Love Me If You Must

10

Once through the door, Brad took the lead, walking with purpose to each window, jiggling sills and checking latches. I raced to keep up with him as he took the steps two at a time to the second floor and repeated the motions, then thumped down the back stairs to the kitchen.

He walked toward the cellar door.

“Wait,” I hollered when I realized his intentions. “That door stays locked. There’s no reason to go down there.”

He paused with his hand on the knob. “Let me do my job, Tish. I want to get some sleep tonight.”

I crossed my arms. “Fine. I’ll wait up here.”

“No problem.” He turned the latch and stepped into the gloom beyond.

The sound of his footsteps diminished as he reached the dusty floor of the basement. I crept away from my safe haven by the kitchen sink and over to the door. I leaned against the trim, peering down at the dim circle of light on the gray floor below.

I listened for movement. Only an occasional shuffle and thud reached me. A soft breeze drifted up from the cellar and brushed against my cheeks.

Panic rose in my throat.

A ringing filled my ears—the same high-pitched inner whistle I’d experienced the last time I’d braved the basement. And just as before, I felt more than heard a soft, haunting plea.

Help me, Tish.

I shuddered. A voice from the past, nothing more. Why couldn’t she leave me alone? I’d done what she’d asked of me. I’d made the ultimate sacrifice so she could rest in peace. So why couldn’t Grandma just leave me alone?

I put my foot on the first narrow step.

What was taking Brad so long? I threw a glance over my shoulder at the empty kitchen. Hanging out in the basement suddenly seemed more appealing.

I went down another step.

My breath came in panicked gulps.

Memories of the image at the bottom of the cistern forced themselves into my head. The open mouth, the clawing hands, the flailing feet . . .

I wrapped one arm around the railing and shrank against the wall.

“Brad!”

He appeared at the bottom of the steps and started toward me.

“Everything okay?” He gently untangled my elbow from its mortal grip on the handrail and helped me up. “You look scared to death.”

I cleared my throat. “I must be shook up from earlier this week. I guess the cellar still spooks me a little.”

“Everything checks out. We should both be able to sleep better.”

He helped me to the kitchen, and for the first time since my arrival in Rawlings, I wished I had a chair to sit in.

I leaned against the counter instead. “Thanks. I appreciate you looking the place over.”

He walked to the back door. “Lock up after me.”

I followed him and watched as he stepped onto the porch.

His eyes met mine. “Good night, Tish.”

I shook off the rush of longing his whispered words sent through me.

Those teenage prickles that dotted my skin were reserved for David alone.

I faced the mirror the next morning and noticed a crop of flyaway grays that hadn’t been there the day before.

I dialed the Beauty Boutique and was greeted by the chipper voice of Tammy Johnson.

I tried not to gloat as I arranged a Tuesday appointment. “I’ve just got to have my hair done before Friday. David Ramsey is taking me to dinner.”

Tammy’s silence told me I’d hit the mark.

I spent the rest of Saturday staying clear of the cellar door. Since the front bedroom in the second story needed only a fresh coat of paint, I made that my weekend project. By Monday night, the walls, ceiling, and trim were painted, and the room was ready for new flooring.

I woke with a tremor of excitement on Tuesday morning, maybe from the promise of a new me, maybe from smugness. Either way, I arrived at the salon at 10:00 sharp and plopped into the twirly chair at Tammy’s station. The sharp smell of perm solution lingered from a previous client.

I took a moment to admire the distinctive touches that were in keeping with the town of Rawlings’ historic theme. Dark trim traced the lines around the ceiling and floor. On the wall behind me hung a tapestry depicting seventeenth-century women wearing tall hairdos and poofy gowns. A floral swag in burgundy and cream draped the mirror at each work station.

I focused on my reflection as Tammy fingered my frizz. One side of her mouth curled, giving away her apparent distaste.

My stomach twisted. It hadn’t occurred to me until that moment that Tammy was probably the last person I should let touch my head.

I smiled, hoping to disarm her. “So, what do you recommend?”

She stared at me in the mirror and continued to play with my hair. My fingers started to twitch. I contemplated the best escape route if she should come after me with the clippers.

Finally, she dropped my locks. “I’d say you should go with a classic shoulder-length cut. But, I’m afraid you’d resemble Sandra even more.”

“Sandra?” I echoed, even as I realized she must be referring to my elusive twin.

Tammy sighed. “Not everyone will appreciate your resemblance to her. We don’t want to make the situation worse. Could you stand a chin-length style?”

She showed me a picture of one she had in mind.

