If You're Out There(66)

He thinks a moment. “It’s getting dark. You take this side. I’ll do the other. We’ll be faster that way.”

I nod, the depths of my gratitude plunging deeper. Before he runs off, I grab his wrist, pulling him back to me, and I tilt my face up to catch his lips. “Thank you,” I say as we pull apart.

“Don’t sweat it,” he says, walking backward with a grin.

“Now go!” I hiss. “Look for pseudo-Buddhist wisdom!” He crosses the street and disappears behind a cluster of trees.

From a side yard, I stand on tiptoes to peek into a big kitchen. I hear a garage door creak open, and soon a man is walking in and setting down a briefcase. I move before I’m seen. A bunch of homes have lights out. No movement I can see. Another has a Rottweiler that growls and sends me jumping back from an open window.

In the street, I look around for watchful neighbors. No one.

At another house, I peer in through the glass pane in the front door. A bunch of boys are playing video games over rowdy conversation, passing bags of chips and cookies back and forth. I catch sight of Logan across the street, crouching down beneath a first-floor window. I watch his lanky body pop up. After a moment he looks back at me with a thumbs-down and juts up his chin to me as if to say, Anything?

I shake my head no, and he hurries away.

The next house has the very same glass-paned door as the one before it. I see an empty, firelit living room. And I hear singing. I squint into the glass and make out a smattering of needlepoint pillows, covered in decorative words.

Dream

BELIEVE

Whimsical fonts, you might say. I strain to read more.

When life gives you lemons . . .

Dance like no one is . . .

YOU ARE A STRANGER HERE BUT ONCE.

An eerie feeling comes over me, like a drop of water sliding backward up my spine. I look behind me. Logan has disappeared—must have slipped into another yard. I move slowly, along the side of the house, toward the sound. There’s a window overlooking the backyard. It has no curtain, but it’s high up on a slope. From tiptoes, I pull myself up and find myself peering in at an empty pantry filled with paper towels, boxed pasta, and canned food, gently lit by a far-off hallway light.

“Damn,” I say, my face pressed to the glass.

I drop down into the yard, a little shiver running through me as I return to myself. I’m not sure what I was expecting.

It feels like night has fallen all at once. The golds and pinks have turned to blue.

A light turns on above me, one floor up.

A window opens, letting out the sound. The voice is gravelly but pretty, one word lazing into the next. It’s like a call. Pulling me. I scan the yard and land on a rusted ladder on its side. It’s heavy and noisy as I hoist it up and rest it against the side of the house. I don’t think as I draw closer to the music. I just climb—slowly, silently, until I’m up there hovering, looking straight at the back of the old woman’s head.

Amanda.

She sings into a mirror, a lamp illuminating her face. On the windowsill before me sits a pillbox, marked with the days of the week. A pair of plush slippers rests beside an ornate dresser. A silky robe drapes on a hook, below a huge banner that reads HOME IS WHERE THE HEART IS!

The woman’s eyes lock with mine in the mirror as she sings, more curious than startled.

A heart full of joy and gladness

Will always banish sadness and strife.

So always look for the silver lining

And try to find the sunny side of life.

I scramble down the ladder. What was that? The windows along the side of the house are all above eye level. I pull myself up, one after the other. A dim kitchen light is on. There’s a cluster of bananas on the counter. A curtain blocks most of my view at the next window, but I can see in through a small slit. The dining room looks scarcely used. There’s china in a cabinet.

I hop down and peek out at the street. No Logan.

I look up, to the second floor, and run back for the ladder, wincing with each tinny sound as I clutch the cool metal and start to climb. The light in the other bedroom is off, but I can see in faintly. Target bags in one corner, with products lined up on the dresser, and a pair of dressy men’s shoes against one wall.

Back down, I scan the street again. No Logan. We must keep missing each other. I should stay still. I should wait. I kick at the dirt and a loose pebble bounces away. I hear a plink, and I realize it’s hit glass. There’s a little slit at the base of the house—a sad excuse for a window that looks onto the basement.

I see flashes from a TV. Plush cream carpet. A blanket over legs. Feet up. A profile on a big white couch. She’s eating popcorn, a flowery little journal discarded off to one side. It’s her.

Priya. Just . . . there. Just sitting there, her face lit by the shifting light. She looks absorbed in the story, eating kernels one by one. She looks . . . fine.

“What?” I say out loud. I lower myself to sit and watch her through the glass. I feel abruptly numb, but tears prickle behind my eyes, the thought crashing down like a heavy weight: It was in my head. She let me feel this way. Let me live in the dark. She wasn’t reaching. Didn’t feel me reaching back.

Sitting there, crossed legged in the gravel, I let it out: the doubt, the fear, the worrying. I expel a baffled breath—or maybe it’s a sigh of relief. Because I meant what I said. If she’s okay, then I am. Or will be.