To Hiss or to Kiss (20 page)

Gracie must’ve been able to follow my thoughts because she gives me a very worried look.

“It’s OK. It’s been a rough few days. I’ll be OK.”

She doesn’t look entirely convinced, but then, neither am I.

* * *

Gracie sits with me for a little while longer, and then she says it is time to go. I watch her fade away.

With little else to do, I push myself up and start to stroll along the grounds. I’d never really explored Jorge’s property. There is a big, old wooden barn that looks like it’s seen better days and a more modern, one-story aluminum pole barn, both common to the rural area. The pole barn is locked, but the old barn’s doors slide open. Sunlight streams in behind me, highlighting the dust flying everywhere. Old straw or hay is strewn around and there is what I think is old horse tack hanging on the walls. I’m not much of a horsewoman or farm girl.

I venture farther in and see other old implements, including a couple of rusty pitchforks, shovels, and other tools resting against the walls or hanging from nails. There are a few stalls, all empty except for some stray pieces of straw. Wandering around, I find the ladder up to the loft, but it is so rickety I decide not to chance it.

Overall, the place is rundown and old, and I wonder when someone was in here last. It looks like decades have gone by since someone has done anything useful in here. I want to clean the place up a bit, as if by restoring some order to the barn, the same will happen to my life. Or maybe taking care of this property will bring me closer to Jorge, make him forgive me, absolve me of guilt.

I root around in the corners until I find an old outdoor broom with a wide head. It is practically falling apart, but it’s my best option. I sweep the errant straw, hay, and dust into one pile. At first I go a little too fast, kicking up so much dust, a sneezing fit overtakes me. I give it a minute to settle down and then I sweep slowly and methodically.

Next I clean out the stalls and then sort through the old tools to see if anything is salvageable. I find a few pieces not rusted out and hang them on the walls. The others I put in a pile. I sweep all the dirt and plant debris outside so it can decompose in a pile away from the side of the barn.

Walking back into the decaying structure, I see it is still dusty, but all old barns probably are. It looks neater now, like it could be used again if Jorge so desired. A fresh coat of paint would go a long way. The ghosts of the past still linger, but it doesn’t feel so sad in here anymore.

Satisfied, I head back to the yard. I’ve worked up quite a sweat and really wish a shower was handy, but my only option is a spigot on the side of the house, which, when I try it, isn’t turned on. Sighing, I go to the porch and sacrifice one of my bottles of water to at least clean up a bit.

The breeze feels cool against my damp skin, and the combination of the soothing wind and tired muscles relaxes me back into a semi-meditative state. I wonder what it will be like when Jorge comes back. For some reason, I am sure he will. It would be too depressing to believe he isn’t ever going to speak to me again.

I truly believe in the connection we made. I believe he loves me as much as I love him. He’s probably even realized it, which is likely why he was so hurt by my lack of trust over the past several days. Not that he doesn’t have his own walls, but he didn’t push me away again after that first time. It was definitely my turn to screw things up after that. His childish dismissal of me that first night feels a million years away and completely insignificant.

All these mushy thoughts make me feel antsy again, so I get up and pace around the grounds, kicking the occasional stone. Eventually I start pulling the weeds growing around the house. I’ve cried and now done more outdoor work in the last week than I have in my entire adult life.

The only other time I did much work outside was gardening with my parents. We’d always had a family vegetable and herb garden. My dad was quite the cook. My mom would go pick random herbs and vegetables and challenge my dad to make something tasty, and he never failed. When I was really little, I remember them gardening together, giving me a toy trowel to play in the dirt at the edge of the garden.

As I got older, I helped with planting and weeding and watering and picking. Sometimes I got to pick out some of the ingredients for Dad. But then Mom left. Dad had a garden for a few years after that, but he was always so sad every time he entered it that I resisted helping. And then it became just another thing my dad stopped doing and another thing we stopped doing together.

I never realized until now how much I missed gardening with him. I should ask him for gardening advice. Maybe it would help him reconnect to me and to the world a little bit more. Plus, there’s plenty of room here for a garden. And Jorge obviously knows how to cook
.

