738 Days: A Novel Page 5

  Then the doorbell rings. I hear hurrying footsteps, probably Mia’s, then the distinctive creak of the front door opening. Another voice, one I don’t recognize, speaks, the tone low and calm. Male, definitely, but I can’t catch his words.

  I sit up straighter. Who’s here now? Maybe Mr. Logan from the store, checking on me? How embarrassing.

  Reluctantly, I crawl out.

  I stand up carefully in my room, my legs shaky and tingling from the lack of blood flow. Behind me, I can feel the closet’s tentacles pulling at me, like the tar strands clinging to the bottom of our flip-flops in the parking lot for the community pool on all those hot August days.

  But I make my way out of my room and into the hall, heading for the stairs, expecting to find my family gathered in the kitchen, or if there’s a guest, maybe the living room.

  Instead, in a repeat of earlier today, they’re gathered at the base of the stairs in the foyer. Only this time, it’s not just my mom and sisters, but my dad as well. And they’re not facing off against each other, but standing in a single line of solidarity—Mia, Mom, Dad, and Liza—which is … unusual.

  Then I see the only other person present.

  Their seeming opponent—the mutual enemy that has drawn them all together—is one guy, standing with his back against the door, his head ducked down, the brighter gold bits in his dark blond hair glinting in the foyer light, and his hands stuffed into the pockets of his jeans.

  Chase Henry.

  My breath catches in my chest, and I wait for the panic bees to swarm up and start stinging.

  But my insides are strangely calm. My heart does a quick little skip, but that’s all. Instead, I feel that weird flicker of … what?

  Connection, maybe. Which is ridiculous because this Chase Henry is not “my” Chase Henry, for lack of a better term. I know that.

  He doesn’t look as he did in the poster or my memory. He is taller than I imagined. I can’t see much of his face, just the left side of his profile, which is mostly in shadow anyway, but he seems tired, older. There are lines by his mouth, as if he’s been unhappy lately or spent a lot of time frowning.

  He’s wearing a battered work jacket over his T-shirt now. Nothing like the slick leather coat he wore in the poster and, therefore, in the room with me.

  And yet, I can’t shake that feeling of a link, a bond, when I look at him. And with it, the odd sensation of being able to breathe deeper, like part of me was somehow waiting for this and can now relax a little.

  Also a completely ridiculous notion. But this one sort of makes sense, in a crazy way. Chase, my version of him, was my security blanket. I needed him, a representative of home and the hope I was too afraid to allow myself (again, according to therapists galore), so my brain created him.

  The real Chase in the foyer below physically resembles the protector I created so I’m reacting to him in the same way.

  As if sensing my scrutiny, Chase looks up at me, those familiar dark blue eyes taking me in.

  The impulse to move away shoots through me and vanishes almost as quickly. I hold my ground, wrapping my fingers around the banister at the top of the stairs, staring down at him as he stares up at me. A long beat and then another passes.

  “Why did you even let him in?” Liza demands of Mia loudly. She is leaning around my parents to glare at Mia. But there are bright pink spots of color in Liza’s cheeks, just beneath the dark frames of her glasses. My normally unflappable sister is … flapped. Then again, she’s the one who had Chase Henry on her bedroom wall for years.

  “I wanted to hear what he had to say for himself.” Mia lifts her chin defiantly.

  “Mia,” my dad says sharply.

  “Dad,” she says in a mocking tone, knowing that he’ll do absolutely nothing to scold her. She’s always been his favorite.

  “Shhh!” My mother stretches her arms out, one toward Mia and the other toward my dad, like a crossing guard. As if that would somehow stop the sound from carrying or end the argument.

  Chase turns toward me slightly, catching my attention again. He pulls his hands from his pockets and holds them out in front of him, as if showing me that he means no harm. I appreciate the gesture, if nothing else.

  “I shouldn’t have just shown up like that today, at your work,” he says slowly. “It was a stupid idea, and I’m sorry I scared you. I didn’t think it through.”

