Unstable (6 page)

A large, strong hand gently laid on my shoulder silences me, and this time, I don’t flinch. “Of course you are, but I understand, everything, and I’m happy to help. Let’s go, I’m right behind you.” He assures me in a calm baritone, his presence at my back intense, yet surprisingly comforting.

I think back to what Donna said about Jack’s quick, impersonal finalizations and part of me wants to ask Gatlin about it— why the kind regard for my mother and not his own father… but I don’t. This task is heavy enough already.

We walk in silence and head up the staircase, me in the front, my legs shaking so badly it’s a very real possibility I may fall at any second. But he’s behind me, and even only knowing him for the short time I have, I
know
he’ll catch me, should that happen.

When we reach the top, I freeze, taking in the window to our immediate right. The same stick shoved in the bottom of the frame to keep it locked. I always thought it was a silly, a meaningless safeguard. If a burglar wanted in, all they’d have to do is break the glass…after scaling the two-story roof, of course. But if
we
wanted
out
, we simply had to remove the stick…which we did, often.

“To stargaze?” Gatlin asks with a dash of amusement. I hadn’t realized I’d spoken the thought out loud, and would now look a fool not to answer.

“Yes and no.” The words come out wispy. “The stars were there, so I’m sure some gazing happened. But mostly, it was
our
spot. To plan our lives after Ashfall—where we’d go, what we’d see, who we’d grow up to be.”

I wait for him to ask me who “we” is, but he doesn’t. I take his silence as further confirmation of my earlier assumption…
he knows.

I have absolutely no problem going along with his obvious “let’s not bring it up” plan, so I shatter the pause in conversation. “Anyway,” I say louder than intended, “that’s it,” I point. “My mother’s room. You have a good idea what clothes we’re looking for? I want to be in and out.”

“I understand, we’ll be quick. Take a breath.” He waits for me to do so, then smiles warmly. “Okay, let’s go.”

The knob turns too easily, despite my trembling hand, and the door seems to swing itself open…as though inanimate objects know to team up and work against my delay. I keep my eyes trained solely on my destination—the closet, in the far corner of the room—and hustle there diligently. I breathe through my mouth, not wanting to smell her scent, and comb through hanger after hanger of choices as fast as I can.

I don’t know what she’d want to wear.
I can’t, I cannot—

“How about this?” Gatlin’s voice somehow fights its way through my building panic and cascades over me like a balm.

I look past the tiny starbursts of anxiety dancing in my vision to see him holding up a long, black skirt and a cream blouse with lace covered buttons.
She did always love lace.
I nod and snatch the garments from him, making a beeline for the door. But I don’t move fast enough, and fail to keep my blinders on as I had when I’d entered, my own traitorous eyes wandering to the montage on the wall.

Pictures, so many pictures, hung in chaotic pattern. Some small, some large, all heart-wrenching and baffling.
How
could she look at them every single day and not be crippled with misery? They’re not scattered all over the house. No…she’d picked out
this
spot, in the privacy of her room, to what? Agonize in private? Make sure she cried herself to sleep each night?

My ears start to ring as the whole room spins, and the thrumming in my head is so loud that it almost prevents me from being able to bolt from the bedroom. But I make it, stopping just outside the door to lean against the wall and fight for a deep breath.

Gatlin joins me, shutting the door and that world away, back where it belongs. “It’s done, all over,” he soothes me, his voice low and steady. “You gonna be okay?”

“Yes,” I respond automatically, unsure whether or not I’m lying.

“People cope in different ways, Henley. She chose to remember the happy.”

“Not me.” I shake my head. “I don’t, can’t, I’m not going back in there.”

“And that’s okay,” he says simply. “You know what? You’re already up here, so why don’t you go ahead and take that hot bath I know you’re craving?” He changes the subject with a light chuckle.

I jerk my head up, eyeing him with infuriated suspicion. “What would make you say that? I’m not even sort of kidding anymore, Gatlin. You’re. A. Little. Creepy.”

He belts out a full laugh, robust and enviable. “You’re walking like you’ve got a stick shoved up your ass and you winced with every stair taken. You’re stiff, out of practice riding around a farm all day. Not rocket science, Henley. Take a bath, and I’ll go downstairs and see if I can’t find something to quiet all that noise your belly’s been making.”

Something coils tight in said noisy belly, an odd sensation I haven’t experienced in years. Ah, that’s what it is,
the recognition of consideration.

“Um, Gatlin,” I say just above a whisper, that he still manages to hear, stopping his descent down the stairs to look back at me. “Thank you, for, you know, your help.”

“You’re welcome. Now go, try and relax. Everything will be okay, I promise. One thing at a time, yeah?”

“Yeah,” I nod.

WHILE THE BATHROOM DID
still hold some memories, they weren’t so all-consuming that I wasn’t able to relax a bit. I mean, without curling irons and make-up scattered everywhere (which she’d had the good sense to pack away), how many meaningful remembrances does one have from a bathroom, right?

