8
MAYA
I couldn’t believe Ash was here, or that the girl from the gas station had actually called. I’d found him. I’d finally found him. Ash was home.
When he’d first phoned me, I’d been asleep on the sofa, felt groggy when I’d answered my cell, but as soon as he’d said “hello” there had been no doubt it was Ash. I’d have recognized his voice if he’d whispered the single word from ten miles away in a hurricane.
Ash hadn’t used his old cell to make the call, and I knew this because he’d left it on the kitchen table the day he’d walked out, along with a scribbled note saying, Take care of yourself, Maya, on the back of a receipt from the hardware store, and an envelope with over a grand inside. Ash had never been officially declared missing by the police. As he’d taken a suitcase full of clothes, his wallet, his truck, and there was no evidence of foul play or anything suspicious about his departure, I was told there was nothing they could do. That hasn’t stopped me from searching as often and desperately as I could without ever finding anything. And now, two years later, he’d contacted me.
After we’d been disconnected, I’d frantically dialed back the number he’d called from, listened to the line ring and ring on the other end. When it stopped, I’d tried again, and a third time, but it remained unanswered until, finally, someone picked up. It wasn’t a man I recognized, and when he’d told me he was standing at a pay phone in Falmouth, and had given me the address, I’d jumped in my car, breaking every traffic law to get there. Except I hadn’t found Ash. I’d walked around the gas station, shouting his name, harassing passersby with photos on my phone I thrust into their faces, demanding have you seen this man, before doing the same with the store clerk, who shrugged and said she hadn’t seen him, either.
“My shift just started but trust me,” she added with a smirk, looking at the photo of Ash far longer than she needed to, “I’d remember a guy like him.”
“Will you call me if he comes here? Right away? I’ll give you my name and number.”
She looked at me, cocked her head. “What if you’re his crazy ex, or a psycho stalker?”
“I’m not. He’s my brother.”
“Didn’t you say he has an English accent?”
“Stepbrother, it’s complicated. Look...” I reminded myself of what Mom used to say about catching more flies with honey than vinegar, and softened my approach, forcing a happy expression and fishing a twenty from my wallet. “I’ll give you another when you call. Deal?”
“Deal,” she’d said, snatching the cash and sliding it into the pocket of her jeans.
I hadn’t been hopeful. Actually I’d assumed I was twenty bucks poorer, which I couldn’t quite afford, but then she’d called, whispering into her phone the man I was looking for was in the store, that I should hurry up and not forget her money. I made a second trip to the gas station, once again breaking multiple laws in the process, fully intent on making the cops chase me all the way if I had to, because until I arrived and found Ash, nothing would make me stop.
And now he was here. For the entire drive back to the house I kept glancing at him, wondering if he was a figment of my imagination and would disappear if I didn’t have one eye on him at all times. Maybe the silver star lights I’d moved to the front room, hoping they’d somehow help him find his way home, had worked after all.
We continued to sit in the car in silence, both of us staring up at the old Victorian house. It had always been considered “quirky” by the locals, including us, but once morning came, Ash would get a better look at the place. Part of me was glad he didn’t remember because he’d realize I hadn’t managed so well with the upkeep, and the house had suffered for it. The siding, once a bright olive green, now resembled an ill-looking gray, like the face of someone about to vomit. The state of the shingles was no better, the candle-snuffer turret no longer proudly sat front and center, and while the multiple layers of paint on the wooden stairs leading to the front porch had been chipped away by our feet for years, they looked worse than ever. I kept telling myself I’d fix the place up, but after Ash had left, the motivation to pick up hammer and nails deserted me as swiftly as he had.
He wasn’t the only one who’d gone. First it had been my mother, my stepfather and, finally, Ash. All of them abandoning me one by one. It had been a lot to cope with. I hadn’t managed well. For goodness’ sake, I still worked at the Cliff’s Head, and the restaurant was almost my second home now that I’d spent fourteen years there in some capacity or another. Half of my life. A somehow comforting yet equally depressing thought, and after Ash had left, I’d assumed I’d be there until the end of it, an old waitress hobbling about, full of regret.
“Let’s go inside,” I said, pushing the thoughts away. There were more pressing things to worry about. Ash was home now, that was what mattered. “We’ll figure things out, okay?”
Ash followed me as I unlocked the front door and stepped inside the house. I expected a sudden rush of memories to hit him, like I’d seen happen in the movies, but instead, Ash wandered around in bewilderment. He picked up a driftwood bowl I’d made, seemingly without having any idea it was one of my first-ever projects, and one he’d once fished out of the garbage, insisting it was great and I should keep honing my skills. Next, he
