Right Back Where We Started Page 11

“Of course, Martina,” he said, rolling the 'r' obnoxiously. Eyes shut, she turned back toward the kitchen when he called to her back. “Don't get comfortable, Martina. You won't be here much longer. I'm having my wife placed in a residential program for people with Alzheimer's. She'll be much more comfortable there.”

  She whirled to face him, all semblance of calm bled from her like he'd stabbed her with a hypodermic needle and sucked it out. “You shouldn't do that, Mr. Carpenter. She'll be much more comfortable here, surrounded by the people and places that she loves.”

  “Don't you want to know which facility I chose?”

  “It doesn't matter,” she snapped, storming toward him. “It'll be far away from here. Your wife's mental health is very fragile; she needs stability and familiarity. My care has been exceptional, I really don't think—”

  “I don't remember asking for your opinion,” he said, tossing the papers he held to the desk. “You may work for today. Don't worry, we'll provide you with a generous severance package.”

  “It's not about the money!” she shouted. “God, why is everything about money with you? Is that all you care about? I've never met anyone so shallow and self-absorbed in my entire life!”

  Mrs. Sánchez appeared at the top of the stairs. “Oh, thank God you're here. Come quick, she's having a terrible day today, and we can't get her calmed down. She's practically climbing the walls.”

  Without giving Mr. Carpenter another scrap of her attention, Martina surged up the stairs. She could hear Willow's voice, coming from her music studio. She took a deep breath, ditching her purse in the hallway as Mrs. Sánchez and Mr. Fisher trailed behind her anxiously. If they’d called Mr. Fisher inside, this was serious; he much preferred the garden and the garage.

  “Good morning, Willow,” she said quietly. “I heard you're having a hard day. Is that right?”

  Willow was pacing back and forth in front of the window, her arms wrapped so tightly around her middle that she looked waif-like, no thicker than the piece of sheet paper that sat on the piano.

  “I'm not happy about this, Martina. And it's your fault.”

  Smoothly, Martina moved to the stereo and shut off the piano music that someone had started; it wasn't helping. She sat on the end of the piano bench to face her, keeping her body language predictable and calm. “I'm so sorry. Please tell me what's troubling you, and I'll do what I can to help.”

  There was venom in her voice. “That man.”

  For a moment, her professionalism slipped, and Martina felt grief well up inside, thrashing, searching for a way out like a salmon caught by a hook. Willow might not be sure who her husband was, but she knew she didn't like him. And Martina could not find it in her heart to blame her one bit.

  “What about the man?” she asked gently.

  “I don't want him here.” It would do no good to ask why; she probably didn't know. Her mind could probably invent reasons, but that wasn't going to help the situation.

  “I hear that. But unfortunately, he owns this house.”

  “He . . . he owns my house?” Deep creases etched Willow's forehead in confusion. “No, this is my house. I live here, not him. I don't want him here.”

  “You know what,” Martina said, trying to keep her voice conversational, “I thought it might be a good day to go visit your son, Chase. Would you like to come with me? It takes about two hours in the car. Maybe the man will be gone by the time we get back.”

  Willow stared at her, her body tight. She swayed a little on her feet, self-soothing as she rocked. When she didn't respond, Martina went on. “Or we could just go for a walk. Maybe you'd like to visit the falls with me, hike up to the top . . .” It wasn't good weather for walking up the paved path to the falls, but it would get her out, away from the source of her

  agitation . . .

  “No, I want to go see my son.”

  “Wonderful. Let me get some food and things packed up, and then we'll go.” She looked over Willow's clothing; someone had put her in khaki-colored dress slacks and a white silk blouse. She should grab her a sweater, though . . .

  “Thank you.” Willow's words were soft, and Martina turned back to her. She held out a hand to her, and Willow grabbed it, holding on as if for dear life. “Thank you.”

  “It's okay, Willow. We've got you, okay? We've got you. We'll take good care of you.” She squeezed her hand, and Willow took a deep breath.

  “I know you.”

