Mending Places (37 page)

He rolled over and buried his face into the pillow. All these years he’d avoided love, afraid of losing his heart, afraid of not being loved in return. But that wasn’t the worst thing that could happen. He’d known it when he’d seen hurt and betrayal eclipse the shock and disbelief. Hurting the one you loved, hurting her down to the soul, was worse than losing her. Why hadn’t he known that before?

He rubbed the sleep from his eyes and looked at the clock. Four thirty-two. A time that hovered between night and day. He sat up and reached for the remote, flicking on the TV. The national map covered the screen on the weather channel. Maybe the snow would let up today,
and he could leave. His emotions teetered between relief and despair at the thought. Leaving was a necessity. A kindness. He owed it to her.

Where he would go was not a question. He’d decided sometime in the middle of the night what he would do.

The local weather flashed on the screen. Blizzardlike conditions over the next several hours, and the snow emergency was still in effect. The air left his body like a deflating balloon. At least it was going to taper to flurries later. Perhaps by lunch, then he could slip out and clear the drive while Hanna was eating.

His stomach constricted, and the hunger nudged him from the warm bed. Cold seeped from the planks through the soles of his feet. Quickly he dressed and left the room.

The air in the corridor felt thick with a heavy chill. When he entered the main room of the lodge, he flipped on the lamp and stacked the last three logs in the grate. After wadding up sections of newspaper, he stuffed them into the crevices. The lighter faltered, the grating sound of the switch echoing up the hollow chimney.

Finally, a fire lit the tip of the lighter and caught the wad of paper. Brown charring spread rapidly, consuming it until its edges were lacy and gray. The log above it caught the flame, leaving the paper a brittle skeleton.

Micah rose and went to the kitchen. He flipped the switch, and the florescent lights flickered on. He opened the refrigerator door and pulled out several Rubbermaid containers, last night’s dinner, he presumed.

By the time he’d eaten, faint rays of light teased the distant sky. Snow blew and swirled in front of the windowpane, blocking everything but the approaching daylight. The fire popped and hissed in the lodge. He plucked his coat from the rack and went outside to gather more wood. Hanna would be waking soon, and he wanted to be out of the way when she did. He hoped she might come to him today. If only to curse him and vent her anger.

The fury had been a surprise. He’d expected disbelief. He’d expected hurt. But he hadn’t expected the rage that radiated from her like steam off a hot spring.

With the last of the wood in his arms, he kicked off his shoes and took the load to the hearth. As they thudded onto the pile, he heard a door click open in the distance. There was a pause as the pneumatic closure caught, then a louder click as the door shut. It was too late to slip into his room.

Somehow he knew it was Hanna. His breathing constricted, choking off the oxygen. Something coiled in his gut. Fear, he thought. It sucked the moisture from his mouth. He heard no footsteps.

He added a log to the fire. Sparks danced upward, hissing as they went. When he turned, she was standing in the doorway.

Everything in him locked up, the way brakes do on ice. He might have thought she looked small, vulnerable, standing in a pair of pink, fluffy socks, wearing cow-spotted flannels. But the starch in her jaw, the way her eyes raked over him, told him differently. The air chilled in a way that had nothing to do with temperature. Taut silence stretched between them. She hated him. Loathed him. He could see it in her eyes, in the way her reddened nostrils flared.

He looked away. Staring at the naked rage was like trying to stare at the sun. He couldn’t bear it.

He sensed when she left. His lungs filled with air again; his heart came to life. But something else in him died.

After lunch Hanna and Gram began cleaning again. Their suite and Micah’s room was overdue, and the stall in business was the perfect time to catch up. Hanna tackled the chores that hurt Grams back while her grandmother handled the dusting. Mentally, Gram seemed to be doing better now that she was on medication. Hanna had only noticed one or two times that a word had slipped out of her grasp. They had
agreed to take one day at a time and appreciate each one they had together.

She attacked the soap ring on the tub with vigor. The activity was a welcome release for the emotions locked away inside. She was tired of dwelling on Micah. Tired of trying to evade Micah. He seemed to be avoiding her too: a smart move on his part.

She would’ve vented her anger that morning if not for the way it had exploded in her mind when she’d seen him by the fire. The fragments had spurted in all directions, and she hadn’t known which piece to chase first. Eventually they would settle into an ugly mosaic, and she would examine it in detail until the colors grew dull. By then Micah would be gone, and she could get on with her life.

She’d thought she’d forgiven the man who’d done this to her. Thought she’d forgiven him years ago. But apparently, the wound had never been cleansed, just crusted with a scab, healing on the surface while infection festered inside. How had she managed all these years thinking she was all right, when deep inside her was this hideous mass of bitterness?

She turned on the faucet and rinsed the cleanser down the drain. After stacking fresh towels, she gathered the sheets and carried the cleaning supplies into the living room.

“Gram, I’m finished. I’ll be in Micah’s room.”

“All right.”