I glanced at the glossy magazine. The model looked pure chic. I figured I’d give it a try. I’d look classy next to David’s distinguished form come Friday night.

Tammy led me to the washtub. The soothing massage action of her extra-long fingernails against my scalp lulled me into a state of serenity.

“So what restaurant are you going to Friday?” Tammy’s voice filtered through the sound of spraying water as she rinsed my hair.

“The Rawlings Hotel.” I wondered if she was jealous, and thought a change in subject might be wise, at least until she was done with the cut. “So, tell me about my twin. Why does her face cause such an uproar around town?”

She toweled my hair and draped a black plastic apron around me, then sat me back down at her station.

“Sandra.” Tammy shook her head. “She’s one of those women who can cause a commotion wherever she goes. Beautiful, spunky, driven . . . you know the type.”

Yeah. Sandra sounded like the person I’d dreamed of becoming, if only things had gone differently.

Tammy picked up a brush and ran it through my hair. “Sandra and I went to high school together. We were both on the cheerleading squad, in student government, and tied for Most Likely to Succeed.”

The brush slowed and Tammy’s gaze became distant, as if she were lost in memory. “After college, a bunch of us came back home and started up our own businesses. I was content to operate the salon and have time to do other things. Sandra, on the other hand, was totally devoted to building her marketing company. She was based here in Rawlings, but her clients were spread all over the Detroit metro area.”

Bristles snagged in my hair. I blinked back tears.

“Sorry,” Tammy said, untangling the mess. “Anyway, Sandra definitely wins the Most Successful award. She ended up on the campaign team for some guy running for mayor in one of the big suburbs. He gave her credit for his win, and she pretty much wrote her own ticket after that. You can’t beat a six-figure income at the age of thirty-three.”

Tammy put the brush in a drawer and slid it shut with a bang. “I’m lucky if people remember to leave me a tip.”

I frowned in sympathy. I couldn’t blame Tammy for feeling disappointed at the follies of life. My own forgotten dreams were enough to make me resent everyone I’d gone to school with. I hadn’t kept in touch with any of them, but somehow I was sure their lives were going along without a hitch, while mine had bottomed out long ago.

A comb scraped against my scalp and scissors crunched through my hair. I tried not to cry as four inches of split ends dropped to the floor.

Tammy yanked up another section. “Then a few years ago, Sandra hooked up with a guy even more driven than she was. They fell in love, if you can call it that. Anyway, their careers ended up on a collision course, and before you know it, she broke off the engagement. Not long afterward, Sandra left town, never to return.”

I wondered if it was completely rude to ask more specifics. I decided I had a right to know. Sandra’s messy life had spilled over into my own.

“Who was this guy and what happened?” I asked.

“I probably shouldn’t be telling you this. It comes dangerously close to being gossip.” She lifted another section of hair. The scissors hovered, then I heard the snip. “But I better mention it so you don’t find yourself on the wrong side of Sandra’s ex-fiancé.”

“Would I know this person?” I asked.

“You would if you’ve tried to get anything through at the village.” She cut off a chunk of fluff. “Martin Dietz.”

My fist hit my forehead. At the sudden move, Tammy jerked her scissors clear.

“Martin Dietz, huh?” That explained why the man was so barbaric at our first run-in. If this Sandra had jilted him, my face could only bring back the most painful of memories.

But was that reason enough to deny me a permit to knock down the cistern? It seemed he was letting personal grumps get in the way of his job.

“I take it you already ran into him,” Tammy said.

“This past week. No wonder my contractor yelled at me for going over to the village offices.”

“I hope you don’t get the wrong impression. Like I said, it’s just because you look so much like Sandra. Martin’s really not that bad. He’s just getting over a broken heart. I think he’s taking positive steps toward improving his attitude. For one thing, he’s been a big financial backer of our church’s youth group over the past year.”

I almost guffawed at the thought of Mr. Dietz being charitable. More likely, he was trying to buy his way to heaven.

Tammy turned my chin back toward the mirror. “Almost done.”

I hardly recognized the woman staring back at me. I had a neck. And eyebrows.

I tucked one sleek strand behind an ear. I had a face again, and it was pleasant. Pretty, actually. I could even see the green of my eyes now that all the perm and highlights from last year’s visit to the salon were cut out and my hair was back to its original chestnut color. The glaring grays I’d obsessed over this morning had disappeared with the fresh look.

“Wow. It’s great.” I smiled at Tammy in the mirror.

I wondered if she could perform the same miracle with my insides. Snip off a little guilt here, a tortured conscience there, and voilà, I’d be as good as new.

Yet somehow I knew it would take more than a trim to cure my problem.