  One by one, almost in order—Mia, my mom, my dad, and Liza—their heads snap around, their mouths falling open when they see me.

  “Amanda, go back to your room,” my dad says, avoiding my gaze. He can’t look at me anymore. Not for long. “You don’t have to listen to this.”

  “We should call the police,” Liza says, even as she folds her arms across her chest and makes no move toward the phone.

  “Amanda can decide for herself what she can handle,” my mom says pointedly to my dad. “We just need to—”

  “Oh, here we go again.” Mia throws her hands up in the air.

  I ignore them all and focus on Chase. “Why are you here?”

  Chase’s mouth tightens, deepening the lines on either side of it. “I wanted to apologize personally. I didn’t realize—”

  “No, I mean, why now?” I ask. “Why come to Springfield?”

  He takes a deep breath and rubs the back of his neck, then lets his hand fall to his side.

  “I don’t know how much you know about me,” he says. “About what happened. The show I was on was cancelled a couple of years ago.”

  “Good riddance,” Liza muttered. “Zombies?”

  “It started falling apart, and I kind of got screwed up in the middle of all of it,” Chase admits. “Made some mistakes, got into some trouble.”

  My dad straightens at that, seeming to loom larger, which is pretty impressive considering he already stands six foot five. About five inches taller than Chase, from the look of it.

  “I’m clear of that now,” Chase says quickly, red splotches appearing high on his cheekbones. “But I’m having issues with booking work. I love what I do, but my reputation is…” He sighs. “It doesn’t matter. Someone I trusted suggested that the publicity from a photo op with Amanda and maybe a set visit for a few days on the movie we’re filming over in Wescott—”

  “Like one of those celebrity charity visits for sick kids?” Liza asks in disbelief.

  “They’re making a movie in Wescott?” Mia asks, perking up a little.

  Chase doesn’t seem to know who to respond to. “Uh, yeah, it’s just a small independent…” He shakes his head. “It’s not important. The point is, I was wrong to listen to that person. I was just…”

  Desperate. He was desperate. I can see it written across his face and hear it in the gaps between his words. I recognize the expression, that feeling of your back against the wall, and not in the safe-in-the-closet kind of way.

  “I was wrong,” he finishes, his expression grim. “And I’ve fired her. So it won’t happen again.”

  “You didn’t think my daughter had been exploited enough?” my dad asks in that deceptively mild voice I recognize as the calm before the storm.

  “Mark,” my mom snaps. “Not in front of Amanda.” She glances at me worriedly, as Mia gives a loud huff of exasperation, which is met with another glare from Liza.

  I remember the five of us in the kitchen on a Sunday morning, my dad goofily dancing around with each of us in turn, while my mom made pancakes. Mia was little, maybe eight, and barely able to keep up, but she was laughing like a crazy person. Then we all were when my dad grabbed my mom, pulling her away from the griddle and scattering Bisquick everywhere as he spun her around like they were ballroom dancers.

  Now, just a few years later, I am actively destroying my family, setting them against one another, without even trying.

  “Yes, sir. That’s why I wanted to apologize in person,” Chase says to my dad wearily, with just a hint of defiance … and an accent? Does he have a drawl? I never imagined that. “It was a shi
t … it was a horrible idea. I don’t know what I was thinking. I’m just going to go.” But he pauses as he turns to the door and glances up at me.

  “Amanda.” He tips his head at me in a faint nod, his jaw tight. Then his hand is on the front door, pulling it open.

  Most of the time, the big moments in life sneak up on you; it’s only in hindsight that you recognize them as significant. When Jonathon Jakes asked me to help him look for his lost dog, my only concern at the moment was whether I could do it and still get home in time to beat Mia to the last cup of Easy Mac in the pantry. My conscience won that battle, to my eternal regret, and clearly, Mia got that cup of Easy Mac.

  But this time, it’s different. I can feel it, that discordant clanging inside of me. In a few seconds, maybe less, Chase Henry, the real version of my imagined security blanket, will walk out that door and down the steps, gone forever, and that just seems wrong. Powerfully wrong. If I don’t do something right now, I know I’ll regret it, even if I don’t know why.