  “Of course you do. I'm Martina.”

  “Yes, Martina. I know you.”

  “That's right,” she soothed. “Let me go get ready for our trip, then we'll take a little drive, just you and me.”

  Willow nodded, letting go with clear hesitation. Martina started out of the quiet studio, then paused next to Mrs. Sánchez and Mr. Fisher.

  “Just keep reassuring her that she's safe here,” she murmured.

  “But is she?” Mrs. Sánchez replied, her voice a tense whisper. “I hear what he says, he says he will take her to a facility. Mrs. Carpenter would not want that, Mr. Carter, he would not want—”

  “I'm going to text Carter right now and let him know what's happening. I'll take Willow to see Chase, and hopefully, by the time we get back, this whole mess will be straightened out.” She pulled out her phone. “Do you have his number?” Martina felt her face heat under the sudden scrutiny of the two older people; her plan to keep him at a distance seemed so stupid right now. As if not having his number was going to keep her from loving him.

  Mrs. Sánchez read out the number, and Martina texted him right away.

  Martina: Hey, it's me, Martina. We've got a situation here at the house.

  Martina: Your dad is here, and his presence is really upsetting Willow.

  Martina: I'm going to take her to see Chase; can you send me the address?

  Carter: Yes. Take my car, the black SUV.

  Carter: The keys should be hanging in the garage.

  He sent her the address, and she threw some snacks, drinks, Willow's stuffed cat, and the chick lit she was currently reading into a paper grocery sack. Martina brought Willow down the back staircase to avoid seeing Mr. Carpenter again, who, based on the sound of typing coming from the front hall, had gone back to work. She didn't start breathing easy again until they hit the highway; Martina kept checking her mirrors, trying to make sure he hadn't come after them. Willow was staring out the window, her breath fogging the glass, silent as she watched the world slip by.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  MARTINA WOUND HER WAY east down Highway 22, relieved to be away from Mr. Carpenter. His venomous gaze still felt like it was on her . . . she turned on some music to try to shake the feeling. Willow gave a little smile when she landed on the classical station, and she decided to leave it there, at least until it went to something too intense or too sad. Willow was humming along to the song, and Martina relaxed marginally. Carter's response to the crisis had been . . . calm? She didn't want to be disappointed, but she admitted to herself that she was, a little. She'd hoped for a little more support, a little feelings or something. He wasn't a drama llama anymore, but was he really so blasé about the whole thing? Maybe she didn't really deserve to know that side of him anymore . . . she'd been the one to push for strict boundaries. Did he want that? He'd said that he didn't feel like he could ask for anything, when they met at Annie's. When did he become so emotionally impoverished? The Crash she'd known thought he was worth everything at any time. He'd had the world at his fingertips. He'd had you at his fingertips, the voice in her head reminded her. But it couldn't be just that. Surely their breakup hadn't devastated him that much. He hadn't even seemed that upset at the time. She let herself fall back into the memory of that day; she didn't usually, but today, she would make an exception.

  They’d stayed out all night for an end-of-summer bash at Detroit Lake, and they were both exhausted. Mrs. Sánchez was making them pancakes and bacon, and Martina was devouring it greedily. She lounged against Crash, her back against his chest
, her bare feet up on the bench tucked into the kitchen bay window that looked out over the front gardens.

  “I'm going to eat bacon every day when I'm in college,” she announced, taking another crispy bite. “I've heard the cafeteria has it every morning. That's what Lola said.”

  “Isn't she at Western, though?”

  “No, she’s at Oregon State.” Which you'd know if you'd been listening the first four times I told you . . . She shook her head and reached out to sneak a sip of his coffee.

  “I was thinking,” he said, nudging her. “About college.”

  “What about it?”

  “Well, I'm going to be at Duke, and you're going to be here . . .”

  “So?”

  “So I thought we might see other people.”

  It was a miracle that she held onto the ceramic mug. An actual miracle. She had no idea how she managed to keep her fingers curled around the handle of it when every other muscle went suddenly slack as if she were having a stroke.

