11

On Tuesday, Rachel arrived home from work, achy and sore. Since Doctor Singh had told her that the fiberglass cast would allow her to continue icing her ankle, she crutched to the kitchen to take out some of the perfectly-frozen new ice packs that Lynn had bought for her. When she dropped an ice pack on the pinkie toe of her uninjured foot, she felt certain the end had come. She texted Ann and Lynn from the kitchen floor: Have decided just to sleep here by the fridge, as I can no longer trust myself to crutch.

Lynn texted right back, counseling Rachel to buy a giant bubble and get inside. Ann texted back a row of laughing faces and a row of thumbs-ups. Hoping to incite pity, Rachel texted them both back claiming that sleeping in the kitchen would not only be easier but also safer, since the Memento Killer would be less likely to look for her there. Lynn texted back an offer to come help Rachel get ready for bed, while Ann shot back a quick text advising her to get up off the floor and stop feeling sorry for herself.

On Wednesday, while trying to pack, Rachel dropped a glass in the kitchen and spent almost an hour trying to clean up the glass without cutting off her own hands. She went to bed before dark. On Thursday night, a fresh wave of moving frenzy hit, and she rushed right home after work and packed frantically to make up for lost time.

“Tonight’s not really that hard,” she told Lynn over the phone. “Just time-consuming. I have a process.”

“A process? Oh dear.”

“Yes. It involves several steps.”

“Why am I worried that this isn’t safe at all?”

“First, I reconstruct a box by taping the bottom flaps back together.”

“Good plan.”

“Then I set the box in the center of the room. Actually, I sort of throw it. But anyway. Next, I get into the computer chair and roll over to the bookshelf or the entertainment center or whatever I’m packing up.”

“This already sounds risky,” Lynn said. Rachel could hear the sound of pots and pans clanking in the background. Presumably, Lynn was making supper, although it was already after 7:00. “Roller chairs aren’t exactly sturdy.”

“I get up from the chair and start loading it up like a wheelbarrow—”

“Like a wheelbarrow?”

“Like a wheelbarrow, but without sides. Don’t judge.”

“I’m not judging. I’m just saying. I hope you’re careful.”

“Anyway, I put a bunch of stuff on the seat of the chair and then roll it back toward the empty box.”

“How do you manage that?”

“It’s easy. I crutch a step, then nudge the chair forward with my knee, then crutch forward another step, then nudge the chair another fraction, and so forth. Actually, it’s not easy at all. It’s really stupid. But it gets the job done.”

“How do you keep stuff from falling off the sides of the chair?”

“I don’t.”

Lynn clucked. Rachel heard a timer go off in the background. “Hold on a sec,” Lynn said. She then called for Ethan and Alex to wash their hands and sit up to the table.

“You’re eating kind of late,” Rachel said.

“You haven’t eaten yet either.” Lynn’s voice warmed, taking the edges off as she repeated one of Rachel’s favorite mantras back to her. “Don’t judge.”

“I’m not judging,” Rachel said. “I’m just saying. I have to finish packing this box and then let my foot drain.”

“How long will that take?”

“Possibly forever.”

“Want to come over for dinner? I made plenty.”

“You know I can’t.” Rachel, who had been scooting the loaded computer chair across the room during the entire conversation, swept the pile of items unceremoniously to the floor and lowered herself slowly onto the seat, being extra cautious to keep the chair from rolling out from under her. She lifted her casted foot high. “I have to finish this. And I’m exhausted.”

“You do sound tired.”

Rachel heard water running in the background. She pictured Lynn in her warm kitchen, washing her hands before sitting down to a delicious dinner with her little family. Rachel looked around her messy apartment and wondered when it had all gone so wrong.

“I’ll bring you some leftovers when I come by tomorrow.”

“You’re coming by tomorrow?” Rachel perked up.

“To help you pack, remember?”

“But not tomorrow,” Rachel said, confused. “Tomorrow night’s Friday. Ethan has jiu jitsu class, doesn’t he?”