Look at me being all assured this thing with Jorge is going to work out. Optimistic sap.

Maybe I can’t completely drop my sarcasm, but I still smile despite calling myself names.

My attention comes back to the task at hand. Pulling weeds is somewhat relaxing in a repetitive, hypnotic kind of way, and I concentrate on my gift, trying to reach out to Jorge. I kick in the Reiki and feel his essence. He seems physically closer to me now, but I still can’t communicate. I’m sure this time that he is blocking me. I try mentally knocking, and feel a surge of emotion coming from him. Anger, fear, hope. I hang on to that last one as I send him waves of love. I leave myself open and vulnerable to him. He must feel my fear, too. I’m practically shaking with it, but I won’t let it win this time.

After several minutes, I realize I am no longer pulling weeds, but just sitting back on my heels. My legs are starting to fall asleep, and the tingling pulls me out of my reverie. I rise slowly, shaking my legs and stomping a bit to regain circulation before heading back to my campsite, aka the porch. There I pull out my phone and try his cell. He doesn’t answer, but it rings enough that I know he didn’t just hit the Ignore button and that he turned it back on. Hope surges in me a bit more. I don’t leave a message this time. It’s enough that he knows I called again.

The sun is sinking well toward the horizon and my stomach growls. I pull out some of my meager supplies. Tonight’s main course is one of those tuna fish kits that comes with fixings and crackers. Side dishes are an apple and cheddar Chex Mix, and for dessert, some Oreos. I’ve had less balanced meals.

Sitting and watching the shadows lengthen, my resolve to fight for Jorge waivers. Nothing like two days of sitting around waiting to make me feel lost and let the fear start to creep back in. This is why you don’t do relationships, Chloe, my mind berates me. They always leave or withdraw
.
Doesn’t matter that this one said he wouldn’t give up. That he was in this to stay. Of course, that was before I wigged out on him and broke his trust, but still. He promised. And he still hurt me.

I hug myself tightly, trying not to cry or scream or beat a hole in Jorge’s porch. I just want him to come back, and that makes me sadder than I can handle at the moment. It’s easy to let the anger take over. What do I really know about Jorge? Can his life be so ordinary? I don’t think so. And what is up with all his fancy gadgets to circumvent security systems? Can I really trust this guy?

My mind runs rampant, but another voice comes through from my heart:
Do I even care? I love this guy.

When I pull back from all the questions warring within me, I’m not sure what I think. My heart wins this round, and I settle in for another night on the porch. I don’t know how much longer I can do this waiting thing, though, no matter how much I want to believe that true love conquers all. The thought haunts me as I drift off to sleep, my brain as tired and sore as my overworked muscles.

* * *

I once again awake to sunlight streaming onto the porch. I’m stiff and sore, not only from the uncomfortable bed, but from my cleaning and weeding yesterday. My muscles protest so loudly that I give in and don’t get up right away. Eventually though, my bladder wins and I groan until I’m standing, then wander off to the bushes to relieve myself. Thank God I always keep Kleenex in my car.

Returning to the porch, I open a fresh bottle of water and take a swig before splashing some on my face. As I eat a banana, despair starts to creep in. Jorge isn’t coming back. He’s gone.

I’m not completely ready to believe that yet, but I also know I can’t stay here any longer. I miss my cats, and well, frankly, I feel a bit pathetic to have spent days waiting for a man who didn’t show and who hasn’t returned my calls—psychic or electronic.

I open my mind and try to connect with Jorge once again, but as before, I can sense him but he’s closed off. So I try the cell phone. When it goes to voicemail, I wait for the tone. “It’s Chloe. I’m headed home. Seems you aren’t coming back. I hope this isn’t good-bye.” I pause, not sure what to say but not wanting to let go. Finally, the computer voice breaks in, asking me if I am done with my message and giving me further options. With a sigh, I hit 1 to send my message, then disconnect the call.

