Between Seasons (6 page)

Sara smiled again, touching Megan’s shoulder as they moved toward the living room. “Don’t let me keep you. Thanks so much for the cookies and the welcome.” Patrick followed , not letting Sara out of his sight .

“Seriously, no problem. I’m thrilled to have someone else under the age of sixty on the block. It seems like everyone else has lived here for generations. Come over sometime - we’ll have tea or something.”

Megan opened the door, and Sara shook her hand. “That sounds great. Hey, hang on. I’ll give you my number.” She grabbed her purse from the fireplace mantle and dug around, producing a rectangle of light green paper. “There you go.”

“I’ll call you later so you have my number in your cell phone. If you want, I can show you around town. There’s not much to it, but there’s a cute downtown area with a few really great shops and restaurants, and there’s a good grocery store .”

Patrick tried to read what was on the card before Megan stuffed it into her back pocket.

“Yeah, that’s good. I’ll look forward to your call.” Sara smiled, but he didn’t think she looked all that excited. He was probably just imagining it, though –it had been a long time since he’d been around people, and he was really just guessing how Sara would feel. Patrick was anxious to get the neighbor out of the house , so he could listen to Sara talk to the air again.

Megan stepped out the door and waved as she walked down the stairs, breaking into a jog across the lawn. Patrick stood behind Sara at the door, breathing in the floral-scented air greedily. The sunshine lit his face, and he smiled, closing his eyes and enjoying the feel of it until he realized it didn’t feel like he thought it would. It didn’t warm his face as he remembered… not exactly. But even with the subtly different sensation that he couldn’t quite name, it was the best he’d felt in years. Decades, actually. He wished he could communicate with Sara in some way and ask her to keep the door open for the next hour or two until the shade took over the porch.

After a few more moments, Sara stepped back into his chest and away from the door before shutting it. She felt so odd. He’d forgotten the difference of flesh moving through his body . It wasn’t like the things he’d grown used to, like the wall or the banister of the stairway. It was unpleasant in its own way, and yet he didn’t move from his spot, enjoying the awareness of having a body close to his. He curved his arms around her shoulders, trying to hug her to him, feeling her loss when she took another couple of steps back and headed upstairs.

He couldn’t convince his feet to take a step. If he had to be trapped in this prison – cut off from his parents, his friends, and everything outside the house he’d ever know –maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if Sara kept him company. But what if he never moved on from whatever this was? She probably wasn’t thirty yet, but was it feasible to think she’d live there until she died?

She
would
die. It was just a fact. He wondered if she passed away in the house if she’d turn into a ghost and live with him forever. He didn’t know her well enough to even know if he’d want that, although he was well aware that beggars couldn’t be choosers. Even if she started giggling like an idiot and blathering on in baby talk like Sh ell y did at the prom, he’d deal with it simply to be able to genuinely interact with someone. Sh ell y may have had the most annoying voice on the planet, but damned if he wouldn’t happily talk to her for hours right now.

Patrick found Sara in his room, running fingers gently over the marks on the frame of his closet and smiling. His mother used to measure his height there, cutting grooves into the wood with each inch and quarter-inch. The last mark was made just months before he died, which should have made him feel like a mama’s boy but didn’t. He might have been slightly embarrassed when his mother insisted on taking his height on his nineteenth birthday, but it was a tradition he went along with for the fun of it.

Sara positioned her back to the marks, pointing to the position just above her head. She was the same height as Patrick had been when he was fourteen . He smiled and touched the wood, feeling the smooth grain. He still couldn’t figure out why he could touch some things. His belongings –the books and clock and stuff –he could kind of understand, but other things still didn’t make sense. He could physica lly touch the walls of his room, the closet door, and even the kitchen counter downstairs, but the knob of his bedroom door was completely different; his hand continued to s i nk right through it, the heaviness grossing him out every time he tried.

She turned around and peered at the mark where her finger pressed. “March 16, 1963,” she read and then looked up at the last groove . “Wow, you were tall. Six-one. Whoever you were.”

“And you’re short,” Patrick commented, smirking. “Well, kind of. You’re taller than my mom.”