  “What?” she whispered, and even Mrs. Sánchez looked alarmed, even though she was trying hard to act like she wasn't listening.

  “Come on, Tini. You haven't thought about it? Aren't you going to be lonely without me?”

  “Well, yeah, but—”

  “So why deprive ourselves? We can see other people when we're apart and see each other when we're together. We'll spend the whole summer together. We'll still be together.”

  She put her feet on the tile and turned to see his face. “You're not joking?”

  He reddened a little, then took his coffee back from her. “I just don't see how else it's going to work. We're going to be hundreds of miles apart, thousands!”

  “Yes. And we'll write emails and call and video chat. Send letters. Figure out visits.”

  “But that's not enough,” he complained. “That's not going to matter.”

  Excuse you? Why isn't it going to matter? Martina stood up under the auspices of refilling her own coffee, taking her time adding the creamer. She fought hot tears. “Are we not getting engaged?” She didn't mean for it to come out so angry, so unhappy.

  “Engaged?” Crash sounded shocked. When she turned, his face was as white as Mrs. Sánchez's apron.

  “Yes, I kind of thought . . .”

  “No. No way. I'm not ready to be tied down. There's going to be a lot of people to meet at college. We're both going to change a lot the next few years, and besides, we're way too young for that kind of thing.”

  “Don't want to be tied . . .” She shook her head in disbelief. No, they hadn't talked about it, exactly, but the implication had been there, in vague terms. That they would be together; that they were soul mates. Meant for each other, now and always. She would gladly chain herself to him like a protester at a construction site and throw away the key. “I thought you wanted to make this work.”

  “We'll still see each other. I'll still call you.”

  “Between dates with other women? You honestly thought I'd be okay with that?” Her tone of voice had apparently driven Mrs. Sánchez from the kitchen, because the pancake pan now sat smoking lightly on the extinguished burner, and the woman was nowhere to be seen. “Do you know me, like, at all?”

  “I don't care if you see other people,” he said, gesturing widely. “Have at it.”

  “I know you're not a jealous person, but . . . seriously, Crash? Why can't you see how hurtful you're being right now?” she whispered. “Do these past two years mean nothing to you? Are you really this selfish?”

  “I'm not being selfish, Tini. You're the one who wants to keep me from enjoying college. Four years is a long time. A really long time. You can't expect me to wait for you until summers and breaks.”

  “So this is about sex.”

  He said nothing, but the set of his jaw confirmed it. Without a word, she set down her mug and moved for the front hall as fast as she could without running.

  “Where are you going?” She could hear him pounding after her.

  “I'm not gonna stand in your way. If you don't care about me, don't care about our relationship, go for it. You want to sleep around? Now you can do it with a clear conscience, since you don't have a girlfriend.”

  “Martina, don't—just calm down.” He put a hand on her arm, but she wrenched it from his grasp so hard that he gasped. “God, you're being such a baby about this.”

  “Oh, yes,” she drawled, livid. “I'm the immature one, not the boy who can't keep it in his pants. Goodbye, Carter.” She snatched her backpack from the bench in the entryway where she'd left it.

  “You'll be back. Just wait and see. You can't go months without sex, either. I know you.”

  “Well, now I won't have to, will I?” She slammed the front door behind her, tears blurring her vision as she took the slippery stone steps faster than was prudent, losing one pink flip flop in the process. By the time she got to her car, heaving sobs were billowing from her chest. She let her forehead rest on the steering wheel and put her arms over her head, trying to help herself breathe, when it felt like panic was squeezing all the air from her lungs. First things first. She went to block his number and saw that he'd already texted her.

  Crash: Come on, Tini. We're not over. You know we're not.

