Read A Bird on a Windowsill Online
Authors: Laura Miller
A Bird on a Windowsill (21 page)
Salem
(23 Years Old)
Day 6,659
“D
amn,” I say, under my breath.
I’m in the back office of the lumberyard, and I’ve been staring at this safe for about ten minutes now, trying to figure out what’s the best way to go about this.
I’ve got a drill, and I’m hoping that just drilling through the lock will work. I’d rather not have to cut through its hinges.
I push out a puff of air and narrow my eyes at it. “Well. I guess, here goes nothin’.”
I lean over to pick up the drill, and my chain falls from the neck of my shirt and dangles in front of me. I go to tuck it back in, when my fingers hit the key, and I stop.
I stop, and I stare at that key.
Then I stare at the lock.
Could it be?
It’s a long shot, but maybe. Vannah did give it to me when she was hanging out at the paper. It’s worth a try, I guess.
I pull the chain over my head and put the key to the lock.
And I push.
It slides in.
I carefully turn it.
It turns.
And just like that, the safe clicks open.
“Well, that was easy.”
I laugh to myself and pull open the door. It doesn’t open easily, and its hinges scream as they come back to life after maybe decades of resting.
I wiggle the key out of the lock and go to close the little door again, when something falls out.
It’s a photo. I pick it up and go to put it back in the safe, but I stop when I notice the woman in the picture. I’ve seen her before. I think about it for a second. I’ve seen her before at Lester’s house. She was the girl in the frame.
I turn the photo over. There’s something written on the back. I read it. And then slowly, gradually—like a slow-burning oak—something deep inside me starts to stir.
Savannah
(23 Years Old)
“T
ell me what you were like when you were little.”
I smile, and Jake pulls me closer. I can feel the fire rising up in me, starting at the place his fingertips graze the bare skin of my arm.
It’s Tuesday. We’re on my couch, barely watching an old episode of
Friends
.
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“I don’t know. Just, what were you like? Were you shy? Were you awkward? Did you ever get in trouble?”
I tilt my head back to think about it.
“I don’t think I was shy. I liked sports, volleyball mostly. I was awkward sometimes. If I wanted to do something, I usually did it. But I stayed out of trouble, mostly, I think.”
“Aah.” He nods his head.
“What about you. What were you like?”
“Well.” He looks off for a moment. “I don’t think most people would call me shy, but I was.”
His other hand comes to rest on my knee, and I watch as he mindlessly traces a white scar on my skin.
“And both my parents were lawyers, so everyone thought I was smart. And I did okay in school; I just had to work hard for it, I guess. Math and science were two things that didn’t come easy to me.”
I laugh. “But can you write a sentence?”
“I can,” he says, proudly.
“Well, that’s really all you need in my book.”
He laughs and plants a kiss on my forehead. I pause to take in the way his lips linger on my skin. And then he pulls away and looks into my eyes.
“I like you,” he says.
My gaze falls briefly before returning to his.
“I like you, too.”
His face lights up. And then he takes my hand, and I rest my head on his chest. And for several moments, we’re just still. But I can’t stop smiling because the truth is, I don’t know
that
much about him, but I
do
already like him. He’s easy to like. And I’m okay with
like
right now. I can do
like
.
“Do you have any brothers or sisters?”
“Mm hmm,” he hums. “One brother. Older. Lives in Chester. Married to his high school sweetheart.”
“Aw,” I say.
“Yeah, they’re sickeningly happy.”
I laugh.
“What about you?” he asks.
“One sister. Whitney. She’s back in South Carolina and works at a public relations firm.”
“Aah, are you guys close?”
“Um, yeah. We’re closer than we used to be. She’s only two years older, but I was always too young for her and her friends.” I smile up at him. “But she eventually got over that.”
“That’s good to hear.”
He intertwines his fingers with mine.
“Did you play any sports?” I ask.
“Hockey.”
My eyes dart to his mouth. “But you have teeth.”
He chuckles. “I wore a face mask.”
“But what about this?” I say, delicately tracing with my fingertips a fine, white scar on his jawline.
“That would be the work of Henry Waterfeld.” He laughs. “We were playing roller hockey in the cul-de-sac. I just got a little too close to his high-stick.”
My eyes grow wide.
“It was nothing, really. The scar itself is much more exciting than its story.”
I watch him then, as he rubs his jaw with his thumb and forefinger. His eyes are somewhere far off, as if he’s thinking back, maybe. But there’s something about his thoughtful expression that makes me feel as if he has so many more stories to tell.
“I bet you made one very cute hockey player.”
His gaze falls, and he blushes. But when his eyes return to mine, he’s smiling.
“I wish I could have been a fly on
your
wall when you were growing up,” he says.
I narrow my eyes at him and push my lips to one side. “I probably would have squished you. I’m not a fan of bugs.”