  An instinct I don’t fully understand pushes me to speak. I’m not even sure which words are coming out until I hear them, along with everyone else.

  “The set visit. What if I want to go?”

  4

  Chase

  The stunned silence that follows is crazy loud. No one so much as breathes. Then a refrigerator kicks on somewhere nearby, the faint hum the only clue that I haven’t suddenly lost my hearing.

  I turn and find Amanda’s family frozen in place.

  “What?” Mrs. Grace asks finally, her hand clutching at her throat, as if she can’t quite breathe around the word.

  “You’re kidding, right?” The younger sister—Mia, I think—scoffs at Amanda. “Sometimes you can’t even leave the house without talking yourself up to it.”

  I raise my eyebrows. The frustration and bitterness in Mia’s voice would corrode a brand-new battery port. Little sister is pissed about something.

  “Absolutely not,” her dad thunders, and that’s exactly what it sounds like: thunder. Loud and intimidating. He’s a big dude.

  “This isn’t good,” Amanda tries to explain. “You’re fighting all the time, and none of this is getting any better. I need to do something—”

  “I don’t think that would be wise in terms of your recovery,” the older sister says, her mouth pinched in disapproval.

  And I don’t think it’s wise for me to be here anymore. I said what I needed to say, and clearly, this situation is way more complicated than anyone knew. Even now, there’s a strange tension between Amanda and her family, with her on one side and the four of them on the other, like they’re fighting an invisible war.

  Definitely time to leave. I don’t need this kind of trouble, no matter what Elise says. I’ll find another way to get publicity. There has to be something I can do, some avenue I haven’t tried yet.

  The empty feeling in my gut suggests otherwise, especially considering the inevitable fallout from today’s epic and well-documented fail at the grocery store, but I reach for the door again anyway.

  “What if I want to go?” Amanda repeats defiantly, but her voice is softer this time, and something in it draws my gaze to her again.

  She looks as frail as she did earlier today, her frame thin in her oversized clothes. But her dark eyes are bright with challenge and her face is flushed with color; in short, she appears way more alive than she did just a few hours ago, much more like the girl from the pictures in the file.

  And now that girl is meeting my gaze, waiting expectantly.

  That’s when it clicks.

  She’s not asking them; she’s asking me.

  Oh, shit. My mouth falls open, but no words come out.

  “I’ll help you get the pictures you want,” she says.

  “Amanda, you can’t!” her older sister bursts out.

  “Honey.” Mrs. Grace steps out of line with the rest of her family, like she might approach Amanda, but she stops well short of the stairs. “I know he might seem like a friend because of … what happened.”

  There’s a collective flinch from everyone but Amanda.

  “But,” Mrs. Grace soldiers on, “he’s a stranger. You don’t know what his intentions are.” She manages to convey every possible awful sexual connotation in one word.

  I straighten up. “Hey, wait a minute.” I’ll admit to some messed-up priorities, but I’m not that guy.

  Amanda tilts her head to the side. “Mom. I doubt it’s any worse than anything that’s already been done.”

  That sends a ripple of shock through them.

  “Amanda Diana Grace!” Mrs. Grace is horrified.

  “I mean, unless he plans to kill me, and I don’t think that’s the case.” Amanda shifts her gaze to me. “Is it?”

  “No!” I manage, but it comes out half-choked with surprise. Jesus.

  “Good,” she says simply.

  “After everything we’ve been through, you’re crazy if you think we’re going to let this happen,” her father says. “This is insane. You’re…”

  Insane. The word hangs in the air.

  “It’s our job to protect you, even when you won’t protect yourself,” he finishes. “You can’t do this.”

  “I’m twenty,” she reminds her father sadly. “Maybe you missed that while you were at the office or just avoiding me in general.”

  He rocks back, as if she slapped him, and then, his face white and his jaw clenched, he storms out of the foyer, heading deeper into the house.

  “Amanda!” The older sister glares at her, before hurrying to follow their father.

