Re: 3-11 shift this Sunday
Hey, Red – Can you work this Sunday? Joanne has a family thing. I’ll be there
To: Jake Rogers, Starbucks Management
From: Kacey Cleary
Date: June 11, 2011
Re: 3-11 shift this Sunday
I’ll take the shift. Despite you being there.
No smiley face. No LOL. No indication that she’s kidding. It feels like a blow-off.
That night, I lay in bed, wondering if there was something going on between her and this Jake guy. What if he’s taking advantage of her? What if they’re together?
I couldn’t fall asleep for hours. So I decided that I had to risk it.
It could be a boneheaded move. She may know what I look like. Not that she’d remember me from the frat party. I know I look different from my college days—my hair now shaggy, my face perpetually covered in scruff. I’m leaner than I was back then, but hard.
Just in case, I grabbed a baseball cap and wore a loose jacket, trying not to attract too much attention from my corner, in front of an obscure mirror on the wall that shows the entire counter space. From here, I can hear their conversation perfectly.
I just need to see them together for two minutes and I’ll know if she’s got a thing for the douche canoe I’ve been eyeing for the better part of two hours—a cross between Carrot Top and the Fonz.
If she does?
My chest floods with disappointment at the thought.
And suddenly Kacey’s just there, standing behind the counter in a black employee golf shirt. She must have come in through a back door because there’s no way I would have missed her. I suck in a breath. It feels like a lifetime has passed between the last time I saw her face and now, more than a year ago. Where I was mentally, then and now.
But, more importantly, where is she? I don’t know what else she’s been doing, but it can’t be filling her nostrils with cocaine and her stomach with alcohol anymore. As fit as she looked before, she’s all sinewy now, her arms corded, her movements reminding me of a leopard—sleek and graceful and dangerous. Her face hasn’t changed, in that it’s still hard and unyielding, the smiles fake and fleeting, and never reaching her eyes. Those watery blue eyes that haven’t found their sparkle again.
Will they ever? Why isn’t she getting help? Why is no one making her get help! It’s been over three years.
Her face also has changed, though. She was a pretty girl before.
Now, at nineteen, she’s a stunning woman.
So much so that I struggle to peel my eyes from her reflection as she begins serving customers and pouring coffees, always polite but never warm. It’s almost like she’s mentally not here. That she’s put herself on autopilot, not really noticing her surrounding beyond her purpose for being here.
Kind of like I was for so long.
Until she steps out from behind the counter, that is, and begins weaving around tables, collecting dishes and trash left behind, those strong, lean legs within black, fitted shorts stirring the blood in my body.
And panic.
I duck my head as she passes around my back.
“Done with those?” She swoops in and collects my dishes without my answer, my nostrils filling with the scent of soap and shampoo. I’m guessing she just came from the gym.
“Sure, thanks,” I mutter to her back as she walks away. She doesn’t seem interested in making eye contact. Or any contact. With anyone. It’s for the best, at this point, though just once I’d like to lock eyes with her, feel them on me. And know what she knows.
Know if she realizes this connection we share, being the only two people to walk away from that night, to get stuck within the vortex of its aftermath, unable to move on. Would she hate me for it? Or would it help her to know that she’s not alone? Not anymore. Not with me, here.
Those are the thoughts I can’t shake. But the great news is that she ignores Jake for the most part, throwing him only enough of a bone to keep him happy. A tiny, emotionless smile, a flat giggle. Smart on her part, with him being her manager and all. He seems to drink the attention up like a lap dog.
And she continues existing.
I can tell she hasn’t gotten any better. She may not be tumbling anymore. Maybe she did hit rock bottom, like I did. But I don’t think she’s started her climb back up yet.
What if I could help her take the first steps? Someone has to.
I really should leave.
In another twenty minutes.
■ ■ ■
September 2011
We stopped attending mass when I was around twelve. There was no big political reason behind it; we just stopped going. I don’t think I’ve been in a church—outside of Sasha’s funeral—in the eleven years since. Yet the second I step inside, I’m hit with that familiar smell that I recognize immediately. A strange combination of wood and must and incense.
It seems almost fitting that I’ve broken my rule to stay away a second time to come to church, seeking answers. Specifically, why haven’t Kacey’s aunt and uncle gotten her help?
It took me four trips to Caledonia and risky stakeout sessions to find the parish that her aunt, Darla, attends for Sunday morning services as well as on Mondays, for prayer. It’s a small, old church with brown brick and a tall, narrow steeple.
Darla’s seated in the fourth pew from the front right side, her short, curly black hair sprayed in place, her forehead resting against clasped hands as she prays. I slowly pick my steps down the aisle, easing into the pew behind her and a good ten feet over. Given that it’s Monday and we’re alone in here, I’m fully aware that this is a weird move on my part. But I’m hoping I’m right about her.
Turns out, I am.
“So nice to see a young man in the church, praying,” she whispers with a smile my way.
I return the smile. “I’ll admit, it’s been a while.”
“Are you from around here?”
“Just visiting some friends.” I hate lying, what with Jesus hanging on a cross directly in front of me.
She nods as if in agreement. “I know almost every parishioner here. I didn’t think I’d seen you around.”
With that, she turns back to her prayers, and I silently try to plan out how I’m going to get information from her. After half an hour, I realize that the woman is either a marathon worshipper or she has a lot to worry about. Either way, my ass is getting sore against the hard wood and I’ve given up on this brilliant plan of mine. The pew creaks loudly, echoing through the lofty space, as I stand and walk toward the aisle.
“Do keep your faith up. It’s so difficult to get young people in here and they’re the ones who need it most, what with all the drugs and sex and violence in society today.”
So . . . Aunt Darla’s not a partier. Does she have any clue what her niece has been doing? “You’re right,” I agree. “Do your kids come with you?”
“Oh, I don’t have children. But my nieces live with me and one of them has started coming to confession on Friday afternoons, after school. Now, if I could just get my other one here . . .”
“Not interested in religion?” Come on, Darla. Give me more.
Darla’s tight smile tells me she’s biting her tongue. “Kacey’s not interested in much of anything,” she mutters, and then adds for my benefit, “She lost her parents in a tragic car accident.”
I frown appropriately. “It must be hard to deal with, for her.”
“Well, Livie lost her parents too and she didn’t become a heathen,” she argues. “Then again, I suppose Livie wasn’t the one stuck in the car, waiting to be pulled out.”
A genuine frown pulls my brow together.
She sees my bewilderment. “It took those firefighters hours to cut into the car. How she remained conscious that entire time is beyond me.”