Finding Goodbye Read online

  Next was Luke. Hope you’re enjoying farm life, he said. I just wanted to let you know I had Mexican food for dinner, and the sour cream in my fridge was also expired. It wasn’t anything to alert the press about, but it was still a total bummer.

  I giggled as I read his text, and wrote him a quick reply. After, I gathered up some clothes and headed for the bathroom to shower. The hot water felt amazing against my skin, even better on my right leg as it alleviated the stiffness brought on by the winter cold. I reached for the bottle of apple scented soap, and lathered up a cloth to wash the dust of the day away. I stayed under for a few minutes longer, enjoying the warmth before reluctantly reaching for the nozzle. I toweled off, and dressed in a pair of green and black flannel pajamas, complete with a pair of woolen socks.

  I reached out to wipe the layer of fog from the mirror, and paused when I saw my reflection. I tried not to focus on the dark half-moons that lined the hollows of my eyes, or the sunken skin under my already angular cheekbones. I pushed a section of hair over my right brow to help hide the hideous scar that cut through it. It was about two inches long and had a curve to it that was shaped like a boomerang. It was just another unwanted reminder of the accident–a permanent souvenir.

  I gathered up my laundry, and tossed the pile into the hamper at the end of the hall before ducking back into my room. Below, I could hear the muffled voices from the television and the steady rhythm of Grandpa’s older rocker swaying. It was one of those consistent noises that would take me to the “in-between” if I focused on it long enough.

  I moved my empty bag from the end of the bed, and decided to store it in the closet. The latch seemed to stick a little, and squealed when it finally gave. Inside, a few knit cardigans and old jackets hung from the rail. Shoe boxes and picture books were stacked on the top shelf; things that had belonged to my mother and were never cleared out. My grandma wasn’t necessarily a pack-rat, but she liked holding onto things for the sake of memorabilia. She was sentimental in that way; a trait my mother must have inherited.

  Even at five-foot-eight, I still had to stand on the tips of my toes to wedge my bag onto the upper shelf. As I stuffed it onto the top rack, it jarred the lid of a flowery shoe box, and out popped a folded piece of notebook paper. It had turned yellow with age, and felt frail to the touch as I bent to retrieve it. Carefully, I unfolded the letter and stilled at the recognition of the neat, box lettering. I knew it belonged to my father, and scanned the note with curiosity.

  It was a love letter, I realized, feeling my face flush with color. My parents had met their junior year of college and had married shortly after graduation. I knew it had been a whirlwind romance from the start. Boy and girl fall in love, get married, and start a family. It was a classic tale, and seemed to be the feature presentation until Gabriel caught our father in the passionate throes of love with another woman…

  That was the first thing that kicked off an unfortunate series of events that would change my world forever.

  I finished the letter, folding it gently before tucking it back inside the safety of the shoe box, and closed the closet door. It was hard to imagine how someone could claim to love you so much, and then toss you away like you didn’t matter anymore. It was like everything you thought you had was just suddenly gone. Changed. The world was unpredictable like that, I guessed. If anything, it taught me to never get too comfortable, because in the blink of an eye, what meant most to you in life could be taken away. It was all so temporary, so obsolete. We were just the product of chance, after all, never really having control over anything.

  Grandma knocked on my door then, leaning against the door frame. “Just wanted to say goodnight,” she said.

  “Goodnight,” I said, pressing my lips into a smile.

  She walked over to give me a hug, wrapping her small arms around me. “It might get a little cooler up here than usual. The wood-burning stove isn’t running like it used to. It’s just another thing on the list of things that need fixing.”

  I nodded.

  “If you get too cold, there are more blankets in the hall closet,” she said. Even though she had already given me an extra one earlier in the day that I was sure would more than suffice. That was just Grandma, though. She had to make sure everyone was being looked after properly.

  “I love you, Grandma.”

  “I love you too, darling.” She smiled then, and closed the door softly behind her. There was a small lamp on the nightstand beside me; I leaned over to turn it on before getting up to shut the big light on the ceiling off. I hated the dark, and couldn’t bring myself to sleep in it. There were too many shadows, too many monsters that liked to play tricks on my mind. In the pitch black of the darkness, all I could see were the bright flashing beams of headlights.

  Chapter Four

  I woke early to the sound of gunshots being fired–no, not gunshots, but it had sounded like bullets ricocheting with an echo through the trees. I opened my eyes and rolled over to face my alarm clock. It was nearly half past six in the morning, and a subtle, muted gray light sifted through the curtains. I groaned, and listened as another CRACK! reverberated off of the outside walls.

  I threw back the covers, immediately regretting my decision as the cool air seemed to bite at my exposed skin. I grabbed the spare quilt and tossed it around my shoulders, making my way to the window, and pushed open the curtains. Outside, the world was lit in a thick, milky gray sheet of fog. I could barely make out the edge of the barn from across the drive, but I could see a figure just below. He was wearing jeans and a black T-shirt. A pair of winter boots, and a beanie completed his look. He had his back turned to me, and I spotted the source of noise as he raised an ax over his head, bringing it down with a shuttering force. CRACK!