Her forehead wrinkled, and she ducked her head, craning her neck to look at the underside of the shelf in his closet. “What’s that?”

“I don’t know. I’m pretty sure the only thing left in my room now is a dead mouse or something.”

She reached up and brought out a few small pieces of torn, faded paper.
Holy crap!
He was shocked to see his concert tickets clutched in her hand.

“The Who… May twenty-third, 1969 at The Electric Factory. Nice,” she said, flipping the stub to the bottom of the pile.

He remembered that show with vivid clarity. He’d gone with Andy, and they’d gone for cheesesteaks afterward, whistling at the chicks hanging out. The show had been dynamite.

“The Doors… August fourth, 1968 at The Philadelphia Arena. Wow. Whoever you are, you saw some serious history.”

That had been a weird concert. His dad had insisted on going with him and his buddy Tony because his father didn’t like the looks of “that hippie guy with his hair and his drugs.”

Sara extended her hand, tucking the tickets back in the closet. “I think I’ll just leave those there.” She walked toward the door but turned and looked around the room. “It seems wrong to move them after all this time.” A moment later, she said, “I like you. We’ve got musical tastes in common.”

Patrick grinned, thrilled at being acknowledged, even if it wasn’t real.

Sara walked out humming the chorus of “Hello, I Love You.” Patrick sang his favorite part of the song, trying to make his voice like Jim Morrison’s .

“Her arms are wicked and her legs are long, when she moves my brain screams out this song.”

Sara’s voice carried from the hallway, singing the next line of the song. “Sidewalk crouches at her feet like a dog that begs for something sweet.”

Patrick stopped, mouth open.
Wow. Weird
.

CHAPTER THREE

“This is great!”

A louder, taller version of Sara with longer hair stalked around the living room, touching the mantle and then the back of the rocking chair. Patrick wasn’t sure if he liked her; she kept nosing around and poking her head into closets. He felt protective of the house, and while he was sad when Sara had torn up the carpet and painted the walls of the house in bright colors because it took a part of his parents away from him, he found himself a little irritated when the woman wrinkled her nose at the painting behind Sara’s red couch.

It was a Georgia O’Keefe reproduction – he only knew that because Sara had told him. Well, not him , really. She’d been talking to herself or her imaginary person again.

He really didn’t know who Georgia O’Keefe was, but he figured she was an artist. Sara had a large, hardcover book with the woman’s name on it in a box, and while she’d unpacked and fit her books onto shelves, he’d stood behind her and hungrily took in the titles. The cover for the Georgia O’Keefe book looked unsettlingly like a woman’s… well, parts he’d only seen a few times but liked a lot. The painting over Sara’s couch was a red flower, althou gh it didn’t look anything like… that , he had noticed with some relief.

Over the last two weeks Sara had filled the house with furniture. The house was a completely different place, which freaked him out –it was hard to say goodbye to his mom’s gold floral wallpaper in the kitchen. And yet at the same time he loved walking into his parents’ room and feeling like he’d finally gone someplace new. He sat in the living room for hours while Sara chattered and pretended he wasn’t trapped.

Sara had moved into the master bedroom and painted it green… sort of a weird color between peas and the grass in the front yard. Her bed was even bigger than his parents’ had been, and the headboard was plain, just a black cloth rectangle above which she’d hung a dozen framed pictures in all different sizes. He’d studied them, trying to figure out more about his new roommate, but he couldn’t make any sense of them. The photographs weren’t of anyone or anything that he could see. Rather, they just looked like shapes to him.

“Oh, thanks, Jules,” Sara said, watching her guest move around the room and inspect her stuff. “I know it’s not your style and all…”

Jules. Oh, this must be her sister. She’d mentioned a few days ago her sister was coming to stay for a few days. It wasn’t the first time he’d seen her - Sara had lots of picture frames scattered around the house, and unlike the photos above her bed, these had people and places in them. Patrick memorized each one. His favorite was of Sara with the people he assumed were her parents and her sister. Sara looked healthy and tan in the photo, arms around a tall man with a brown and gray beard, a full head of dark hair , and a wide smile, and a woman slightly shorter than Sara, hair short like his mom’s had been but blonder. The woman’s smile and nose looked just like Jules’, who stood on the other side of her father in the picture, arm linked through his, while Sara favored her father around the eyes and nose. Patrick liked that everyone looked so happy . I t was good to see Sara without the wounded look in her eyes she seemed to carry most of the time.

