The Foreseeable Future Page 22

  I wanted this, though—all the people not necessarily looking one another in the eye, minding their own business. Anonymity felt right to me. Safe, even. Like I could make an embarrassing mistake and hardly anyone would notice, but also like I could scream for assistance and all sorts of people would come running.

  Chances were, one of them would be able to help.

  At the back of the building—home to a psychic’s stall curtained with beads, and also to a glass display of soaps made from the milk of Washington-raised goats—Sara and I pushed through a set of doors onto a concrete stairwell, where we encountered the most stunning view I’d ever beheld from a vantage point that smelled mostly of urine.

  The Puget Sound had absorbed the ink-blue dusk, the orange flares of the sunset. My chest tightened. It hurt, to be this happy and simultaneously apart from Seth. I wanted to text him a picture of the view and write something cliché, like, Wish you were here. But I knew the picture would hardly show up on his flip phone, and that he might not even open the file, which would cost him twenty-five cents to retrieve.

  It was just a nice view, anyway.

  It was just more scenery.

  Soon, Seth would be clocking in for his shift. I felt drained by the thought of everything that needed to happen over the next five days. I needed to fly home to Crescent Bay, reunite with Seth, work back-to-back nights, and make my choice.

  If I was being honest, a part of me doubted my ability to up and move to this city. Even if Seth hadn’t been a factor, did I know how to live alone? Could I function without my mother telling me when to wear a coat, or my dad correcting my grammatical errors, or my little sister mouth-breathing all through the night?

  And what if I got sick? Maybe I would pull myself together and trek through the rain to obtain my own NyQuil and Gatorade—or maybe I would just curl up and die.

  If leaving home was a far-fetched fantasy, staying in town to be with Seth hardly seemed more realistic. At this distance, all the early morning hours we’d logged together felt hazy and unverified, like something I’d dreamed. And I wasn’t sure I could let a dream—even the best one I’d ever had—define my entire life.

  Leaning over a green-painted railing, Sara side-eyed me. “You okay?”

  “Can we go back to the hostel?” I asked her.

  Surprised, she checked the time on her phone. “It’s still early. Don’t you want to see more of your maybe-future city?”

  I shrugged. “I’ve seen enough.”

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  We brought the rain home from Seattle. As Sara and I stepped from the plane to the tarmac, we had to hold our backpacks above our heads to keep from getting drenched. Her dad picked us up outside the terminal, his car smelling like spearmint gum and air freshener. Politely, Mr. Quintero quizzed us on the details of our trip, and Sara answered him while I rested my forehead against the cold window and watched the familiar countryside flashing by.

  Sara was saying, “Audrey aced her interview, obviously. Now I just have to hope she doesn’t run off to Seattle and get too cool for Elliot and me.”

  The dirt road to Seth’s house was coming up. Abruptly, and without looking at Sara, I leaned toward the front of the car and said, “Mr. Quintero, do you mind taking the next left?”

  He made eye contact in the rearview mirror. “Did your family move?”

  “No, but could you drop me off at my boyfriend’s house?”

  Sara’s dad seemed unsure, as if maybe I was allowed to fly to Seattle and interview for a job, but not to visit my boyfriend on a Thursday morning. Finally, I said, “I’ll text my parents and let them know,” and Mr. Quintero put on his turn signal. I could feel Sara’s eyes boring into the side of my face, but this wasn’t up to her.

  After Mr. Quintero drove away, I cut through the long, wet grass surrounding Seth’s house, soaking the bottoms of my jeans. I had never snuck up on Seth before, but I identified his window by the sticker meant to resemble a sheriff’s badge, which he’d stuck to the glass however many years ago.

  One of Seth’s Labradors caught me before I could knock. Instead of howling, Faith made her eyes wide and anxious and thumped her tail against Seth’s bed. Seth threw off the covers, ejecting both dogs and his cat from their haven between the sheets.

  Seth was close to naked.