  Whoa. Amanda has sharp teeth. Good for her.

  But then she turns her attention back to me. “Well?” she asks, and I can see the determination and vulnerability in her eyes. She’s looking at me like she’s out in the middle of an endless ocean and I’m the only land in sight.

  Fuck.

  No. Just say no, a panicked voice in my head says. This has crazy mess written all over it in capital letters.

  But if I say no, I’m walking away from my best chance at getting what I need. The media would be all over Amanda visiting me on set, especially after the flameout earlier today.

  I shift my weight uncomfortably. Damnit. None of this has gone as planned. Amanda is not the enthusiastic fan that Elise depicted, grateful for a couple of pictures and a short, carefully monitored visit, managed by a production assistant or publicist. My only job in that scenario would be to smile politely and act interested, maybe even eat lunch with her. But this, this is something else, trouble I can’t afford, responsibility I don’t want.

  But when I open my mouth to say a politer version of that, something else comes out instead. “Bring a jacket,” I say. “It’s colder now.”

  Relief washes over Amanda’s face, followed immediately by what looks like uncertainty. But then she squares her shoulders. “Five minutes,” she promises and steps back from the railing, disappearing in the direction, presumably, of her room.

  I grit my teeth. What have I done? This is definitely going to be one of those moments where, tomorrow, I’ll be wondering what the hell I was thinking. Actually, I’m already wondering that, and yet I can’t seem to bring myself to call out, “Sorry, never mind,” and haul ass out of there.

  Mrs. Grace hurries past me and up the stairs without so much as a glance in my direction.

  “So, what movie?” Mia asks, folding her arms across her chest. Her resemblance to Amanda is unmistakable, but she’s clearly younger, maybe just sixteen, and her chin and nose are more pointed, giving her a distinctly slyer appearance.

  “What?”

  “What movie are you filming in Wescott?” she elaborates slowly, as if I’m the stupid one for not understanding her abrupt conversation shift.

  “Oh. It’s this thing, Coal City Nights. Max Verlucci is—”

  “Season One writer, yeah.” She waves her hand dismissively. “I know. Liza has the whole Starlight series on DVD.”

  Liza? The
older sister with the permanent I-sucked-a-lemon expression?

  “The zombies were cool, but the narrative went to crap in the third season.” Mia watches me, waiting for my reaction, and this somehow feels like a test.

  “Yeah.” What else am I supposed to say? She’s right. Zombies on a show about a guardian angel in love with the girl he’s supposed to protect made no sense.

  “You know she’s messed up,” Mia says.

  It takes me a second to process another of Mia’s whip-fast topic changes. “Yeah, I’m kind of…” … getting that. It sounds too flip. So I just settle for repeating myself. “Yeah.”

  “This is a big chance she’s taking, and she doesn’t do that very often anymore,” Mia says, eyeing me suspiciously, as though I’ve done something to trick Amanda into this.

  “I … okay.” It feels much too warm in here suddenly, and I flap my jacket back and forth, trying to cool off.

  “So don’t screw it up.” She fidgets with her sleeve, picking off an invisible bit of lint. “It’s not her fault, obviously, but she’s right. Everyone’s trying so hard, but it’s not getting any better. Maybe we’re making it worse—I don’t know.” She shrugs, the tight motion barely visible. “My dad wants to pretend it never happened, and my mom wants to make every second about Amanda getting better. And if one of them is right, the other one has to be wrong. It’s kind of hellish.” She pauses, staring down at some unknown point on the floor, and she seems younger, smaller than before. “It would be nice not to be trapped in the middle of that, just for a while.”

  Shit. “Listen, uh, Mia? What do you think—”

  Amanda reappears at the top of the stairs, struggling into a black zip-up fleece, a canvas bag dangling from one arm.

  That was fast. Was it even five minutes? How is this happening so quickly? I swallow loudly.

  “How will we reach you?” Mrs. Grace, wringing her hands, follows Amanda down the stairs.

  “I have my cell phone.”

  “Amanda, please don’t do this. You’re not ready. Dr. Knaussen—”