I’m focused on her face. I catch her eyes widen almost imperceptibly with the initial shock of pain before they narrow again. Water slips into her eyes and they turn glassy with tears that don’t escape. How the hell is she not crying? I saw how hard that hammer hit her. I heard how hard that hammer hit her. I think even I might have cried. I would have felt stupid after, but it probably would have happened anyway. It had to hurt that much. She doesn’t even move. Neither do Chris or Kevin. They’re just staring at her, her hand still on the table. Get the girl some f**king ice. Chris looks horrified. Kevin looks like he has no idea what just happened. She moves now to look down at her hand but she keeps it in place, staring at it. I’m really hoping someone gets up and gets her some ice soon or I’m going to have to go do it. I should have done it already, but for some reason, I’m frozen here, too. I can’t stop watching her. Why won’t she cry? Chris finally seems to break out of his trance and runs to the freezer that’s kept in the shop area solely for the purpose of having ice on hand. Mr. Turner is already over at the table checking her fingers. I watch her just barely flinch as he checks for movement, but otherwise her face is like stone. Or maybe porcelain.
Chris comes back with an ice pack and offers it to her. She looks surprised and almost like she’s about to refuse it. It reminds me of the vise again and I wonder if she’s insane. Then I watch her mind change and she accepts it without any acknowledgment of thanks. I’m glad she doesn’t thank him. He looks guilty as hell. Looking at his face, you’d think he’s in more pain than she is, but he still hasn’t apologized. Kevin is the one who should be begging for forgiveness but I won’t hold my breath for that one. Mr. Turner comes back from his desk with a clinic pass and sends Valerie Estes, the only other girl here, with Nastya, to hold her books.
It couldn’t have been more than a matter of seconds that passed between the hammer coming down on her fingers and when Chris brought her the ice, but it felt longer. Maybe time does slow down. It’s not until she’s left the room and everything has calmed back down that I replay the whole scene in my head. It’s then that I realize that even when the hammer came down, even when the full force of the blow landed on her fingers and the pain had to be excruciating, she never made a sound.
***
You’ve got to be shitting me.
That’s my initial thought as I watch her walk back into my garage for the second night in a row. My eyes go to her hand immediately and I see that two of her fingers are splinted together. She doesn’t hesitate tonight. I initially think she’s going to perch herself back up on the counter where she sat last night. For a minute it looks like she thinks so, too. Then she sinks down, cross-legged, onto the floor and leans her back against the cabinets behind her. She doesn’t seem to mind the layer of sawdust carpeting the ground, but I still wonder why she’d choose to sit there. It’s not like the counter is particularly clean but it’s not as bad as the floor out here. Then I realize that she probably couldn’t push herself up onto the counter with one hand.
I go back to what I was doing before and we remain like this, in silence, for at least half an hour. Me working, her watching.
“Didn’t it hurt?” I finally ask, because I want to know, even though she won’t respond. She turns her hand over in front of her as if she’s trying to decide if it hurt or not. She shrugs. Good answer. What did I expect? I wait a few more minutes, trying to concentrate on recalibrating my table saw and then I ask the real question.
“What do you want?” It comes out nastier than I mean it to but it’s probably for the best. Nothing. It’s driving me insane, wondering what it is that possesses her to keep coming here. It’s not like I’m particularly friendly. Maybe tonight she’ll get the hint and she won’t come back. I try to convince myself that I’m relieved by that possibility, but I’m not convinced. I shove the thought aside and try to focus on the saw.
The silence persists. I don’t know how long she plans to stay, hovering, watching. It’s like having a ghost in my garage. I feel like I’m being haunted. With all of the dead people I’ve got in my corner, you’d think one of them would be the one hanging around. In fact, I used to hope for that. Being haunted seemed like a gift. I prayed for it. My mother, my sister, my father, my grandmother. After every one of them died I would hope that they’d come back, even once, and let me see them again. Give me a sign. Let me know that there was something else and it was good and they were good, but none of them ever came back for me. My grandfather assured me before he left, that there was an afterlife, one he’d seen, if only briefly, a long time ago. I listened but I didn’t believe him. It was a story born of disease and painkillers not memories and truth. He’ll be dead any day now and I won’t be waiting for a sign. I’ll just be relieved that I have no one left to lose.
At ten-thirty the ghost girl gets up and brushes the sawdust off of her pants with her good hand and then she’s gone again.
CHAPTER 16
Nastya
Josh shows up at five forty-five on Sunday, right on schedule. I run to the refrigerator as he pulls into the driveway. I made tiramisu for dessert since everybody seems to like coffee, except for Sarah, and I couldn’t care less about her. My fingers are still splinted so I’ve got to get the dish out with one hand and it’s proving difficult. Margot put it in the fridge for me this morning but she left for work early so I’m on my own. It’s awkward, but I manage to stretch my hand over the edge and get a good enough grip on it. The doorbell rings just as I get there, but now I have the dish in one hand and I can’t grab the doorknob with my left so I’m just standing there for a minute, holding tiramisu and looking at the door. Finally I have to put the dish on the floor so I can use my right hand to turn the knob.
Josh is standing on the porch, hands in his pockets, looking as if he’s picking me up for a date. His hair, as usual, hangs over his forehead, just a little longer than it needs to be. Like a kid who doesn’t have a mother nagging him to get it cut. I hate to admit how well he cleans up, dressed in a burgundy polo shirt and khaki dress pants, not that I mind the worn out jeans he’s usually in. I’m still surprised to see that he’s not wearing work boots. I was beginning to think they were physically attached to him.
We’re going to have to hurry to beat the rain. I can see the storm forming in the sky behind him. I’ve been inside all day so I hadn’t noticed. Usually I like to sit at the kitchen table and watch the clouds roll in and the sky turn because it happens so quickly here that you can see it change in a matter of minutes.