What She Left Behind (9 page)

“Let me have a look,” he said. Too woozy to object, Izzy let him. His fingers and palm felt warm and silky smooth, like the soft, bare belly of a sleeping puppy. The reeling sensation inside her head seemed to slow, and her heart returned to its normal rhythm. “It’s deep,” he said. “But it’s nothing serious.” He looked at Peg. “Do you have a Band-Aid or some gauze?”

“I’ll get the first aid kit,” Peg said, scrambling to her feet.

“I’m fine,” Izzy said, pulling her hand away. “Really.” But it was too late. Peg was halfway across the lawn, her flowery skirt billowing behind her as she ran.

“You don’t look fine,” Ethan said. He pulled a clean paper towel from the roll. “You’re white as a sheet.”

“That’s my normal color,” she said, holding her fist against her stomach.

“Could have fooled me,” Ethan said. “I thought your normal color was fury red.” He reached for her hand again and she yanked it away.

“Ha ha,” she said. “Very funny.”

“Put this around your finger to stop the bleeding,” he said, handing her the paper towel. She took the towel and did as she was told, wishing he would go away. He was too close, too clean smelling, too warm, too unbelievably handsome. She scooted backward on the blanket and got to her feet. He laughed, looking up at her. “I’m not going to bite, you know.”

“No,” she said. “I don’t know.” She picked up the wicker picnic basket and started toward Peg’s car.

He stood and followed her. “So you think I’m a jerk, huh?” She could hear amusement in his voice. It made her stomach turn.

“I don’t think anything,” she said. “I don’t know you.” She walked faster. He kept up.

“That’s right, you don’t. So maybe you shouldn’t call me names.”

“Oh!” she said, rolling her eyes. “I see how it works. You can dish it out, but you can’t take it!”

“Dish what out?”

She stopped and turned on him. “I called you a jerk and you got upset, but it’s okay for you and your little girlfriend to play mean tricks on people. Is that it?”

The smile on his face disappeared and he gazed at her, his brows knitted. “I didn’t know it was your locker.”

“It doesn’t matter whose locker it was! It was horrible and mean.”

“You’re right, it was,” he said. “But Shannon . . .”

“Shannon tells you and everyone else what to do, and you just follow along like a bunch of mindless idiots!”

“No, that’s not it. It’s . . . she . . .”

Just then, Izzy saw Peg hurrying across the parking lot toward them, a white and blue first aid kit in her hand. Harry followed close at hand, his forehead lined with worry.

Izzy shook her head. “That’s exactly it. But I don’t want to talk about it right now. You and I have to work together until we’re finished going through all those suitcases. Let’s just agree to disagree, okay?”

Ethan followed her gaze and saw Peg and Harry closing in on them. “Can we talk about it some other time then?” he said. “Some other place?”

Izzy gripped the wicker basket in both hands, pressing her fresh cut against the wooden handle. The sharp pain mirrored the twisting sensation in her heart and mind as conflicting emotions fought to gain the upper hand. Every instinct told her to stay away from Ethan, that he would cause her nothing but trouble. At the same time, she couldn’t deny being drawn to him. Her stomach clenched with fury.

“Why?” she said.

Just then, Peg and Harry reached them.

Ethan took the first aid kit. “I’ve got this,” he said. “It’s my fault.”

“Are you sure?” Peg asked. “She doesn’t need stitches or anything?”

Ethan chuckled. “She doesn’t need stitches. It’s just a small cut.”

“Okay, if you say so. You’re the future doctor, after all. We’ll get the picnic mess cleaned up while you take care of Izzy.”

Before Izzy could protest, Peg and Harry left them alone again, going back beneath the trees to pick up the chairs and coolers. Ethan opened the passenger door of Peg’s car and ordered Izzy to sit. She did as she was told, sitting sideways on the warm leather seat, her long legs hanging out the open door. Ethan kneeled on the pavement in front of her and set the first aid kit on the ground. Then he took her hand and gently unwrapped the blood-soaked paper towel from around her finger. Izzy cringed and looked away.

“Don’t be such a baby,” he said. “It’s not any worse than a paper cut. The bleeding has already stopped.”

“I thought you said it was deep.”

“It is, but it’s small. You’ll be fine, I promise.”