“I don’t know,” he says, shaking his head. “I never told you I used to be fast, did I?”
“Really?”
“Well, on skates, anyway.”
“Okay, you win. I don’t think I ever could have brought myself to squish a skates-wearing fly.”
He leans his head back and laughs. Meanwhile, I rest my cheek on the inside of his shoulder.
“Why did you move here?” I ask, after his laughter fades.
I feel his shoulder lift slightly.
“I have an aunt who works in St. Louis. I liked the area, but I’m not big on the city life. So, one day, I just drove. I drove down
44
and then turned off onto
100
. And I stopped at the first place that felt like home. And that place was here.”
I look up at him.
“This feels like Popeye’s home?”
“Yeah,” he says, “this feels like Popeye’s home.”
I softly laugh. “Well, I’m happy you stopped here.”
He pulls me even closer and gently rests his head on mine.
“Really?”
“Yeah. You’re a really nice surprise.”
His fingers are now gently caressing my bare arm, leaving a tingly sensation in their wake. It feels good. It feels good to be in his arms. And it’s hard to explain, but everything he does feels as if it’s a promise—a promise of safety and protection and love. And I believe it. I know it’s early. And I know it’s crazy, but I believe in all those things in his arms.
“Savannah.”
“Hmm?”
I lift my eyes to his.
“I could get used to this,” he says, in a low rasp.
There’s a smile on his face. And it instantly makes my heart feel full. And I know... I know, with a certainty I’ve never had before, that it’s because I could get used to this, too. I could get used to days in my porch swing, getting to know him more and more with every new story from his past. I could get used to nights on the couch, with him always making sure I have enough of the blanket to keep me warm. I could get used to his passionate kisses, his touch, the way he says my name like no one’s ever said it—as if it’s a word from his favorite song.
I could get used to Jake Buckler.
I could easily fall for Jake Buckler.
And just maybe...just maybe, I already have.
Savannah
(23 Years Old)
Day 6,677
“I’
m sitting at my desk at the office when I hear a knock on the door. It’s late. I find sometimes it’s best to work at night. There’s fewer distractions that way.
I stand up and cautiously walk out into the main room. The door’s locked. And there’s probably no good reason why someone should be knocking on it right about now.
I glance at the baseball bat in the corner. I bought it after the first night I spent in here writing until three in the morning. I never intended to use it—the crime section in this town usually entails the latest police force’s rant about not parking on the grass downtown or reminding kids that curfew is midnight.
Nevertheless, I feel my heart rate speed up. Outside, it’s a starless sky—cloudy and the blackest of dark. I know it because I stepped outside just an hour ago to get some fresh air.
I get halfway across the room and try to make out the dark figure through the glass on the other side of the door.
“Savannah. It’s Salem.” I hear the voice before I’m even able to make anything else out.
“Salem?”
I’m relieved it’s just him; I feel my heart start to slow again.
I get the door open, and he just stands there—stiff and disheveled. His hair is a little longer than usual, and it’s sticking out every which way from under a red, faded baseball cap. There are shadows under his eyes, and his stare is directed toward his sawdust-covered work boots. And he’s holding the safe.
I back up to let him in the door.
“What’s wrong?”
He shakes his head but doesn’t say anything.
I’m a little thrown off. I glance at the black and white clock on the wall. It reads
1:10
.
I get the door closed behind him. Meanwhile, he goes straight back to my office and sets the safe down in its place in the corner of the room.
“I got it open.”
He’s already sitting in the blue recliner when I join him in my office.
“Really?” I go to the safe. “How?”
“It wasn’t a problem.”
I look up at him, and he smiles for the first time tonight.
“Turns out, I had the key.”
I glance at the unharmed safe, and then quickly, my stare is back on him.
He’s dangling his chain with the key at the end of it from his fingers.
“No,” I say, in disbelief.
He sets the chain onto the corner of my desk.
“
That
key was for
this
safe?” I ask, pointing first at the key and then at the safe.
“Yep.”
“Huh.” I stare at the little safe. “I had no idea.”
I’m silent for a second, as I bite at my bottom lip, trying to remember the day I found the key.
“I hope Uncle Lester wasn’t looking for it this whole time. I found it in the broom closet. I thought it was just some old key. Now, I feel bad.”
“Nah,” he says, shaking his head. “He just might have known I had it.”
My eyes find his.
“What do you mean?”
“He saw me wearing it once.”
“He did?”
“Yeah, when we were in high school—when you came back from South Carolina that summer.”
“Wait. Was there something in there? Is that why you’re here?”
He shakes his head, even before I get it all out.
“No, no.” He takes off his cap and runs his fingers through his messy curls and then sighs.
“But you have to tell me,” he says.
“What?”
“I know you’ve been seeing Jake Buckler. I saw you guys out last weekend.”
I sit down on the floor next to the safe, bring my knees up to my chest and press my back against the wall.