Hanna set the carrier in the cart and pushed it down the hallway. She wished she could ask Gram to do Micah’s room. But Micah was probably outside, anyway, still clearing the drive. And if she hurried, she would be finished before he returned.

She tapped lightly on the door. The wood felt cool on her knuckles. Her heart pushed against her chest in rapid spasms. She looked both ways down the hall, then knocked again, louder.

Only the buzzing fluorescent light interrupted the silence. Her ears strained for sounds behind the door. Hearing none, she inserted the master key in the door handle.

Micah stood still letting the hot water wash over him. His fingers, half frozen from being wrapped around the snow blowers handle, were finally starting to tingle with warmth. He’d finish clearing the drive later, and this time he’d remember his gloves.

He shut off the water and stepped onto the tile. Steam hung in the air, and he opened the door to clear it. After toweling off he donned a pair of jeans and plugged in his electric razor. With his fist he wiped away the film of moisture on the mirror.

The man who stared back looked a lot like the man he’d been eight years ago. Three days’ worth of stubble coated his jaw, and his hair almost reached his bare shoulders.

He flicked on the razor, and it came to life with tiny vibrations. Why had it happened? Why had he done what he’d done all those years ago? He noticed he avoided the word. Even in his thoughts, he couldn’t bring himself to say it.

Why God? Why?
Anger infused itself in the words. Of all the people in the world, why had it been Hanna on the road that night? Why had it been him leaving the bar at just that moment? Why had it been Hanna he’d fallen in love with? The “whys” were always there, like a mosquito that refused to be swatted away.

He flipped off the razor and set it on the counter, then opened the medicine cabinet at his side. He withdrew the toothpaste and shut the cabinet.

When he looked in the mirror, he saw her. Standing behind him, frozen.

His heart kicked in his chest. He watched as she slowly lowered the cleaning caddie to her side. Her gaze was fixed at some point below his eyes. He was suddenly aware of the bright fluorescents shining overhead.

His back. He flinched. She was staring at the grotesque scars, the many raised dots of whitened flesh.

She grimaced. The revulsion was in the crinkle of her nose, the squinting of her eyes.

Raw anger rose up in him. Was it not enough that she knew how vile he was? That she knew what he’d done? Did he have to fully expose every last shameful detail of his past?

Her eyes slid upward, meeting his in the mirror. He straightened his shoulders, refusing the powerful urge to turn his back from her. “What’s wrong? Never seen a human ashtray?”

She gasped, and her gaze skimmed downward.

He cursed himself for taking his anger out on her.

“I was just—” She held up the supplies. “I knocked—”

He picked up a comb and dragged it through his dripping hair. “I’ll be out in a minute.”

She turned and fled.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
 

Hanna moved Micah’s toiletries around, scrubbing the counter with quick swipes. When she’d heard the snow blower start up, she’d rushed to clean his room. If she hurried, she could have it done before he returned.

She took a breath and realized she’d been holding it. Micah’s scent lingered in his room, but breathing in the bathroom was like inhaling the essence of him. Like he was getting inside her, in her blood, in her bones.

She left the bathroom and began tugging off the bedding. She would not think about Micah sleeping here, dreaming here. She would just do her job.

Never seen a human ashtray?
His words sprang into her mind unbidden. She hadn’t allowed herself to consider the words or their meaning. She’d shoved them into a dusty corner of her mind, not wanting to feel the sympathy she knew would follow. But here, where every breath, every object, summoned thoughts of Micah, she let herself consider it.

Who had done it? Who had burned his back with cigarettes? His father? Had he been taken from his home and put in foster care because of the abuse? How old had he been when it had happened? She pictured a miniature Micah at three or four. She tried to imagine someone jabbing the hot tip of a cigarette on his baby-soft skin. She winced. Had he smelled his own burning flesh? Had they held him down and burned him over and over?

Dear God, how could anyone do such a thing?
She’d heard of it
before. Read it in the paper or seen it on TV. But never had she seen the physical scars or imagined the emotional ones.

She remembered something he’d said in the kitchen.
“She looked like my mother—and suddenly I wanted to hurt her.”

Oh, Lord, his own mother?

Her heart pushed against her chest. She was feeling sorry for Micah, and she didn’t want to.
He doesn’t deserve your pity. Remember what he did to you.
Whatever had happened to him was no excuse for what he’d done to her.

She tugged off the pillowcase and went to stuff the bundle of linens in the cart, relieved to be finished before his return. Moments later she folded the white towels, transferred her sheets to the dryer, and pulled the knob on the washer, starting the flow of water. After adding a capful of detergent, she began stuffing Micah’s bedding into the washer. Even the sheets smelled of him. She tried not to inhale the musky, woodsy scent.

Something clonked against the top of the washer, and she searched through the folds, trying to find what was wrapped up in the sheet. Through the wadded, twisted material, she felt a hard rectangular object. Finally, she uncovered the object: his journal, she thought. The one she’d seen in his room.