She felt his warm, silky fingers glide around her hand, pulling it toward him so he could dress her wound. She wondered what he would think if he knew she used to cut herself on purpose.
He’d probably think I’m crazy,
she thought.
And he’d probably be right.
“Oh, that’s right,” she said, trying to distract herself by making small talk. “You’re the future doctor.”

“My parents want me to be a doctor,” Ethan said. He opened up the first aid kit and rummaged through it. “I’d rather be an EMT.”

“I could never do that,” she said. She watched Peg and Harry through the dusty car windshield, trying not to look at her finger. In the shade beneath the trees, Harry gave Peg a quick peck on the lips before taking a cooler out of her hands. Peg smiled and ruffled his hair. The scene reminded Izzy of being at the beach with her parents; her mother and father laughing and chasing each other through the sand, her father grabbing her mother around the waist, kissing her and carrying her into the waves. Izzy remembered smiling as she watched them, feeling safe and content, her perfect world full of happy people who loved each other, just as it should be. Then she was assaulted by the image of her father on his stomach in her parents’ bed, the sheets covered with blood, an oozing black hole in his head. She saw her mother crouched in the corner of the bedroom, staring straight ahead, the hunting rifle at her blood-covered feet. Izzy’s stomach twisted. In the end, all the smiles at the beach, all the happy Christmas mornings and kisses good-bye, all the jokes at the dinner table; it was nothing but an illusion. She wondered what perfect-world-destroying secrets Peg and Harry were keeping from each other.

“Obviously,” Ethan said, laughing. “You’re at a bit of a disadvantage if you can’t take the sight of blood.”

“Umm . . . what?” she said, jarred from her thoughts.

“You okay?” he said, looking up at her, his forehead furrowed.

“Yeah,” she said. “Sorry. My mind was somewhere else.” She dared to watch as he poured iodine over her finger, waiting for a sting that never came.

“We were talking about what a horrible EMT you’d make,” he said.

“Yeah,” Izzy said, returning her gaze to Peg and Harry. “When I was little I wanted to be a veterinarian. But I can’t stand seeing animals suffer. I wouldn’t be able to operate on them, even if it meant saving their lives.” She heard herself opening up and cringed. As usual her mouth worked faster than her brain. Maybe she was still woozy from slicing her finger.

“Me either,” Ethan said. “Last year my yellow Lab was hit by a car and I cried for days. I couldn’t even go to school. It was pretty pathetic.”

“But it wouldn’t bother you to be an EMT? To see people suffer?”

“That’s different.”

“How is it different?” she said.

He shrugged. “I don’t know. It just is. Animals are innocent. People are . . . well, they’re not innocent. Animals are better than humans.”

She looked down at the top of his raven-colored head, his wide shoulders, his tanned neck, and forgot all about her bleeding finger. He held a piece of thick gauze around her fingertip and opened the roll of first aid tape, every movement slow and gentle. Could there be a heart and brain beneath all that bravado and brawn? Or was this another one of his tricks? She thought about the overly polite way he’d addressed Peg—“Mrs. Barrows”—reminding herself that any teenage boy she’d ever met who was that courteous to grown-ups was usually up to no good. His polite manners didn’t ring true. And yet, somehow, she felt that right now, for the first time, she was seeing the real Ethan.

“What was your dog’s name?” she said.

“Lucy,” he said. “She was a girl.”

“I’m sorry about Lucy,” she said.

“Thanks. My parents bought me another dog last year, another yellow Lab. We named her Lucy Two.”

He wrapped two pieces of tape around the gauze, then smiled up at her, his eyes blue as the ocean, deep as the sea. When she realized she was staring, she stood up fast, nearly knocking him over. He caught himself on the door.

Just then, Harry and Peter appeared at the car, coolers and chairs in hand.

“I see she’s already knocked you off your feet,” Harry said, laughing.

Ethan closed the first aid kit and stood. “I lost my balance,” he said, his face flushing.

“Sure you did,” Peter said, grinning. “Open the trunk, will you?”

While Ethan helped the men load up the picnic gear, Izzy picked up the first aid kit and started toward the warehouse. She glanced over her shoulder and saw Ethan lifting a stack of chairs into the trunk of the car, watching her walk away.

