Few Kinds of Wrong (27 page)

“Hope she doesn't hurt her arm trying to pat herself on the back,” BJ whispers in my ear from behind me, and I stifle another laugh. I turn to her but BJ is gone.

“Going back to Henrietta's?” Mom asks.

“In a while.” I turn to her. “I have something to do first.”

“You don't want to go with us?”

“No, I'll be along in a bit.”

Jamie lingers, back a bit from the grave. He seems to be waiting for me but I walk toward someone else. I planned this while still at Henrietta's. After standing against the wall for a long time, watching the people there, sad but not broken, damaged but not destroyed, I made up my mind.

Carl is talking to someone and, as I step next to him, he immediately turns, ignoring the other person, who seems miffed and walks away.

“That was a nice service.” Carl smiles and squints in the sunlight. “Quite the turnout.”

“I felt like the priest didn't get it right. Henrietta didn't either.” I look to the place where Nan's body rests now.

“Left out the cigars and motorcycles, hey?”

“Yeah, yes, exactly that.” I look at his face. “You get me, don't you?”

He smiles again and tugs on his ear. “Like I said before, it's all in the ears.”

“I was wondering if maybe I could talk to you again.” Suddenly, the idea of not seeing him again, of not speaking to him, fills me with a dread.

“About what?” he asks.

I give him a look that has “you're an idiot” all over it. “What do you think?”

“Well, there's different issues. Do you want to speak to me about religion?”

“No. Other stuff, really.”

“You do have some other stuff. There's grief, the breakup of your marriage, unresolved issues with your mom—”

“Well, they're not really unresolved. I just have to get used to the two of them being together.”

“I don't mean that.”

I stand up straight, push my head back. “Well, what do you mean?”

He shrugs. “I don't know. You said you didn't want to have kids because you were afraid it would make you feel like your mom felt with you. You never did say what that was.”

“It was nothing. Really.”

“Sometimes it's the nothings that are the biggest things to deal with.”

I don't even open my mouth to argue. “So, will you talk with me some more?” Even as I say it, I'm nervous at how much he sees in me, things I don't even think I understand.

“I would be happy to be your spiritual counsellor. But, if I'm honest, I think you need more than that.”

“Fine. I tried.” I turn to walk away but he stands in front of me.

“Do you really want to do that?”

I stare at him. “I just asked for some ears, but hey, you can't do that, right?”

“I didn't say that. I said I think you need more than I can provide. You're dealing with terrible grief.”

I search for a non-existent pocket I can put my hand in. I place my hand on my hip but it doesn't feel right. I let my arms hang by my side and suddenly that feels stupid, like everyone must see how I don't know what to do with my hands.

“You asked me for help. I just think you need the right help.”

“I didn't ask for help. I just wanted to talk with you, that's all.”

He stares at me and it's like I can read his mind, his thinking that that's exactly what it means to ask for help.

“Do you know someone like that? Someone who can give me more? Can you maybe give me a name?”

He nods. “You're reaching
out. That's a big step, you know.”

“I'm just asking for a name. When I meet the name, that will be a major step.” I look down and kick the dirt, the pointy, black shoe looking strange on my foot. “It's going to be hard, isn't it? It's going to feel bad and hurt to talk about stuff.”

“How's doing nothing been making you feel?”

“So, do you have a name?” I ask after I feel my silent pause answers his question.

He takes out his card and a pen and starts writing on the back of his card, resting the card on his left hand. “Why now?” he asks, looking up from the card.

“I don't know. Back at Henrietta's I felt kind of, I don't know, left out. Feels like I'm standing outside a bus and everyone is getting on and off, moving around, eating meatballs, making plans and I'm just standing here watching the bus.”

Carl hands me the card. “You have an awful lot of support and love around you. That's more than many people have.”

The card feels heavy in my hand. I turn it around. A woman's name, Joan Craig, is written there, and a phone number.

“You sure about her?” I ask Carl.

“Who knows if two people will click or not, but I think you'll like her. She's kind but no nonsense. She won't be one to reach out and touch your hand or anything.

“She won't?” I like her already.

“No. But she'll help you with what you need.”

“I don't even know what that is.”

“To let go of some things you've been holding onto for too long. To accept things you've been pushing away.”

“And she won't hold my hand?”

“You have lots of hands to hold. I don't think you'll have much trouble finding one.”

“Well, you two look cozy,” I hear Jamie's voice say. I wrap my hand around the card.

“We were just saying goodbye.” I stare at Carl, my eyes trying to relay the message that I don't want Jamie to know what we've been talking about.

“Yes, we were. You call if you need anything.” He puts his hand on my shoulder. “You take care now and you too, Jamie.” Carl puts his hand out then cringes when Jamie shakes it. I see the veins in Jamie's hand as he squeezes.

“Thank you, Carl.”

He gives a little wave and walks away, pausing to talk to Henrietta and shake her hand as well before he gets in his Corolla.

“Going to Henrietta's?” Jamie asks.

“Why aren't you mad at me?”

“What?”

“Why aren't you mad at me? After last night and yesterday, you should be mad at me.”

“Who says I'm not?”

“Well, you sure hide it well.”

“Look who's talking.” Jamie chuckles.

“I'm going back to Henrietta's for a bit,” I say.

“And then?”

“Then what?”

“Then, I don't know. I'd like to see you later. Maybe we could talk.” He looks down on the word “talk.”

“Maybe. We'll see. I'm pretty tired already, but we'll see. No promises.”

“I don't expect them from you.”

His words catch me, like a cold splash of water on my face. “Maybe everything's just been moving a bit too fast, Jamie. Maybe I need time to think about us.”

“I'll take that. At least you think there's an us.”

“No promises,” I say. The wind is blowing my hair in my face and I pull it back, away from my face.