  “You need a better watchdog,” I said as he lifted out the screen and pulled me through the open window. Flannel shirts, jeans, and hoodies littered his bedroom floor.

  “Who could be better than these two?” His voice was groggy, but full of love for his pets as he nudged open the door to the hall, encouraging them to vacate. Obediently, the trio filed out of the room.

  “I could have been a burglar,” I said.

  “They know you’re not a burglar. They know you.”

  Seth wrapped his arms around me and stooped to bury his face in my hair. His skin warmed mine, even through my damp clothes.

  “How was Seattle?” Seth asked, pushing my jacket off my shoulders.

  I didn’t have an answer.

  “You and Sara have a good time?”

  Seth lowered the zipper on my sweatshirt. In another second, the sweatshirt had joined his collection on the floor.

  “Do you always sleep in just your underwear?” I asked.

  “Yes,” he said, undoing the button on my jeans.

  “What if there’s a fire?”

  “Then I’ll put on pants.”

  “What if there’s no time?”

  “Then some firefighters and probably Mrs. Rivera will see me in my boxer briefs. I’ll be humiliated.”

  “Who’s Mrs. Rivera?”

  “My neighbor. She’s always asking me to change her watercooler.”

  Now I was almost naked. He was pulling me into his bed, pulling the covers over our bodies. I breathed in the peppery smell of Seth, post–night shift.

  “How was your interview?” he whispered.

  “I don’t want to talk about my interview.”

  He slid his hand between my thighs. “What do you want to talk about?”

  “Mrs. Rivera’s watercooler.”

  Seth’s laughter was compromised by exhaustion. He’d only been home for a few hours, after spending all night mopping hallways and scouring chili residue from commercial-size soup pots. I could still smell the anti-bacterial soap on his fingers.

  We had been headed in the general direction of sex, but now, as Seth wrapped his arms around me, I felt us both succumb to a heavy, dreamless sleep. The kind of sleep that only strikes when there are no alarms set, no voices in the hall, no sunlight breaking through the blinds—nothing to remind you of wherever else you’re supposed to be.

  * * *

  * * *

  When I finally opened my eyes, Seth was already awake, lying flat on his back and staring up at the popcorn ceiling. His domed light fixture doubled as an insect graveyard; my mother, if she could have seen the carnage, would have lost her mind.

  Again, he asked me, “How was the interview?”

  “They offered me the job,” I admitted.

  He tried to keep his voice neutral. “Are you going to take it?”

  I glanced at his ancient clock, resting on a stack of shoeboxes and old textbooks. I still had days to make my decision, but I found myself telling Seth the truth the moment it occurred to me.

  “I don’t think so.”

  All along, I had been counting on a change of scenery to change my life. Warm and happy in the cocoon of Seth’s bed, I thought I finally knew better.

  He rolled toward me. A grin tugged at the corners of his mouth, threatening to undo his serious expression. “Really?”

  Casually, I said, “You wouldn’t be there, would you?”

  He shook his head, the grin complete. “I’ll be here.”

  It was exactly what I’d expe
cted him to say.

  TWENTY-NINE

  Maureen was berating me for my failure to spread a clean sheet across a plastic-wrapped mattress with one expert flick of my wrists. An air vent above the bed had thwarted my efforts, consistently blowing the sheet to one side just before it fell into place. According to my supervisor, the task had taken me “three or four tries, at least.” Now, as we dug into our steaming Lean Cuisine Hot Pockets, she was explaining, “I know it seems like a small issue, but all the wasted seconds add up to wasted minutes, which add up to wasted hours, which—”

  “For sure,” I interrupted as pleasantly as possible, grabbing my phone as it shivered across the break room’s table. “I’ll be faster next time.”

  I’d grown immune to Maureen’s lectures, which were as frequent as they were petty. She took so much pleasure in bossing me around; most nights, I didn’t have the heart to fight back.

  My phone had alerted me to a new e-mail.