Back in the warehouse, the next suitcase Peg opened belonged to a man named Lawrence Lawrence. While Peg recited the sparse contents of the deteriorating leather bag—
one pair of men’s black leather shoes, one pair of elastic suspenders with white buttons, a blue and white shaving mug, one shaving brush with brittle, yellow bristles
—Izzy was thankful for an excuse to keep her eyes on the notebook. She concentrated on writing everything down in careful script, trying not to think about Ethan. When it came time to set up the suitcase contents to be photographed, Ethan picked up Izzy’s plastic gloves and held one open, offering to help put it on over her injured finger.

She felt her face grow warm, took the gloves, and said, “Thanks, I can handle it.”

After she finished helping Peg rearrange the suitcase contents, she took off the gloves and set them down again. Ethan picked them up and put them in his pocket. The next time she needed the gloves she had to ask him for them. When she saw him pick them up a second time, she excused herself to get another pair.

Over the next three hours they went through ten more suitcases. One contained Philippine newspaper clippings, a class picture from the Bryant Preparatory Academy in Salt Lake City, a small booklet belonging to Roberto Torres entitled, “My School Memories in America,” and an old sailor uniform complete with a navy wool cap. Izzy flipped through the booklet. One entry read:
At the Walbash Public School I studied the following: English, Grammar, Arithmetic, Geography, Hygiene, Music, Spelling, and Carpentry. Here I obtained some knowledge of the works of Henry W. Longfellow. There are five Oriental students including myself.
The last page of the booklet ended mid-sentence.
I have no definite knowledge of when I shall regain my freedom. I wish to write . . .

“I wonder if this was his father,” Peg said, holding up a newspaper clipping featuring a stern-looking Asian man. “He must have been a banker or a politician or something.”

Izzy looked at one of the many photos in the suitcase. In it, a young Asian man held a book in his hands, his handsome face calm and studious. On the back was a name in pencil:
Roberto Torres.
She couldn’t imagine the long, complicated journey Roberto must have taken from the Philippines to end up in an insane asylum in New York State.

Another suitcase contained a Bible, votive cards, hymnals, a prayer book, and a letter from a nun to a bishop. An old doctor’s bag made of fake alligator skin held a nursing diploma and a carefully wrapped collection of teacups with matching saucers. One large trunk contained pots and pans, a lamp, a set of canisters made of green Depression glass, and a pair of ice skates.

The last suitcase of the day was a massive steamer trunk covered with faded travel stickers; one picturing a black ocean liner with the words “Cunard—Boston to Europe” in red, another with “France” in bold letters across a pink Eiffel Tower, even more stickers from Zurich, Italy, Maine, Cairo, London, and Bremerhaven. Peg, Izzy, Ethan, and Peter gathered around the trunk, each lost in their own thoughts as they examined the teak trim, brass hardware, and faded baggage claim stamps. It was the largest of all the suitcases, a monolith among a sea of ordinary-sized baggage.

Izzy tried to imagine the owner of the steamer trunk. She pictured an old man, perhaps a writer or professor, traveling the world in search of firsthand knowledge of native cultures and traditional customs. Perhaps he was a scientist or an archeologist, who, after exploring Egyptian tombs and ancient ruins, eventually suffered the ravages of old age and lost his mind due to dementia or Alzheimer’s. Somehow, he was sent to Willard, with no family to claim him.

After Peter took pictures of the trunk from all angles, he and Ethan set it upright. When Peg read the name on the handle tag, Izzy was surprised. The owner of the steamer trunk was a woman—
Clara Elizabeth Cartwright
. Izzy wrote the name down while Peg released the brass lock and snapped open the draw bolts. Peg took a deep breath and pulled the trunk open. When the insides were revealed, Peg and Izzy gasped. Peter started snapping pictures.

Peeking out from paisley-patterned drawers with leather handles were feathers and silk ribbons, pearls and pastel-colored chemises, sheet music and the scalloped edges of old photographs. Hanging from a clothes bar were ruffled blouses, pleated skirts, beaded flapper dresses, silk stockings, a cardigan jacket with satin bows, and an evening gown with a sleeveless bodice made of gold metallic cloth. Tucked in the suitcase corners were two faded cloches—bowl-shaped women’s hats—a beaded handbag, several books, and a pair of high-heeled shoes. In the middle of it all was a haphazard pile of unopened letters.

“We’re going to need more room to lay this out,” Peg said, her voice high with excitement. “Ethan, will you go ask Harry to help bring over one of the extra tables?”