Nicole Young: Love Me If You Must

Another shiver struck. The poor dear hadn’t died graciously. But then, when was death pretty?

I tuned in on the conversation at the cistern.

“I don’t see any reason to investigate. We haven’t had any missing persons reports. Must have been just a trick of the light.” Brad caught my eye at the last statement.

Unable to quash the squeal of outrage begging for release, I at least managed to downgrade it to a huff of indignation. “Not investigate? You’re just going to let a killer run free?”

Brad placed his hands gently on my shoulders. “Miss Amble, there’s no evidence of foul play. I don’t know what you think you saw, but at this point, I’m going to decline investigating for lack of concrete evidence.”

I searched his face. He was serious. He planned to drop the whole thing. I flicked his hands away. “The concrete is the evidence. Don’t you see the outline of the body? It’s so clear . . .”

I snatched the flashlight out of Lloyd’s hand and climbed my way up the wall, not caring what appendage suffered for it. I shone the light on the lumpy white floor. Whoever had filled the cistern had done a poor job smoothing the surface, considering what lay beneath. I angled the flashlight, searching for the pattern that had so distinctly emerged when last I looked.

“It was here,” I said in a half whisper. “The mouth and hands, and the feet. I’m just looking at it wrong.” I scooted along the wall to my previous observation point. “There. Right there.”

I pointed to a series of dips and ridges that now only somewhat resembled a mouth and hands. I shifted the flashlight again. The pattern completely disappeared. Had it really been just a trick of the light?

“You know, my wife’s like that,” Lloyd said. “She can look at the clouds and see just about anything. She can even make sense out of all those Greek constellations. She’d probably look in there and see two or three bodies.” He chuckled.

I clicked off the flashlight and set my feet back on the ancient basement floor. I slumped one shoulder against the cistern.

No body. That was good. I didn’t have to find alternate lodging. I could go forward with the project without delay. I wouldn’t have to contend with crime stories when I went to sell the house. One less thing to clutter my mind.

I watched Brad scribble a report in his notebook. Even the police officer wasn’t concerned about a body.

I passed the flashlight back to Lloyd. “I think there’s something wrong with this thing. Time for a new bulb.” I turned to the paramedic. “Sorry to trouble you. I’m fine. Really.”

Before leaving, the woman gave me a rundown of symptoms that would prompt a visit to the emergency room. “And it wouldn’t hurt to see your doctor. You don’t want to mess with head injuries.”

I didn’t bother to correct her. I turned to Brad.

“Officer Walters.” I crossed my arms.

“Miss Amble.” Brad gave a terse nod.

I loosened my guard. I might not like the man’s invasion into my privacy, but that didn’t mean I had to treat him like mold on my tub.

“Tish,” I said. “Go ahead and call me Tish. We’re neighbors, aren’t we?”

“Tish.” He said my name slowly, as if trying it out for the first time. He nodded his approval.

I cleared my throat. “Thanks for looking in.”

“Anytime you need me.” He tipped his cap and left.

“Well.” I relaxed my arms and turned to Lloyd. “I guess that about covers it for the basement today. Work on getting that permit so we can get rid of that cistern once and for all.”

“Come on, boys.” Lloyd bolted upstairs, cohorts close on his heels.

“See you tomorrow!” I called after them.

I stood alone in the basement. I’d grown accustomed to its dank odor in the past hour, but with all distraction gone, my nose once again detected the smell. And it was colder now that I wasn’t moving around. I rubbed my arms and turned in a slow circle. The plans I’d discussed with the builders flipped through my mind. Mechanical room, clean storage, open area, get rid of the cistern . . .

I stared at the crescent of rock. I hadn’t given it a moment’s notice on my first tour of the place several months ago. I hadn’t even looked inside. It was just a detail to handle.

But now it radiated energy.

A big pile of rocks. That’s all it was, hiding in the black shadows behind the steps. A big, empty pile of rocks.

Look, Tish, look inside me, it called.

I had already looked. And while my imagination had been in overdrive at first, there hadn’t been anything to see the second time. There was no body in my cistern. No ghosts in my house.

Just me. Alone. And it wasn’t likely to change anytime soon, so I might as well adjust.

I dared myself to hold my ground, resisting the urge to run, denying the fear that pulled at me with tangible fingers. The clammy silence crashed in my ears.

Behind me, the furnace kicked on.

I screamed and scrambled upstairs.

I slammed the door to the basement and fumbled with the bolt. I wasn’t taking my chances. Body or not, this was one door that would stay locked.

I couldn’t bring myself to do anything the rest of the morning except lie on my cot and stare at the ceiling. I traced the lines in the plaster with my eyes. One section had cracked in the shape of my old cat Peanut Butter, who’d shown up at my house when I was a kid. A shadow gave the image a scrawny tail. A jagged ridge made two pointy ears.

Maybe I had received a few too many knocks on the noggin in my life. When you start seeing bodies in the cistern and family pets frolicking overhead, you have to question if you’re really all there.

Was I all there? Not likely. I was scattered far and wide. Pieces of me littered the state. I’d left a big part of myself up north, a decent-sized chunk in Walled Lake, and a generous portion in Pontiac. Everywhere I’d gone, I’d carelessly left a bit of my essence, a fragment of the human named Tish Amble.

With any luck, I’d exit Rawlings with what was left of me still intact.

I shifted my gaze to a sagging section near the windows. A spiderweb of lines radiated from a missing chunk of plaster. It wouldn’t be long before the vibrations from the train spread the stress. Soon the weight would be unbearable and the whole ceiling would come crashing down. And to think, a hundred years ago the thing had been an unblemished surface.

I had been whole once too. It was before Peanut Butter had shown up on the back porch. Before my mother had driven the pickup headlong into Mead Quarry. Before Grandma had gotten sick. Long before I had done the unthinkable.

That would make me about seven years old the last time I had my life together.

Seven. I’d been in second grade. My best friend Anne had fought by my side when Mikey Palmer pelted us with snowballs on the way to school. At least Anne had decent aim.

I smiled at the memory. I turned on my side and stared out the picture window at the maple speckled with a few persistent leaves. Anne’s cable TV had been a big plus too. Where else could I have enjoyed hours of Star Trek reruns and Movie of the Week television premiers? Even so, cable had been my first introduction to fear. Seven was too young to be watching Injun Joe pursuing Tom Sawyer in the caves. Anne had walked me home across the alley that night. I’d been terrified that Crazy Joe was lurking in the garage waiting to leap out at me with that long, curving knife.

A sunbeam bounced off a passing car and caught me in the eye. I blinked back a tear. Seven short years of bliss. Then, it was as if God had let loose a whirlwind in my life.

My stomach sent out a resounding gurgle. Grateful for an excuse to avoid the tour of days past, I jumped up and pulled on my jacket. Grocery shopping couldn’t be put off another minute, or I’d never live to see another day.