“No promises.” Jamie nods. “Right.”

He walks away and I'm left standing by the big pile of dirt that will cover Nan in a couple of hours. I glance at her casket in the hole, remember what's in there and what's not, then walk away.

22

T
HE NEXT MORNING
I wake up groggy but determined that this day will be different.

“Back to normal,” I say out loud, wondering as I say it what normal really means.

The garage is open again today and I have to start being responsible again. I've missed so many days with my ribs and then Nan. Who knows what Jamie is after screwing up there? And the guys are probably still pissed about me firing Bryce and then leaving. I've left everything at odds and ends and it's time to get back to business.

On the way to the shower I see the half drunk bottle of wine on the coffee table, the only thing I could find in the house at two this morning when I couldn't sleep. I'd promised myself that I wouldn't drink, that I could spend the night alone and without any kind of sleeping aid. I watched TV until midnight then stared at the ceiling, a continuous feeling of unease and wakefulness, until one when I got up and hunted for something. A couple of glasses of the homemade wine Uncle Chuck had given me several years ago sickened me, the taste almost not worth the warmth it sent through me. That and two Gravol let me sleep after three and made it nearly impossible to wake up at seven.

The shower doesn't make the sick feeling in my stomach go away. I try to think about the day at hand. First, I have to check on payroll, then see what's outstanding in the bills, what parts are on order, and what customers have been waiting the longest.

I'd placed an ad in
The Telegram
for a mechanic the day before things changed between me and Bryce—when Jamie had bugged me about moving on and I'd wanted to show him that I could. I could fill the extra bay we'd had since Dad died. Or at least I could put the ad in the paper. I wonder what has happened to the applications and applicants. Would Bryce have handled it? He's not the best people person. Jamie? He's too much a people person. He's probably hired everyone who applied.

A flash of Jamie makes me stick my face in the rush of water from the shower, hoping to wash it away. Only then do I realize how hot the shower is as I feel it burning my face. No use. Jamie's face is still there in my mind, looking kind, looking loving. I told him yesterday that I need time to think about us, that it feels like everything is going too fast. Why then does it feel like it's not going fast enough?

When I get to work, the office has changed. Hanging baskets on the wall hold completed work orders, two metal file organizers sit on the desk, full of files bearing neat labels like “payroll,” “parts,” and “invoices.” To one side of the desk is a stack of what I can see are résumés and cover letters. Nothing else sits on the desk except two pens and a desk blotter that is a current calendar, replacing the one from 2004 no one ever bothered to change.

I have mixed feelings about this order when I'm used to chaos. I know this is Bryce's work and my first instinct is to be angry about how he took over, how he organized my well-unorganized system.

But mostly I feel that this is the perfect start to my new beginning, to the one I vowed to myself as I lay awake last night. This place has changed. This familiar, safe, routined place has once again changed, but this time it's more than just one missing man or an empty bay and open toolbox. This is a change in the routine that had surrounded those things, had kept them safely enshrouded in the past. A clean desk: the proverbial clean slate.

“I didn't expect you here today.” A voice behind me jolts me out of my thoughts. I'm afraid to turn around and face him,
afraid he will see the truth inside me, the changes I have promised myself. If no one knows my plan to change, no one will know if I fail.

“I didn't expect to see this.” I don't turn around but continue to look at the desk.

“Me and Bryce did that.” I know he's lying. Jamie is clean but his idea of organizing involves making neat stacks of coupons, bills and papers. No need to sort through them, just as long as they're neat looking.

“It was just Bryce. I know you better than that.”

“But don't get mad at him. You can get mad at me. I let him do it. It's only been a couple of days now but it's working out.”

I turn and I know he sees it. He steps back. He is so in tune with me, so aware of me, I feel naked in front of him.

“None of us let anyone do anything. We just don't stop the things we want to happen. That's not exactly the same.”

“No?” His left eyebrow punctuates the question.

I shake my head and turn back to the desk. “I think it looks great here.” I touch the stack of papers in the corner. “Are these the applications for the new mechanic?”

“Yeah. We left them there. Not sure what you wanted to do. The best ones are on the top. There's four or five pretty decent ones there. Bryce and me went through them.”

“Thanks.”

“You okay?”

“Yeah, I'm good. Now, I have to get moving on this paperwork and there seem to be plenty of work orders there for you. Let's see, something easy.” I start to shuffle through the work orders.

“I'm already on an engine job.”

“What?” I turn around and face him.

“Bryce is helping me. So is Ray. I'm replacing the valve seals.”

“That's an eight-hour job. We can't charge the customer if you take longer.

“I came in yesterday evening and worked on it a bit. And early this morning.”

“Early?”

He shrugs. “Couldn't sleep.”

I fight a smile and think of Jamie's white shirt that second day he came to work.

“What did you do last night?” he asks.

“Not much. Watched TV. The usual.”

He opens his mouth, looks like he's going to say something but doesn't.

“Better get back to it,” he says.

I don't see Bryce until about noon. I don't know if he's busy or just avoiding me, but the lack of interruptions means I get caught up on paperwork. I call six mechanics for interviews, double-check all the paperwork Bryce has done and find nothing lacking. I send out numerous invoices, ones Bryce hadn't gotten to yet. I should never doubt Bryce. He was practically Dad's partner and knows every part of this business as well as, probably better than, I do.

I decide to teach Jamie more about it too. If he can learn how to do an engine job, he should be able to create an invoice. It's time he shared some of the burden. Time I let him. I don't doubt he'll be eager to do it. I just have to be willing to take the burden off me and share it.

Bryce grins when he sees me. “You look almost happy there in the middle of all those papers.”

“Well, you sure made my job easy with this new office we have here.”

Bryce blinks his eyes and wobbles his head on his neck, pulling back in a sign of surprise.