  The e-mail was from Cameron Suzuki.

  Hey, Audrey,

  So, a girl from Under Your Breath contacted me and asked for my side of the story. I don’t know if you’ve ever read UYB but it’s an online journal I really love. They publish a lot of girly, feminist stuff, and I thought it’d be nice if when people looked me up they found this magazine, and not just a ton of clickbait.

  Anyway, they want to interview you, too, so I promised I’d ask. They’re going to call me Saturday night at 6 p.m. Come over if you want and we can talk to them together.

  Oh and they’re paying $100 each. I negotiated them up from $50 each which I thought seemed low.

  See you soon, I hope,

  Cameron

  My supervisor was still philosophizing about the passage of time, but I tuned her out as I stared at the screen, rereading the message.

  Obviously, I had expected to cross paths with Cameron Suzuki at some point. Given what she had been through this summer, it was hard to imagine her parents letting her leave town anytime soon, even for college. In the back of my mind I’d been dreading running into her at the Fish Shack, or the Qwick Mart, or on the muddy trail leading up to Cape Defiance. Ever since I’d confessed to Seth that I’d gone on the Steeds County News, he’d allowed me to believe that Cameron more or less hated me.

  But there was no hate in Cameron’s e-mail. There was nothing but the casual, unassuming friendliness I’d always associated with the most popular girl in school. I was relieved, and intrigued—so intrigued that I wrote back right away, telling her I’d be there. It wasn’t until I had returned my phone to my pocket and attempted to refocus my attention on Maureen that an uneasiness washed over me, pricking my palms and constricting the nerves at the back of my neck.

  Maybe Cameron had never resented me for going on the news—for testing how far my haphazard heroism could get me—but Seth had.

  Would things between us be different if I had ignored Kristy Summers? If I had refused to talk to the reporter from the Sacramento Bee? Maybe Seth would have encouraged me to escape to Seattle if I’d gotten the job on the merits of my application, nothing more.

  Maybe he even would have considered coming with me.

  “Audrey?”

  Maureen was standing in front of the open refrigerator, the Diet Coke in her outstretched hand an obvious peace offering.

  Reflexively, I opened the drink. Then, instead of pouring the artificial sugar down my throat, I set the can on the table and told Maureen I’d be right back.

  In the last few minutes of my lunch break there was someone I needed to see.

  For once, that someone wasn’t Seth.

  * * *

  * * *

  Because I was staring at my phone as I entered room 64, trying to verify that my quick reply to Cameron had been normal-sounding and free of typos, I didn’t immediately notice the boxes stacked against the wall. When I looked up, poised to greet Tamora with a question, she wasn’t there. Soon I realized what else was missing—the mugs, the teakettle, the Pendleton blanket, the photo albums.

  Someone had packed up Tamora’s things.

  My first impulse was to rush back to the break room and ask Maureen what had happened—whether a heart attack or a stroke or a bad slip in the shower had necessitated Tamora’s transfer to Health and Rehabilitation, or if Tamora, tired of around-the-clock care, had finally requested an apartment in the Independent Living wing. She was not dead. Tamora had not died while I was playing hooky, running around Seattle with my best friend. That wouldn’t make sense, wouldn’t be fair—and I was about to turn on my heel and make sure of it, when, behind the closed door of the bathroom, the toilet flushed.

  My heart rate slowed as I listened to Tamora wash her hands, waited for her to dry and moisturize her manicured fingers one by one. She emerged then, fully dressed and unsurprised by my presence.

  “Nurse Nelson. Did you have a good vacation?” Slowly, Tamora lowered herself to the edge of the bed. She appeared pleased, not at all injured or compromised.

  “I was sick,” I said, sticking with the story I’d told Maureen. “Are you going to explain why all of your stuff is in boxes?”

  Tamora admired the stack of them. “I’m checking out. First thing in the morning.”

  “You can’t just check yourself out. It’s not a hotel.”

