Endings by Linda Richards (portable ebook reader .TXT) 📗

I was looking at. The language in the small ad wasn’t clear, but that seemed intentional: I knew that the very nature of the thing would force misdirection. It wasn’t clear from the words, but I understood right away that they represented the end of my search.

Have what it takes?

Not many do. A steadfast heart. A steady hand. A talent for invisibility. E-mail for more information.

I stared at the ad for a while, willing the words to make sense. Or to not make sense. Sometimes you reach out and find what you are looking for. And I just couldn’t think what else these words in this order might mean.

So I responded.

I have the things you’ve asked for. More. Can’t imagine what you request next, but I’m ready.

Then I sent it.

Then I waited.

By the time the response came, I’d imagined I’d gotten it all wrong. Getting the terse note in return didn’t entirely reassure me. I assumed this was the nature of the beast. I accepted that they’d have to start somewhere.

Resume? SSN? We’re going to look you over.

Requesting the same stuff they might if I were applying to be a clerk at Home Depot surprised me. But then fair enough, I thought. If it was what I was hoping, they’d need to look me over pretty carefully, too.

I sent the package off by return e-mail. Then waited some more. It was a shorter wait this time. Just a couple days. And then:

We’d like to look at you in person.

They listed an address near me. A park. I told them I’d show and then I did. But they—or he or she or whatever it or they was or were—did not. I sat in the park, on the designated bench between a water fountain and a kid’s play area and waited for … something.

While I sat, I kept a sharp eye out, but I didn’t see anyone who seemed like someone I might expect to meet. A few moms with little kids heavily engaged in park play. There was one old bum parked on a bench across from me. About the time I figured he might be my contact, he sat up and barfed a violent stream of distressingly green puke directly onto his shoes. That seemed too intense a detail to fake, so I ignored him after that and willed away the memory of what I’d seen.

I sat there for exactly an hour. I didn’t look at my phone. I didn’t really fidget or even move a whole lot. I went to a kind of meditative place, accessing an oasis of calm I hadn’t known I possessed. My eyes were busy, but my body was mostly still. Just as I registered with some surprise how long I’d been sitting there, I felt the vibration of my phone. A text. I didn’t recognize the number.

Thank you for your time. We have everything we need.

I sat and looked at the words for a minute, maybe two. Trying to decide what they meant. When I couldn’t make sense of them, I texted back.

I don’t know what that means.

I wasn’t surprised when there was no reply.

CHAPTER SIX

THEN ALL OF the money was gone. Not that there had ever been a lot, but now there really was none, plus the cards were maxed and people were starting to bang at the door. I stopped answering the phone.

Not long before my life as I’d known it had ended, we had re-financed the house for a remodel and the remodel had been completed. Polished stone countertops. Walk-in refrigerator. Two dishwashers—two! There had been a reason for the brace of them when we designed that kitchen, but I can’t think of it now.

The remodel had demanded new furniture. Truckloads of it. And an outdoor kitchen next to the Pebble Tec pool. All the trappings of a beautiful life. My heart contracted now even at the words “Pebble Tec.” In my new reality, I don’t remember what they mean.

My husband’s income had died with him. He’d made good money when he was on the job but hadn’t had the kind of career that offered any type of security. Before long, the money that came to me during my stress leave stopped coming, too. We hadn’t carried insurance, not on our lives. Later, I realized we’d been counting on all three of us living forever. Anything else hadn’t seemed like a possibility. And now here we were.

Here I was.

I could have gone back to work then. They would have taken me. But I could not go back to work. The very thought of doing it made me weep again; made me wring my hands in despair. The deep, silent, sincere sympathy. The pity. And then, beyond that, the hours of meaningless function that would lead to a biweekly paycheck in order to purchase more empty things. And why? And for what? It seemed troublesome now for me to catch my breath, let alone get up and get myself ready to work, or actually go there. No sleepy kisses. No hurried coffee or straightened hair. Going back to work was out of the question. But staying where I was no longer seemed an option, either.

I was a ghost. I wandered around the empty house, sat in the media room with the big TV off, or went outside and trailed my hands through the pool as I watched it turn a little more green every day. In the house that had been my home, there was no longer anything for me. In that house, in that yard, on that street in my hometown. Everything had stopped adding up to sense.

There was no more money coming in, so I stopped making the mortgage payments and paying the insurance and water bills. I could have scraped some of that money together, but why? And for what? There was nothing left I wanted to keep, even if I’d had the funds to do it.

I could have gone along like this for quite some time. Pulling