I look around at this place where so much happened to me in such a short time—where my life was changed irrevocably, if I’m being honest. No place ever felt like a true home after my mom left until I came here, until Jorge changed everything. I’d forgotten how good it feels to have a home, and I don’t want to lose it now that I’ve found one again. With some resignation, I pack up my makeshift campsite, load up my car, and drive “home.”

My cats greet me at the door, and it makes me smile to see them. “I love you, too, guys.” I give them both hugs and kisses. Sashi protests but lets me hold her for a whole thirty seconds while Enoki headbutts my legs. It’s good to feel loved.

* * *

Not long after I shower, get stuff put away, and touch base with Naomi to let her know I’m alive, Gracie shows up, her spirit shape practically shaking with excitement.
“I found the bad men.”

“That’s amazing, Gracie.”
I marvel that it already seems so normal to be talking to a dog’s ghost. At this point, I’m beginning to think not much can faze me.

“I also got the info you taught me to get.”

“Good job. Let me get something to take down notes and then you can show me what you got.”
My excitement grows as I retrieve my laptop and fire it up. Then I open a blank Word document. Hands poised on the keyboard, I give Gracie the go-ahead.

She starts to send me images of another old farmhouse and the faces of four men. I make notes on their looks to share with the police, as well as details about the property. Gracie is particularly proud when she shows me a clear image of numbers on the mailbox by the road, and I scribble them down.
“That is so good, Gracie. I knew you could do it.”
I praise her and I swear I hear her tail thump even though she is a ghost.

She continues, showing me street signs. I look at all I’ve typed in.
“Wow, Gracie. This is a lot of info. I should definitely be able to find this exact location and tip off the proper authorities. Did you hear a day?”

“Yes. Sunday.”

I look at the calendar on my computer. It’s Saturday.
“That’s tomorrow. I need to get to work. Can I reach you psychically if I need anything else?”

“Yes. And if I find out anything else, I’ll let you know.”

I wave as Gracie’s spirit fades away. Then I turn back to my computer and open up my browser. A few searches later, I find a viable address. A zoom-in on the satellite feature of a map site shows me a house that looked like what Gracie showed me. In the future I need to have her give me overhead shots since there aren’t street-level views for most rural areas.

I’m pretty sure I’ve got the place right, but I call out to Gracie anyway. She responds quickly, and I explain what I want. She disappears and returns seconds later, sending me an overhead view.

“That’s it. Thanks, Gracie. Now to call this in.”

Thanks to the search engine, I quickly find the contact info for the local police tip line. I leave an anonymous tip from a concerned citizen who overheard some conversation on a walk through the fields. Hanging up, I hope it’s enough to get those guys.

Now to wait.

It’s midafternoon, and I wander the house, pet the cats, and even do a little cleaning, but I can’t shake my antsiness.

Finally I text Naomi to see if she wants to stop by.
I’ll take care of dinner,
I offer.

I’m there but only if you order dinner and don’t make it.

Duh.

I’ll be there by 6.

See ya then.

It’s after four now, so I pull out menus from my menu drawer and flip through, rejecting pizza, Italian, Mexican, and American pretty quickly. I narrow further to Thai or Indian, ultimately going with Indian. It’s closer, and since I’ll have to do carryout from either place, closer wins.

I call and order
mutter paneer
for me and tandoori chicken with a small order of vegetable
biryani
for Naomi. Of course I get lots of naan. And since this seems like a dessert kind of night, I splurge for some
gulab jamuns
.

I get dressed and presentable, go pick up the food, and get back with only a few minutes to spare. By the time I get out plates and silverware, open a bottle of New Zealand sauvignon blanc, and pour two glasses, Naomi is letting herself in after a brief knock on the door.

“I smell Indian food. Yum.” Despite her words, Naomi doesn’t look like her bubbly self.

“What’s up?” I hand her a glass of wine. It feels strangely good to be the one trying to get her to open up.

She takes a sip, but I’m not letting her off the hook. She certainly doesn’t ever let me. I stare pointedly until she sets the wineglass down and looks me in the eye. “I had to ask Kevin for a favor.”