How crazy was I? I’d seen and felt things my whole life that I couldn’t explain, and yet I was convinced they were real. Did that mean I was delusional? Or just extra-sensory-enabled? I’d accepted that there was more to my world than I could explain, so wasn’t it only fair that I accept there might be more to Cara’s world, too? Unless facts convinced me otherwise. Crazy is, as crazy does.
I clicked on the bedside lamp. Squinting, I rescued my cell from the carpet and used the edge of my white comforter to brush off a dust bunny. I needed to vacuum. My least favorite chore. Eileen was great about helping around the house, but I hated vacuuming so much that I felt guilty for asking her to do it.
It was only six-thirty. I had an hour before I needed to leave, so with a little effort I could accomplish some mom duties and leave the day open for Eileen. And possibly work in an afternoon visit with Cara if she was up to it. I indulged in another groan, but made myself sit up on the edge of the bed and lean forward until gravity forced me to choose between standing and falling on my face. I stood and stumbled to the shower, shedding my pajamas along the way.
An hour later, I felt better. My body had shaken off the fatigue—helped by a hot shower and two mugs of organic Sumatra—and our little house was tidy. I’d finally vacuumed the bedrooms, and the junk mail and school papers were all sorted and off the kitchen table. I’d even washed a few dishes, started the laundry, and set out fresh food and water on the porch for Pebbles. Not for the first time, I realized how lucky I was to have only Eileen and a cat to look after. I wasn’t exactly the Carol Brady type. Of course, if I had an Alice . . .
I let that thought entertain me as I grabbed a banana and my keys off the kitchen counter and stepped out into the fresh salty air. Our house was barely more than a cottage, tucked among scruffy woods at the end of a gravel road, but it was perfect. I could see marsh through the trees and knew the river was glistening just out of sight, down the sandy path I’d walked many times with my dad.
Years ago, my father had built this place as a starter home—a promise to my nervous mom that everything was going to be just fine, even though she was barely out of high school and already expecting me. He wasn’t much older himself, but he’d loved her enough to work two jobs and call in every favor he had to get his friends to help build it. Somehow, they’d managed, fighting mosquitoes and the hottest summer on record. Or so my grandmother had told me.
I climbed in the Bronco, and with a twist of the key and two pumps of the gas pedal, it woke up and greeted me with its throaty rumble. Shifting into reverse, I backed out of the driveway slowly, appreciating how the windshield framed a quaint snapshot of our little house. Yellow slices of sunshine warmed the pitched roof and weathered wood siding, and wisps of fog meandered among the ten-foot pilings. This whole area was in a flood zone, but after surviving four decades of hurricanes, I trusted our home to keep Eileen safe.
The Bronc rocked and bounced down the pitted gravel road we shared with two mobile homes, stopping in a small cloud of dust at the end. After checking for traffic—mostly cyclists this time of year—I turned north onto smooth pavement and settled in to enjoy the early morning views. The narrow strip of land on the west side of River Road was too marshy for more than a small pocket or two of old houses like mine, though it did allow for the occasional westward-facing beauty protected behind a gated driveway. The eastern side flanked the peninsula dividing river and ocean waterways, a much larger area developed with neighborhoods and side streets. But along both sides of the road were stretches of river and marsh, or woods and marsh, that offered varying scenes of light and mist playing across wetlands.
I rolled my window down and stretched to lower the passenger window, too. The chilled morning rushed into the cab, but with my thick fleece hoodie and the Bronc’s trusty heater, I was comfortable. Inhaling deeply, I let the damp air refresh my body as it whipped strands of my hair out the window. Who needed sleep?
Well, apparently I had needed it—last night when I’d fallen asleep in front of Sal’s house. He must have taken my coffee from me so it wouldn’t spill. How long had I slept? Last night, I’d thought it was only a second or two, but if I wasn’t even aware of him moving my cup . . . ? It was after two when we’d pulled up at his house, maybe two-fifteen or so, and it was almost four when I’d gotten home this morning. Twenty minutes driving time to my house, so . . . I must’ve slept an hour! What in the world had he been doing? Watching me sleep?
That was nuts. He either had the patience of a saint or . . . no, he just had the patience of a saint. Sure, it was creepy if he’d watched me sleep, but even though I still knew nothing about him, he seemed safe. Or rather, I felt safe with him. He was too self-contained for me to label him as safe, because only people who were hiding something acted like he did. I should know. I’d have been terrified when he’d manhandled me if I hadn’t already known something