So, because I got the small reprieve from painful reminiscence and allowed myself to fall into a tranquil state of distraction, it’s only
after
I get out of the bath that it dawns on me…I didn’t bring a change of clothes up here. I really don’t want to put the dusty outfit I wore around the farm back on, but what choice do I have? My bag is downstairs, and I am
not
traipsing around in a towel with Gatlin in the house.

Maybe he left. I was in the tub a while…so I crack open the door to listen for any sounds indicating he’s still here, when I spot the surprise to my left. There, on the hall table just outside the bathroom, is a pile of fresh clothes from my bag.

I snag them up and disappear behind the door, dissecting in my head the enigma that is Gatlin Holt. Is he being nice to me because this farm, the destiny of which lays in my hands, is his home and he doesn’t want to lose it? Is he hoping for money? Or is he really just a nice guy?
Who digs through my bag without permission.

Dressed and determined, I decide to ask him all this as soon as I get downstairs. But when I enter the kitchen, he’s nowhere to be found. There’s only the fixings for a sandwich and a pitcher of tea on the counter.

I go to the window and squint through the dusk, finding the cabin completely dark. The man moves in shadows; a curious, courteous phantom whose intent I plan to figure out as soon as possible.

But for right now, I make myself that sandwich, pour a glass of sweet tea, and tend to my grumbling stomach.

Then, with a full day, and now full belly behind me, I go and crash on the couch. I’m asleep before I can really give myself a good chastising for sleeping here again.

THE NEXT MORNING, I’M
again awoken by the glare of the sun—I need to find some curtains or at least hang up a blanket—and cringe with my first movement. My whole body reminds me just how long it’s been since I’ve spent all day exploring the dips and potholes of a farm.
Ridiculous
; I’m far too young to actually “creak” when I move, and it’s right then and there that I decide to start back on my yoga.

Tomorrow.

I freshen up in the downstairs bathroom, eat a small breakfast, then grab my truck keys and the outfit for my mother. Just like the day before, Bourbon’s waiting on the porch to greet me, and that kind of commitment deserves a reward. I walk to my truck and open the passenger door, and sure enough, Bourbon wastes no time accepting the invitation and jumping inside.

As I head down the driveway toward the main road and away from the fields, he looks from the window to me several times.
He’s on to me.
I don’t have the heart to tell him that rather than taking him out to run with the herd, we’re headed to a
funeral home
…so I simply say, “You keep me company through this, and I’ll let you chase some later, deal?”

I just negotiated with a dog. And even scarier, I heard the agreement in his answering bark.

With that settled, another thought crosses my mind—where was Gatlin this morning? And more importantly, why do I care?

With all the therapy I’ve had, I know that codependency is an unhealthy thing. I’m guessing it’s a whole new level of “ill-advised” if it’s attached to a sneaky stranger that I’ve known for a handful of days. I’ve gotten very good at being alone, an expert at immediately squashing even the notion of letting my guard down, so this anomaly…the only explanation has to be the immensity of recent events.

And
, in all fairness, he
is
staying on my land. So concerning myself with his whereabouts and goings on is legitimate, I conclude.

Thankfully, I’m out of any more time to pay it thought, having arrived at Nelson’s Funeral Home.

“Okay, Bourbon, you wait here. I’ll only be a minute. Don’t chew on anything.”

He barks again, then lays across the seat, getting comfortable.

If all else fails, which if history is anything to go by, it most definitely will…at least I have Bourbon.

Might look into getting myself a cold beer later too.

“Henley!” Donna’s in front of me before the bells on the door have a chance to stop ringing. And the melodic excitement in her voice, well…it has a way of sticking out in a funeral home. “How are you honey?”

“I brought the clothes,” I awkwardly blurt out, and even more gawkily shove them into her arms. “You do the obituary, just, maybe something short and simple? No need to, um,” I shift my weight while I butcher the polite, concise request I had planned to deliver, “list every family member’s name. You know, that survived and preceded by stuff they always do? No sense in all that.”

She nods and offers an understanding smile. “Very general, got it. Clyde will have a fit, but I’ll make sure he listens.”

Oh yes, Clyde Gemperle…the man’s been in charge of the “Ashfall Advisor,” the town paper for as long as I can remember. Anything short of a biography will be new for him, but he’s just gonna have to pull back on this one ‘cause I’m not reminding everyone…of everything.

“And the service?” she asks.

I hadn’t gotten that far
. I’m still shocked I was able to manage the outfit and obituary decision/speech. “Um, whatever you think I guess.”

Again, we both know the “expected norm” of this small town, she’s just asking to be polite. As a long-time resident, people would actually consider it a personal insult if not given the chance to attend my mother’s funeral.

“Brother Thomas will deliver an honorable goodbye at the church, and I’ll take care of the memorial and graveside services. Respectful, but modest. Will that work?” She rubs my arm, and I give a quick jerk of my head in acquiescence. “All right, now that we’ve got all that figured out, why don’t you tell me what’s going on with you? Have you decided if you’re staying?”