I clenched my fist, palms soaked. A result of fear but also rage. “How’d she get out here on the porch, with you?” I was afraid to know the answer. Did he have a key? Did he break in?
He grinned. “Well, I confess that was a bit difficult. It took some cajoling. But we played a game and eventually I got her to let me in.”
* * *
I’ll never know what really happened that day when I was out. Still burns me to think back on it because I never should’ve left her. Well, after that, the next time Jake came, I sent him home with a list, and that’s how we’ve been getting our supplies ever since. I fling the rock hard, way off into the dark, wait for the sound of it hitting whatever it is it collides with. I head inside. Slide both locks, prop the shovel. I carry Finch to bed, blow out the candle, and then tumble into sleep myself.
* * *
At lunch on the fifteenth, I decide to tell Finch. I figure it’s time to release her from waiting because I can tell it’s driving her crazy, listening for his truck, watching for it to appear in the yard. Hoping. It’s just not fair, her thinking he’ll arrive any minute, and me knowing that if he didn’t come on the fourteenth, he isn’t coming at all.
She’s at the table, finishing her meal, and I’m wandering aimlessly through the house, trying to determine how to do it. Should I sit and hold her hand? Pull her onto my lap? She isn’t too old for that, not yet. I’m at a loss here, never done this before. She uses the paring knife to slice an apple, careful and precise, just like I taught her.
“Well, what is it, Cooper?” She looks at me, pushes a chunk of apple in her mouth, and chews slowly.
“What?”
“Something’s got you riled up.”
“How—”
“You’re pacing.” She presses the knife down, struggles at the red-green skin, wiggles it back and forth. “Go on, spit it out.”
I’m fairly certain she’s reciting that part, that I’ve said those exact words to her before. Go on, spit it out. I slide into the chair beside her and take a deep breath. “Jake isn’t coming.”
She holds my gaze for a moment, her wide green eyes taking this in, then her face flinches, a flicker of something. Pain, confusion. “No. He’s just running behind. You’ve got to be patient. You’re wrong.” She picks up the knife and cuts another slice.
“Finch, I’m not.”
She shakes her head, presses the blade of the knife into the table. “How do you know? You didn’t talk to him.” Her mouth turns downward, a scowl.
“You’re right. But we had an agreement, the two of us. An understanding. If he ever just didn’t show up on the fourteenth, it’s because he couldn’t. That’s what he said. So, something must’ve changed for him. Something happened where he isn’t coming now.” I think of the pump in his leg, the way he grimaced as he climbed onto the porch. All the years, all those antibiotics, fighting that infection. Was he lying in a hospital bed somewhere, suffering? Or had he finally succumbed?
I reach out and try to pull her onto my lap but she resists, tugs her wrist from my hand because, in that moment, I’m the one causing her pain. I’m the one to blame.
Lucky, I think to myself then, that we never went through this with Cindy. All this time, I’d been thinking it was too bad that Finch never really knew her mother, that she had no recollection of her at all, that when I showed her the picture or talked about Cindy, Finch would listen and smile politely, but there was no memory at the sight of her, no pain that would twist and burn. But now I see that if we had to lose her, we were lucky to have lost her when we did.
“You should’ve told me.”
“I didn’t know.”
“Who’s taking care of him? Does he have someone?” She wipes her eyes with the purple sleeve of her shirt. “We should go help.”
“Aw, Finch. That’s nice of you to think about. But you know we can’t do that.” I pat her back.
“I know we have rules. But it’s Jake,” she says, biting her lip. “Don’t you think we could make an exception?”
“Sorry, sugar. We can’t.”
“But why?”
She’s been pushing back, this past year. Wanting to know more about why we’re here and why we can’t leave. I take a deep breath, run my thumb along a crack in the table. We’ve been over the story, many times. Well, an abbreviated version. I look at her, waiting. “You know why.”