Even though he still wasn’t entirely convinced of Sara’s sanity, he did like that she constantly talked out loud in the house. He loved that she’d made his bedroom into her office. She’d spent most of her time in the last few weeks cleaning and arranging furniture and unpacking, but after she painted his room light blue and moved a big, dark wood desk into it, she’d spend a few hours in there every day writing. Sometimes she’d sit at the desk chair, and sometimes she’d sink into a huge , brown leather armchair.

The writing was the weird thing - he’d expected a typewriter. The letters were laid out the same, for the most part, as on the big Corona he used to own, but the thing she typed on looked more like an oversized plastic book. He’d never seen anything like it: she typed , and words appeared on a white screen. It was kind of cool to be able to look over her shoulder and read what she was writing, even if it was mostly stuff he had no interest in. She seemed to write a lot about diabetes and vitamins, most of which made him yawn and drift toward her shelves of books, finge rs itching to grab one and read it.

“All this modern stuff… well, yeah. Give me primitives or give me death,” Jules said, curling a strand of her hair around a finger. Would Sara’s hair would look like if she let it grow long ? “How do you like the neighborhood?”

“It’s good. The neighbors are nice, and the woman who lives next door gave me a little tour.”

“It’s very suburban. I’m surprised you like it.”

Sara laughed, although it seemed tense and forced, and sat in the rocking chair. “You know I needed something different. I just couldn’t face living in a big city again. Everything urban reminds me of Los Angeles and Scott.” The last word –the name –sounded as though Sara had swallowed something that tasted bad, and her face matched.

“Is there a church nearby?”

“I’m sure there is.” Sara stared at Jules pointedly and shrugged. Her sister drew her lips into a pucker, then frowned.

“Mom and Dad are worried about you, you know?”

“Yeah, I know. Seriously, though. I’m fine.”

“You talk to yourself. I’m not so sure you’re fine,” Patrick said.

“Are you?” Jules sank into the couch, moving the black and gold pillows aside.

“I swear I am. We all go a little crazy sometimes.” Sara’s voice held a hint of something Patrick didn’t understand.

Jules’ face barely moved, but a small, tight smile bent her lips. “Yes, well. I’m sure getting divorced didn’t help you there.”

“Yeah, probably not.” Sara’s eyes narrowed, fists clenching. “Not everyone has their husband accuse them of being a drug-addled floozy during divorce proceedings. That probably didn’t help either.”

“Wait, what?” Patrick stared at Sara, mouth falling open. Maybe it was the drugs that made her so skinny and nuts. And she’d been married?

The silence thickened the air until Sara spoke again. “I guess I got lucky . At the very least, Scott cleaning out the house while I was in the hospital made it possible to travel light, both here and when I moved in with Mom and Dad.”

After another few moments of uncomfortable silence, Jules smiled serenely. “It’s fine not to be okay, you know? I’m pretty sure I would have had a breakdown too if I’d gone through all that.” Her tone had less steel in it now, but Patrick shivered –the change in her voice was creepy.

A breakdown, though? So Sara really
was
nuts. That explained a lot. Aside from the constant talking, she acted fairly normal, though –not that Patrick had any idea how a crazy person reacted to things.

“I’m sure. But I’m good. I even gained a few pounds.” Sara patted her stomach, setting the rocker in motion with her legs. “And this is going to sound weird, but being here is helping.”

“Moving across –”

Sara interrupted. “I’m not talking about relocating. Well, not entirely. I mean this house.”

“What?”

“I don’t feel alone here.”

Patrick froze and slowly cut his eyes back to Sara’s face. He was sure there was no way she could mean what he thought.

She smiled and rubbed her thumbs over the armrest. “I talk out loud.” A moment later she laughed and continued. “At first I talked to Scott… sort of as my own way of dealing with this shit. But then… I don’t know. It feels like there’s someone here with me.”