  “Seriously,” I breathed, lifting the latch and throwing open my window with a halting screech. “Hey!” I called out into the early morning air.

  The figure froze with the ax in midair; he brought it down slowly, holding it with one hand as he searched for my face, and then found it.

  His dark hair spilled from underneath the beanie, curling slightly around the corner of his jaw. His chest heaved; the line of his sternum was prominent beneath the collar of his shirt. Even from this distance I could see that the guy was easily attractive, the kind of attractive that you couldn’t help but notice, and I was grateful for the space that separated us because I was sure my face had taken on a scarlet hue.

  “It’s six thirty in the morning,” I called out.

  The guy lifted his wrist, glancing at the face of his watch. “So it is,” he replied pleasantly.

  “On a Sunday,” I contributed, hoping he’d get the picture.

  “I work weekends.” He shrugged.

  “At six thirty in the morning?” My voice was full of skepticism. Now, I could feel the cool air seeping in through the window, and I hugged the quilt a little tighter against my body. I had no idea how he was standing out in the forty-some-odd-degree weather wearing a T-shirt without freezing to death. I noted the lean muscle of his arms, and imaged chopping wood was probably a decent work-out that was sure to get the blood flowing.

  “Yes ma’am,” he replied.

  “Oh.” I couldn’t think of anything else to say. The morning fog was evidently soaking through to my brain.

  “Sorry if I woke you,” he said. And just like that, the ax was raised above his head again. It was almost as if our conversation hadn’t happened. I closed the window and the curtains, turning to lean back against the wall, feeling slightly addled.

  The time on the clock was now six thirty-seven, and there was no going back to sleep with the ear-splitting sound of the ax hitting log below. I discarded the quilt, exchanging it for a pair of jeans and a thick sweater before heading down
the stairs and into the kitchen.

  Grandma was sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of steaming liquid in one hand, and the Sunday paper in the other. Her silver hair was piled on top of her head in a messy way that I was sure only she could pull off and still manage to look elegant. That was Evelyn MacKenna, the prominent picture of grace. Grandpa was stoking the fire in the wood-burning stove, adding another log as I rounded the corner. Radar and Luna were curled up together in a plush dog bed just on the opposite side of the stove, fast asleep. I raised an eyebrow at their peculiar relationship and kept on moving.

  “You’re up early,” Grandpa commented as I brushed by.

  “Kind of hard to sleep with Paul Bunion chopping wood outside my window,” I replied, reaching for a mug to pour myself some coffee.

  Grandma chuckled. “That’s Liam, our stablehand.”

  “Is it really necessary that he start so early in the morning?” I asked.

  “Farm life starts at sun-up.” Grandpa stood from the stove and wiped his hands on his jeans. He made his way over to Grandma and bent to kiss her on the temple before pouring himself a cup of coffee.

  “I don’t see the sun,” I complained, gesturing to the fog just outside the kitchen window. I took a sip of my coffee, savoring the sweet taste and the warmth soaking into my cold fingertips through the ceramic.

  There were two kinds of coffee drinkers in the world (as far as I was concerned.) There were those who drank it straight, fresh from the pot, and those who “doctored” their coffee to chase away the bitterness. I stared into my mug, the creamy color giving my preference away. Gabriel had hated the taste of coffee, preferring tea for a caffeinated buzz.

  “I do hope it clears up,” Grandma said, rising from the table. She leaned forward across the sink, craning her neck to get a better view out the window. “I never like these long dreary winter days.”

  “I don’t mind them,” I said, “especially if I get to sleep.”

  “Well you’re up now,” Grandma said, “might as well make yourself useful.”

  I turned to face her. She was holding a silver thermos and filling it with coffee. Once it was full, she screwed on the cap and extended it out to me. No cream or sugar, I noticed.

  “What do I do with this?” I asked derisively.

  “Take it out to Paul Bunion as you so eloquently put.” She laughed.

  “Grandma…” I said almost breathlessly. I felt my brows furrow, taking on the look of a small toddler who was disappointed she wasn’t getting her way.

  “Whining is not a becoming trait, Darcy,” she scolded me, thrusting the thermos into my hands. “Be nice to him.”

  I took it, rolling my eyes in a not-so-mature-for-my-age kind of way. I slipped into a wool cardigan at the back door, and stuffed my feet back into my grandma’s boots before heading out into the fog. As I pushed open the screen door, I heard my grandpa’s muffled voice in the kitchen.

  “Evelyn, are you sure this is a good idea?” he asked her.

  “Hush,” she said, warning him sharply. I wasn’t sure what they were referring to, but the screen door was already slamming behind me. Another CRACK! echoed through the air, and I saw a chunk of wood land in the gravel with a hollow thud. I froze as Liam came into view, bending to retrieve the rogue piece of firewood. His eyes found me as he stood.

  “Hey,” I said, hoping I sounded a little more cheery than I had earlier this morning.

  The corner of his mouth raised in a mischievous grin. “It’s Sleeping Beauty, right?” He pointed at me.

  “Funny,” I said, drawing out the syllables. If he had only known I had referred to him as Paul Bunion earlier, maybe he wouldn’t be standing there smirking. I moved from the porch, taking the few steps to close the distance between us, and extended the thermos.

