Jake
An angry shout from the front room makes Mrs. Lowe jump, splashing boiling water from the kettle over herself. I’m halfway out of my seat, but she waves me back down with a short smile and hurries past me.
“It’s fine, don’t worry,” she says as she disappears into the hallway.
I stare after her. More noises issue from the front room. What the hell is going on? I get up and follow after her.
As soon as I push open the door, I see that the dining room is no longer the dining room but has been converted into some kind of bedroom. There’s a bed where the table used to be, and, over by the window where there used to be a sideboard, there’s a small table with a wheelchair pulled up to it.
It takes me several seconds to reconcile the shrunken, gray man with the twisted body sitting in the chair with the image I have of Em’s dad. What the . . . The breath slides out of my body. Jesus.
Mrs. Lowe is bent over the wheelchair talking quietly to her husband.
I hover in the doorway, unsure what to do, but then Mrs. Lowe looks up at me. “Come and say hi, Jake,” she says.
She must see the look on my face.
“He was diagnosed with MS a couple of years ago.”
MS?
“Hi,” I say, trying to smile but aware that the horror of what I’m feeling must be reflected in my expression.
“Jake’s back for the summer,” Mrs. Lowe explains to him. “He’s working at the store.”
I shoot her a glance. I just quit, or doesn’t she remember?
“Em needed some help managing things,” she explains with a strained cheery voice as she fixes Mr. Lowe’s pillow so it supports his head at a better angle.
“I’m just going to get a glass of water for him,” she says to me, and before I can offer to do it for her, she’s gone.
I stand in front of Mr. Lowe, feeling like a soldier facing a firing squad.
“Sit,” he suddenly barks at me.
I’m so stunned I drop straight into the chair behind me. His words are a little slurred, but I can see the intelligence in Mr. Lowe’s eyes, along with the frustration and anger that’s so obviously eating at him.
“Why back?” Mr. Lowe slurs. Straight to the chase, then. That was always his way.
I feel like I’m strapped to a chair in an interrogation cell. I consider lying to him, but I can’t. I look him in the eye. “I wanted to see Em,” I tell him.
When my mom asked why I was going back to Bainbridge for the summer, I told her it was to see old friends. When my coach asked, I told him it was because I wanted to get back to my old training ground and reconnect with what I loved about the sport.
Really it was because I wanted to see Em. I couldn’t put it off any longer.
“Hockey?” he asks next.
I nod. “Yeah, I’m still playing.”
“Top prospect.”
I frown in puzzlement. He would have to be following my career to know that. “Yeah,” I say. “For the moment.” It’s as easy as sliding on ice to drop from being top prospect to being a nobody, is what I’m thinking. Just ask Rob Walsh. An injury is all it takes. Or one stupid mistake.
“You signed already?” Mr. Lowe asks.
I nod. “Yeah, to the Red Wings.” I was a first-draft pick. When I finish college, I’ll hopefully start playing for them. Mr. Lowe nods as if he’s hearing this for the first time, but something about his smile tells me he already knew this bit of information too.
“Em faster,” Mr. Lowe says now, and a bit of spittle appears on his bottom lip.
“What was that? I didn’t catch it,” I say, grinning.
He laughs.
“She might have been faster than me then, but not anymore,” I tell him.
He nods his head, but the laughter has died. I notice the spittle hanging from his lip is still there and impulsively grab the tissue from the table in front of him and lean forward to dab it away. “Does she still play?” I ask.
Mr. Lowe turns toward the window and grimaces.
No, I guess she doesn’t still play. I often wondered if Em had quit hockey. I couldn’t imagine how she’d be able to keep playing after what had happened. “So,” I say after a long quiet pause, “Rob Walsh, huh?”
I try to keep my tone light and conversational, but when Mr. Lowe turns back to face me, there’s no disguising the sneer pulling up his top lip. I’m kind of happy to see it there.
“I just—I don’t get it,” I say, shrugging at him.
He studies me for a long, hard moment. “You weren’t here,” he finally says, struggling to enunciate the words clearly.
I turn away and stare out the window at the wonky mailbox. Is that true?
I wonder how long Em and Rob have been dating. I wonder even more what the hell she sees in him. She must have had dozens of guys after her. I mean, we’re talking about Emerson Lowe. Every boy at school was equal parts terrified of her and in love with her. Or maybe it wasn’t love. Maybe it was awe. I know I felt all those things and more.
“How on earth did they end up dating?” I ask, though it’s more a whisper under my breath.
Mr. Lowe turns from the window to look at me. “He was the only one who was nice to her.”
I frown at him. The only one that was nice to her? Were things really that bad? I can’t imagine how bad they must have been for Em to think Rob Walsh was her best shot at happiness. Pretty goddamn horrific is the only answer I can come up with.
I look up then and notice Mrs. Lowe standing in the doorway holding a plastic sippy cup of water. How long has she been standing there?
“I should go,” I say, making a move to stand.
She smiles at me. The lines around her eyes crinkle. “Thanks for staying to talk.” Her gaze drifts to her husband, and I wonder how many visitors he gets. He was always a really proud man—Em took after him on that score. I’m sure he hates people seeing him like this.
Em’s mom walks me to the door and just as I’m leaving, she says, “So, do I need to look for a new member of staff or not?”
I shake my head at her, embarrassed now that I even came around and told her that I was quitting. They clearly need as much help as they can get, and I’ll do whatever I can to not make their lives more complicated. I owe them that at the very least.
She takes my hand and squeezes it. “Thank you, Jake.”
I nod, feeling a lump rise up my throat—at her kindness, at what she and Em are dealing with, at how unfair everything is.
“By the way,” she says as I walk out the door, “have you been up to the labyrinth?”
“The what?” I ask.
She smiles again. “You have to see it. You’ll like it. It’s one of Emerson’s favorite places to go.”
I shake my head at her, confused. What labyrinth? What’s she talking about?
“You remember where the Ollendorfs used to live?”
I nod. “Near Blakely Harbor?”
“Yes. Just go past their place and up the hill. It’s there on the right. You can’t miss it.”
“A labyrinth?” I say.
She nods and I leave.