“Oh, yeah. I’ll come by later in the weekend, then.”

“Which night?”

“Whichever. I need to stop by as much as I can before you guys move all the way out to State Road 47.”

“Tell me about it. I’ve never even been to that side of the county. Ann says it’s really peaceful out there, so I guess that’s something.”

“Peaceful,” Lynn said musingly. “That’s a nice way to say isolated.”

“I’ve been trying not to think about that,” Rachel admitted.

“You know, with all of these murders that have been happening, I don’t know that you two moving all the way out there is such a good idea.”

Rachel sighed. “First of all, the Memento Killer’s murders haven’t necessarily been in isolated locations. So moving out to the boondocks doesn’t necessarily mean we’re in any more danger than if we stayed here. Think about it! That woman from Dr. Singh’s office lived in a neighborhood just like yours!”

“I try not to think about that,” Lynn said.

“And second of all, we gave up our lease on this place. Most of our stuff is already packed. It’s not like we can just not move.”

“You could always move in with us.”

“You’re hilarious.”

“Just for a while. Until it’s safer.”

“Where would we sleep?”

“In Ethan’s room.”

“Where would he sleep?”

“On the dog’s bed.”

Rachel laughed.

“Got to run. Dinner’s ready. Stop by for coffee on your way home from work tomorrow, and I’ll give you the leftovers,” Lynn said. “I want to see you.”

“If you insist.” Rachel tried to sound put-upon. “Although I’m not very good company right now.”

“There’s nothing wrong with you that a little coffee won’t fix,” Lynn said, a smile in her voice. “A little coffee and a whole lot of prayer.”

“You’re not wrong.”

~*~

While Rachel’s personal life slowly pulled apart at the seams, she strove to keep herself pulled together during the school day, at least.

“So Romeo’s just going to the party in the first place to meet up with this Rosemund girl—” Chris was saying.

“Rosaline,” Rachel corrected calmly.

“Right—whatever. Rosaline. But that’s how he winds up meeting Juliet.” He shook his head, sneering. “How ironic.”

Rachel held up a hand. “Wait, ironic?” she asked. “Are you sure?”

Chris gave her a hard look. His dark, bushy brows drew together.

“Better give it the Irony Test,” Rachel recommended. The class groaned. “Just do it,” she told them. The students faced off with partners across the aisle and fell into quiet bickering.

Denise and Justin were the first to raise their hands. “We think it’s just coincidence,” Denise said, laying out her hand for a low five. Justin slapped his palm against hers and nodded at Rachel. A few other pairs raised their hands in agreement with the coincidence verdict. In the back, Ryan waved his skinny hand and shook his head vigorously.

“It’s irony,” he insisted, “because Romeo expected to spend the evening reconnecting with that girl—”

“Rosaline,” Rachel sighed. Nobody ever cared about poor Rosaline.

“OK, with Rosaline. Instead, he winds up meeting this entirely new girl and falling for her and then eventually dying. So it’s irony, because irony is something contrary to expectation, and there’s no way anybody expected that to happen.” He concluded his little speech with a triumphant look, scanning the classroom for validation.

Chris smirked. “Except for all of us, who knew what was going to happen before we even opened the book.” He pointed to a sketch of Romeo and Juliet undergoing death throes on the cover of his script. Ryan rolled his eyes.

“I kind of see how it might be either one.” From over near Rachel’s desk, Carl piped up. His fingers ran back and forth along the edges of his desk as he considered.

Denise nodded, thinking. “If it was ironic, wouldn’t there—I mean, I think there would be something else going on. Something to make it more… ironic. You know?”

“What do you mean by that?” Rachel asked.

“I’m not sure,” Denise said. A crease formed between her eyebrows and she stared straight ahead, thinking.

Rachel could almost see Denise pulling at the mental thread, searching for where it led. She smiled slightly. “I think you might be on to something.”