  “What’s this?” he asked.

  “Coffee,” I said, pulling the cardigan tighter around my body to keep out the chill of the air. “My grandma sent it out for you.”

  “Oh, thank you,” he said.

  “Sure.” I shrugged.

  Up this close, he seemed to tower over me at what I guessed was probably around six-foot-three. His stature was somewhat intimidating, and I was all too aware that he was even better looking than I first gathered. He had one of those faces, the kind of face that you’d single out in a crowd and be drawn to instantly.

  Maybe it was because of the dim, subdued light reflecting from the fog, but I couldn’t make myself stop looking at his eyes. They were the most vibrantly charged color of green I had ever seen. There were so many shades to them–so much depth.

  “I’m Liam, by the way.” He shifted the thermos to his left hand, and reached out to take mine with the other.

  “Darcy,” I replied. His hand seemed to envelop mine in a grip that was firm but somehow gentle at the same time–warm.

  “So you’re the infamous granddaughter I’ve heard so much about?” he said, letting go of my hand and momentarily snapping me out of my trance. God I hoped he hadn’t realized I had been so transfixed.

  “The one and only,” I managed to say. “Why, what have you heard?”

  He laughed easily; it was a good sounding laugh. “Nothing bad,” he assured me. “I don’t think your grandparents are capable of saying a negative word about anyone. They’re good people.”

  “They are, aren’t they,” I agreed. “It’s been a while since I’ve been out here; I didn’t realize how much I missed it.”

  He nodded thoughtfully, as if waiting for me to say more on the subject. I didn’t.

  “Well,” I said, “I should probably let you get back to work.” I glanced toward the enormous pile of logs stacked up against the side of the barn. I was beginning to lose any clear sense of ordinary conversational material, and didn’t want to seem weird for standing there longer than necessary–staring.

  “I am sorry, for waking you,” he said sympathetically.

  “I’ll get over it.” I smiled. “Nice meeting you, Liam.”

  He grinned and then reached for the ax. “See you around.”

  I turned then, and headed back across the drive, listening as the gravel crunched beneath my feet. I prayed I wouldn’t trip on the way back, to avoid any further embarrassment. One thing was certain; life on the farm had just become a little more interesting.

  ***

  I rolled out the yoga mat at the foot of the bed on Monday morning, changing into a pair of loose-fitting clothing. I started with some basic stretches that worked varying muscles and joints in my bad leg. The exercise was routine now, but it kept my muscles from atrophying and kept me in an upright walking position.

  As I reached forward, adjusting the resistance band around my foot, I thought about waking up in the hospital bed after my surgery. The doctors weren’t sure that I would be able to walk again, considering the amount of damage that had been done. At the time, I didn’t much care if I ever made it out of bed again–let alone walk. It was the universe’s way of balancing things, I imagined. If God had taken my brother, he made sure that I would never run again–and that was one of my punishments for living when Gabriel had died.

  Physical therapy had been a nightmare. I started off with daunting manual movements to improve flexibility. My physical therapist would move all the different parts of my leg back and forth, bending and flexing and straightening in a teeth-gritting rhythm that lasted for weeks before I was strong enough to put any weight on it. Sometimes I thought the pain would never be manageable, but that I considered a punishment as well. I glided through the whole process habitually, if nothing but for the sake of having something else to focus on, to keep me from dwelling on the loss of my brother.
/>   Luke attended the majority of my therapy sessions so he could help me at home when my mother couldn’t. I honestly don’t know how I would have gotten through any of it without their constant stability and support. They made me feel stronger than I was.

  Grandma appeared in the doorway, her small frame blocking out a portion of the light from the hall. “Good morning,” she called out pleasantly.

  “Hey,” I said.

  “What do you have there?” she asked, pointing to the purple elastic band that was still wrapped around my foot as I pulled the loose ends up toward my body.

  “It’s a resistance band,” I told her, carefully dropping my leg back onto the yoga mat. “It’s just something I have to use for my home therapy stuff.”

  “It looks tedious,” she said, crossing the room to sit at the foot of the bed. Her eyes moved from the band to my leg, darting this way and that as she studied the complex scarring that snaked across the planes of my right leg. I watched as the blue of her eyes seemed to drain, leaving them a sulky gray. I reached for my sweat pants that were sitting beside me, and shimmied them up over my yoga shorts.

  “Not so pretty, huh?” I made a face, hoping to lighten the change in atmosphere.

  “Nonsense,” she said, looking away. “I was just about to start making some pies, and I was hoping you might like to help me?”

  “Sure,” I said, getting to my feet.

  “Excellent.” She clapped her hands together, and started for the hall.

  I followed her down the stairs, pulling my hair back into a ponytail as we entered the kitchen. The kitchen was prepped for what looked like a week’s worth of cooking. My eyes scanned the varying fruits and baking ingredients covering every inch of the counter tops.

  “How many pies are you baking, Grandma?” I asked.

  “Oh, just a dozen or so,” she answered.

  “For who?” I asked, my voice giving away a tone of astonishment.