Good as Dead(6)

We had a spot in the garage under our building, but my husband had lent it to a neighbor whose sister was visiting from San Diego (In her brand-new Camaro! How could we say no?), so we parked on the street. Today was hot, so I kept the engine running. The Cherokee was old, but the air-conditioning still kicked butt, and I wanted to enjoy every last second of it. We had an AC unit in the apartment, but we tried not to run it all day because it was costing us a fortune—and it wasn’t even summer yet.

My husband walked around the front of the car and tapped on my window (c’mon!), and I held up my index finger (one sec!). He opened the door for me, as if it would will me out of my seat. He still wore his hair high and tight from his military days. He used to get it cut every other week. I told him, What a waste of money. It’s the easiest haircut in the world. Let me do it! So he bought me clippers. He taught me how to bend back his ears to get the tiny hairs between his temple and his jawbone. It was probably the only place on his body that I hadn’t already explored. I suddenly felt jealous of his past barbers, that they had been there first.

“That damn phone is going to be the death of you,” he teased as he swiped it from my hand.

“Hey! I was reading an email from Savannah’s school!”

“Savannah’s school can wait five minutes,” he scolded. Of course it could wait, but I still wanted to read it.

He reached for me. I remember his grip on my arm. Firm but not aggressive.

I remember getting pulled out of my seat by hands so familiar they felt almost part of me.

I remember tussling over my phone, how he’d held it at arm’s length, making me swat at it like a kitten pawing at a loop of yarn.

I remember his laugh, playful and sweet, as he slipped the phone into his back pocket.

I remember how he shimmied away from me as I groped his backside like an awkward teenager at her first high school dance.

I remember the violent jolt in my shoulder as he was ripped from my grasp with inhuman force.

I remember the grinding shriek of the car door exploding off its hinges like a thousand champagne corks popping all at once.

I remember a massive hunk of metal slamming into my knee, then spinning me like a top to the pavement.

I remember how hot the asphalt felt against my cheek, knowing it was burning my skin, wanting to lift my head but not remembering how to do that.

I remember time seeming to slow down. Nowhere to go. Nothing to do.

Except maybe die.





CHAPTER 4


Moving day came too soon.

I knew it made no sense to bring my dead husband’s stuff to the new house, but I couldn’t leave it behind. Evan had offered to “take care of it,” but I didn’t want that man touching my husband’s things. Besides my memories and our child, those worn leather belts and puffy sweatpants were all I had left of him. So I boxed them up.

“Where would you like these?” the mover asked me, standing over one of the boxes. Unlike the boxes filled with toiletries and bedsheets, which were carefully labeled to indicate the contents and intended destination (“dish towels/kitchen”), I didn’t know what to put on a box containing a dead man’s shoes, so I just left them all blank.

I thought about the closets—one for him, one for her. But putting his stuff in one of them seemed morbid and a little insane. “Just put them in the garage, please,” I told the mover.

“Welcome to the neighborhood!” I must have jumped, because my new neighbor immediately apologized. “Sorry if I startled you. I live across the street. Andy.”

He extended his hand, and I shook it. “Holly.”

Shit. I hadn’t thought about what I would say to the neighbors. I took in his droopy jeans and faded AC/DC T-shirt. Is that how people dress here? Like wannabe rock stars? I was suddenly afraid I’d misjudged the neighborhood. I thought Calabasas people were snooty and kept to themselves. And what is this guy even doing home in the middle of a workday? Doesn’t he have a job?

“Congratulations on the house. It’s really beautiful. We—my wife and I—walked through it when it was for sale,” the jobless rocker said brightly, as if there was nothing creepy about him having been in my bedroom. “Are you new to the area?”

My heart was pounding. How long will it take him to realize that I am a fraud? Does he know already? Surely he must be wondering what a woman wearing jeans from Target is doing in a house as nice as this one.

“Thank you.” I tried to smile. Even that was fake.

“Where are you moving from?” he pressed, and my heart beat faster. He knows you’re from north of the Boulevard, where the apartment dwellers live. He just wants to hear you say it. I hated him already.

“Not far,” I said. How’s that for coy? I was learning from my teenager.

“Well, let us know if you need anything,” he said cheerfully. “My wife has a line on all the good shopping in the area.” He winked at me. I tried not to bristle. Do I look like a woman who likes to go shopping? Or needs to go shopping? Probably the latter.

“That’s kind of you, thanks.”

“Mom!” Savannah called out, coming to my rescue. I felt a flood of relief at an excuse to cut this short.

“That’s my daughter. I’d better go. Nice to meet you . . .” Shit. I forgot his name already.