  Her lips curled. “It’s funny, I always thought the same thing. But it turns out, you can. Chelsea—she’s the daytime you—filled me in on the details. Do you know Chelsea?”

  “Yes,” I admitted.

  “She explained my rights to me. Evidently I’m a grown woman and I don’t need anyone’s permission to . . .”

  I raised my eyebrows.

  “To blow this Popsicle stand,” Tamora finished.

  My arms were crossing, my head shaking from side to side, and I wanted to tell her that she was mistaken; she required full-time care, my nightly assistance. But really, I knew she didn’t and never had. I wanted Tamora to stay because she was the highlight of my job at the Crescent Bay Retirement Home. Without our nocturnal talks, my shifts would drag through the twilight, past midnight, and on until dawn.

  “What does Jackson think about this?” I asked, knowing that full-time care had been his idea and his preference all along. Tamora had agreed to the plan simply because he’d asked her to.

  “He’s fine with it!” Her insistence came on too strong. She began to ramble. “He needed some reassurance, naturally. We’re going to hire someone—a girl like you—to come check on me from time to time. And Jackson and his husband are going to make an effort to visit with some regularity. Plus, I’ve rented a house in one of those schmaltzy beachside communities without a postal code. The house has no stairs, no empty elevator shafts—but even if I do manage to stumble, I’m sure I’ll only have to holler before one of my meddling neighbors has the sense to phone an ambulance.”

  “Um,” I began, but Tamora wasn’t finished.

  “It’s a horrible place, based on Jackson’s description. Everyone has wind chimes affixed to their porches and tacky driftwood sculptures guarding their front doors. But—” She caught herself. “Not as horrible a place as this. The rooms won’t smell of rubbing alcohol and mortality.” She nodded her head. “At least there’s that.”

  I took a breath, hoping Tamora would be inspired to do the same. “Are you sure this is what you want?”

  She had gone from confident—cocky, even—to semi-hysterical in a handful of seconds. My lunch break was over, but it didn’t matter; I wasn’t leaving until I was sure she was okay.

  Tamora sighed and admitted, “What I wanted was to live with Jackson in the hills outside Sacramento until I died.”

  “But that’s not what Jackson wanted,” I said gently.

  “This house I’ve rented is only a few minutes down the highway. I really think it’s the next best thing. And when it truly becomes necessary, when
I’m so senile I can’t remember my own mother’s name, or what Reba McEntire wore to the Country Music Awards in 1987, then Jackson can roll me right back to the old folks’ home. Or to the funeral parlor. Whichever seems most appropriate.”

  “I don’t think Crescent Bay has a funeral parlor,” I said.

  Tamora narrowed her eyes. “Then what do you do with your dead?”

  “Bury them at sea?” I guessed.

  She waved an elegant hand. “That’s fine.”

  Minutes earlier I had burst into Tamora’s room wanting something definite from her, but I no longer remembered what, exactly. All I knew was that Tamora had given me yet another reason, or another excuse, to stay.

  “I’ll come visit you,” I said, making the promise faster than I could think through its long-term implications. “Once a week, or as often as I can. And I’ll help you interview home health aides. Maybe I can even help you move in tomorrow, after I get some sleep. If you give me the address, I can—”

  “Audrey.” Tamora silenced me. I wasn’t sure I’d ever heard her refer to me by name. Either she called me Nurse Nelson or she called me nothing at all, so rarely was anyone else in the room with us. “You can’t take care of me. You have places to be.”

  “I don’t,” I argued.

  “You expect me to believe you were home sick the last three nights? You don’t seem like the kind of girl to be conquered by the common cold.”

  Again, my head was shaking against my will. I was not going to tell her about Seattle, or that I’d led Seth to believe my mind was already made up.

  “You cannot stay in this one-horse town just for a boy,” she said.

  I laughed, frustrated. “How do you know everything?”

  “I’m extremely old.”

  “I have to stay. The boy in question won’t go with me.”

  “You’ll regret it.”