kind of homey just the way it was. Maybe there didn’t have to be a master suite on the first floor with a whirlpool tub and walk-in closet. Maybe the bedrooms and bathroom upstairs were sufficient for some mom, dad, and kids. And as far as a rec room in the basement went, why not let someone who actually planned on living here decide what to do? Maybe a new owner would rather have storage down in the basement. I’d gotten a good start fixing this old place up. Someone else could take it from here. I definitely needed some time off. I needed a place to heal. Not Cancun, but someplace that felt more like home.

I swung my legs over the edge of the cot. I was wearing my oversized tee-and-shorts pajamas. I must have been pretty dead to the world if I couldn’t even remember changing my clothes.

I stood up, shaky and light-headed. I slipped a sweatshirt and sweatpants over my sleeping gear and walked to the kitchen.

I leaned against the doorway and shook my head in surprise. Brad stood in front of the stove, stirring some concoction. He bent over the pot in concentration. A red-and-white checked apron protected his jeans and heather sweatshirt.

“No, you don’t,” he said to the contents. The brew sizzled over onto the burner and sent up a cloud of steam accompanied by the salty smell of burnt chicken broth.

I giggled to see the oversized man hunkered over the rebellious blend.

Brad turned my way and straightened. “Welcome back, Sleeping Beauty.”

“Hey, thanks. What’s cooking? I’m starved.”

“I bet you are. I’ve got some homemade chicken noodle soup for you.”

“Did you make it, or did Dorothy?”

“I’m insulted. It’s my own recipe.”

“Is it safe to eat or should I have my Tums on standby?” I asked.

“I see you’re back to your old self.” He tapped his spoon on the edge of the pan.

“You’re right. I’m sorry.” I hung my head. “I’m trying to turn over a new leaf.” Those were the same words David had used . . .

I pictured the spade meeting the side of his head, the sickening clunk at contact, and the thud of his body landing on concrete. I bent over double, sick from the vision.

Brad raced to my side. “What’s wrong? Here, sit down.” He helped me to the floor.

Sobs wracked my body as I let the memories come. Brad sat alongside me and let me use his shoulder for a Kleenex. He smoothed my hair, calming me. After a few minutes, I caught my breath. Then I asked the question I’d been dreading.

“Is David dead?”

Brad rested his hands on his lap. “He’s got a nasty concussion, but he’s still kicking.”

I nodded my head, relieved.

Brad tapped his thumbs together and continued. “David’s looking at deportation after he serves a reduced sentence for helping convict Rebecca. He can place her at the scene of the crime the night of Sandra’s murder. He even kept the shirt Rebecca was wearing when she killed Sandra. Fished it out of the trash for a time like this. With bloodstains and dried concrete all over the fabric, I’d say Rebecca is going to spend a long time behind bars.”

I remembered the dark puddle beneath Rebecca’s head in the cistern. “So Rebecca’s going to be okay?”

He leaned his head back against the cabinet. “She’s in custody at St. Joe’s Hospital. Cracked her skull pretty good, but she’ll recover.”

I guess I was glad she was still alive. She’d have gotten off the hook too easily if she had died. This way, she’d have lots of time to think about her crimes.

But that would be years of reform and reflection down the road. I should know.

I caught Brad’s eyes. “I guess I passed out. Who found me?”

“Jack. He was prowling around the basement window again. He saw you and Rebecca going at it with a shovel, and he ran to get me.” He nudged my shoulder with his. “And it’s a good thing he did. If you’d have laid there on the concrete much longer, you’d have been dead from fever.”

“Yeah.” I felt my forehead. “It cleared up pretty quick, though. I feel great today.”

“You’ve been zoning in and out of sleep for nearly three days. No wonder you feel better.”

“I was out for three days?”

“Completely zonked. Dorothy, Tammy, and I took turns keeping watch over you.”

I grabbed his arm. “How’s Tammy doing? Last time I saw her, she was on the verge of making a big mistake.”

“Everything’s okay. She’s back on track. And she’s giving you credit for helping her figure things out. David thanks you as well. You’re a bigger influence around here than you realize.”

It was nice to imagine I could be an influence of any kind, especially a good one.

Still, Brad’s words brought a tweak of sadness. I knew I couldn’t stay in Rawlings. Things hadn’t gone according to plan. But more than that, I felt a restlessness.

My cue to move on.

“And Sandra?” I asked.

“She’s tucked in safe down at Lakeside Cemetery. There’s a memorial service for her tomorrow, if you’re up for it.”

“Yeah. I wouldn’t miss it.” I paused, thinking. “Hey. Do you happen to know if she was wearing both shoes when they found her?”