“Okay,” I say.
He seems distracted.
“I think I’m in love with you.”
Everything in me freezes up—my muscles, my words, my thoughts.
“You
think
...you’re in love with me?”
“I think I know...” He stops.
I’m breathing. I know I’m breathing—only because I can feel my chest moving. But I’m not getting any air. I push myself up from the floor and walk to the door—if only just to get a breath.
“I know...,” he says. “I know this is crazy.”
I glance at the clock.
1:15.
“Anna? Does she...?”
He averts his gaze to the brown, speckled carpet.
“She doesn’t know I’m here.” He anxiously rubs the back of his neck.
“Salem.” I sullenly breathe out his name.
“I know. I know this is a stretch, but I just... I just don’t want any regrets. If we have a chance... If there’s a chance, Vannah, for you and me...”
My eyes slowly find the floor. This moment, it feels so raw, as if I tried to touch it, it would bleed. This is what I wanted. When I was twelve,
this
is what I wanted. When I was sixteen,
this
is what I wanted. When I got back here,
this
is what I wanted.
He
is what I wanted. But tonight, it just feels wrong, as if we’re trying to fit the sun into the moon.
“At least, we can give it a chance, Vannah.”
I find his eyes. They’re soft and sincere, and they’re pleading with me. I want to say
yes
. I want to scream it as loud as I can. But I don’t.
“Can I ask you something?” I ask.
“Yeah, sure, anything.”
“Is this because of Jake? Are you here because of him?”
His eyes descend to his boots. And then there’s silence.
His quiet is a knife to my heart. And from somewhere I hear the words of my grandmother float into my mind like an ominous cloud.
Love and jealousy are not the same. When love fades, love still remains. When jealousy fades, love does not remain.
“Come on, Vannah, it’s not like you see yourself falling for this guy.”
I don’t look at him.
Seconds trudge on.
“Vannah. You can’t see yourself falling in love with him. Can you?”
The moments tick out on that clock.
One. Two. Three
. But then I feel my stare slowly wandering up. And before we get to four, my eyes find his and rest there.
Four.
Five.
“Wow,” he says, as if understanding is gradually washing over him.
“Salem, it’s not...” I stop, suddenly at a loss for words. “He
is
a great guy, but this is just...”
“Who do you choose, Vannah?”
I meet his gaze. It’s turned cold. His eyes are raging—a desert storm, spewing sand and wind.
I’m speechless. I don’t know what to say. I don’t know how to react to his coolness.
“I just need to know,” he says, leaning forward in the recliner. He rubs his eyes and then brings a fist to his mouth.
A moment drags out between us, as if it’s a cinderblock being pulled in the mud by a rope.
“Salem, I can’t do what you’re asking me to do. I can’t choose. Not like this.”
The color in his face drains, until his almond skin is the shade of sand. And I watch him, as his eyes catch on the rotary phone on my desk, the printer in the corner, the door. He does everything to avoid making eye contact with me.
“So, that’s it, I guess.” He slowly rises from the old, blue chair. “I guess that’s my answer.”
I try to swallow down the tears that I know are just waiting to fall.
“Salem,” I plead.
Silence—his eyes lost in mine.
It’s almost as if we both suspect that just a small sound will cause us to dissolve into nothingness. And I know, deep down, there’s not a word I could say that will heal this moment. The silence has already done its damage. It’s just like right after a storm—when the wind’s died down and there are branches strewn every which way in the dirt. All that’s left is the cleanup.
He hesitates but then walks past me. The familiar scent of his cologne floats in the air, triggering my memories of him. And suddenly, I smell creek water and the synthetic canvas of his old trampoline. And I can feel sawdust running through my fingers and the beat of his heart against my cheek. And there’s a part of me that wants to beg him to stay.
The tears begin filling up behind my eyelids. I feel as if my heart is ripping in two. One piece is going with him while one piece is staying, remaining faithful to Jake. And all the while, my mind is foggy, clouded with so many thoughts:
Why is he here? Why now? What if he’s just jealous? What if, in the next few minutes, he realizes he made a mistake—that he’s still in love with Anna?
He needs some time to think about this.
I want him to love me—but not like this.
The tears stream down my cheeks, but I don’t even have the strength to wipe them away.
I can feel his stare burning into me, although I refuse to look up.
“You asked me once if I could rewind time for you—make us see what we didn’t see before.”
His words force my eyes to lift, just as his gaze casts down.
“Well, I did,” he says, setting a folded piece of paper onto the counter.
He looks into my eyes then, for what feels as if it’s an eternity. It’s painful, as if he’s slowly cutting off his piece of my heart with a blunt knife. It’s his
good-bye
. I know it is.
And then, he turns. And that little bell above the door rings the warning that he’s gone.
I tell myself it’s not
for good.
I wish I could believe it.