  That's what you think, idiot. As soon as she got home, everything he'd ever given her was going into a bonfire in the backyard. Her sisters plied her with chocolate and got the whole story out of her that night. They were gratifyingly incensed. A few days later, he'd called her sister Augustina, who yelled at him in Spanish until he hung up. A week later, he came to the house, but her father met him at the front door, putting a fatherly arm around his shoulders, turning him back toward the driveway as he talked with him quietly. She'd made herself stay away from the window, so she never knew what her father said to him. She'd been too chicken to ask him after the fact; she didn't think he'd have told her, anyway. Probably would've said something about how it was advice not meant for her ears. But she knew her dad was on her side, even without all the details. It was fairly possible that her sisters had passed information to her mother, who'd passed it to her dad. She sent his daily emails to spam. She avoided his normal hang-out spots, like Annie's and Subway. She kept most of their mutual friends, though a few of the male ones sided with him.

  When Crash resorted to letters, she finally texted him: I don't want to hear from you again. Ever. He stopped after that. It was a relief and heartbreaking at the same time, knowing for sure that it was really over. She'd really lost him. The two years they'd spent together was just a happy memory, soured by his selfishness and shortsightedness.

  Martina pulled her mind back to the present as the cloud layer broke and she and Willow drove over the summit of the mountain pass; she pulled out her sunglasses. They’d cover the tears at the corners of her eyes, too.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  WILLOW WAS RESTLESS by the time Martina pulled up in front of the rehab building. It was more like a house than she expected, its three stories towering above them, the building itself seated on a large piece of land with a barn in the back, a large vegetable garden, and not much else around. Willow had her seatbelt off and the door open by the time Martina put the SUV in park.

  “Hang on, lady. Wait for the caregiver, please.”

  Willow ignored her and hurried up the steps of the lodge-like house. Thankfully, she rang the doorbell, and the time it took for someone to come to the door allowed Martina time to catch up with her. A white-haired woman in a cozy orange sweater smiled at them.

  “Hello! And who are you here to see?”

  “Chase Carpenter,” Martina supplied, and the woman nodded.

  “Chase!” she called. “Your day just got booked up.” She disappeared, and Chase appeared in the doorway. He blinked. “Martina? Mom!”

  “That's us,” Martina smiled. “Can we come in? I really need to pee, and your mom probably does, too.”

  “I do,” Willow confirmed. She air-kissed Chase on the cheeks as
they came inside. “How are you, darling?”

  “I'm good, Mom. I'm Chase, remember?”

  She sighed impatiently. “Yes, of course I know. You're my son. The one who lives nearby, but not with me. I haven’t forgotten everything, you know.” She was in a mood today, and Martina was 100% blaming Mr. Carpenter for that.

  The left side of Chase’s face tipped up in a half-smile. “Being a twin, I'll take it.”

  “Is that an insult?” she asked, largely unemotional, checking her reflection in the large brass-framed mirror that hung on the wall of the entryway. “I can tell you and your brother apart, you know. I always could, even when you switched clothes.” She looked around. “Is he here?”

  “No, Christopher lives in New York now. Bathrooms are down the hall, straight back.” Martina started to follow Willow down the hall, but Chase put a hand on her arm. “It's one at a time.”

  “Oh, it's okay. She'll do better if we go in together. I turn around to give her privacy unless she needs something.”

  His gaze bounced around the entryway like he was trying to do long division in his head, then finally landed on her. “You're the nurse.”

  “Right.” She pulled away from him gently. “Be right back.” She barely got to the door before Willow locked it. She wasn't great about remembering how to undo locks, unless they were locking things they didn't want her getting into. Funny how that worked. Once Willow was done, she deposited her back with Chase, pausing just a moment to appreciate the bright, matching delighted smiles they gave each other when they were reunited, then saw to her own needs. It gave her a moment to wonder a few things: why didn't Chase know she was his mother's nurse? Why wouldn't Carter have told him? He wouldn't bother hiding the fact, so there must be another reason. He was probably just busy. When she came back out, they were still chatting in the entryway.

  “So Carter's moved back home?”

  “That's right,” Willow said, shrugging. “I think he must be having financial problems. Quite sad, really. But I'm happy to have him there.”