Obviously bored by all the equivocation, Chris stuck his feet out in the aisle, crossed one ankle over the other, and cleared his throat loudly. “So which is it?” he asked. “Is it irony that he meets Juliet, or is it coincidence?”

Rachel had a sudden vision of Call-Me-Matt as he leaned toward her in the waiting room of Dr. Singh’s office, his brown eyes smiling into hers; of him walking toward her down the aisle of the church, somehow straight and firm even with his limp.

No matter how much evidence there was to the contrary, most people associated good looks with qualities such as kindness, intelligence, and goodness. Such assumptions would give a handsome killer a distinct advantage—as, indeed, had been the case with Ted Bundy.

Not that Rachel really thought Matt was the Memento Killer. Not necessarily. But if he were, nobody in their right mind would suspect him.

Rachel thought of all those poor, innocent women who had made eye contact with their own killers, unaware of what lay in store for them. She wondered why, with all the publicity surrounding the killings, the victims hadn’t recognized their own danger when the mementos starting showing up. Did these women not watch the news? Had they harbored secret hopes that their situations were different and that the gifts were from actual secret admirers? Had they just been in denial? Realizing that she’d zoned out, Rachel shook her head and regrouped, focusing her eyes on Chris, who waited expectantly for her verdict.

“I’m going to let you all think about that tonight,” she said, “and develop your own theories, which you will deliver to me tomorrow in the form of a one-page essay.”

More than a few narrow-eyed looks shot Chris’s way for having raised the question in the first place. The bell rang. Students jotted down assignments, stuffed their books into their backpacks, and began leaving the room.

“It was a good question,” Rachel said to Chris as he passed her on his way out. “And it actually gives people a lot to think about. It’s a little bit like comedy and tragedy, you know?”

Chris tilted his head, lost.

“You’re never sure what things mean until later. Just like Romeo didn’t know what his decisions meant when he was making them.”

“I guess that’s true,” Chris said, shifting his backpack higher on his shoulders.

“You never know when you’re going to meet someone who will change your life,” Rachel told him.

“Like you’ve changed mine,” he joked dramatically, hand over his heart.

Rachel laughed.

~*~

“I’m so glad it’s Friday,” Rachel told Lee as they made their way slowly across the staff parking lot at the end of the day. As soon as they reached her car, she took her backpack from him and dug in the front pocket for her keys. “This week has been the worst.”

Lee stuffed his hands into his pockets. “How’s the packing coming? Almost done?”

Rachel frowned. “I don’t want to talk about it.” She pulled out her keys and clicked the button to unlock the car. “Next time I move, I’m just going to burn all of my stuff and start fresh.”

Lee took her backpack, opened the driver’s door, and tossed the backpack onto the passenger’s seat. With a sigh, she lowered herself into the driver’s seat and flipped down the sun visor.

Lee angled her crutches in the backseat, so she could reach them easily when she got home. She pulled her foot inside the car, and Lee pushed the door shut.

As she cranked the engine, a blast of hot air hit her in the face. She switched off the air conditioning until it cooled sufficiently to be effective and rolled down the window. “Any fun plans this weekend?”

“Same old, same old,” Lee said, scratching his beard. The light of the low afternoon sun behind him lit the very tips of his hair, surrounding his head in a fiery nimbus. “How about you? Just packing?”

She sighed, squinting in an attempt to see him clearly. “A little. It’s mostly cleaning at this point. Oh, and trying not to fall and break my other leg.”

“Yeah, maybe don’t do that.”

Rachel slipped on her sunglasses. “I can’t wait ‘til this move is over. And the school year ends. And my cast is off. And my life stops being ridiculous.”

“Don’t hold your breath on that last one.”

Rachel swatted at him, but he rocked back on his heels, swaying just out of reach.

“Keep an open mind,” he told her. “Maybe the weekend will surprise you.”

~*~

It wasn’t long before Lee’s words became prophetic. Rachel arrived home to discover that a dozen long-stemmed roses had been delivered to the apartment. Printed in careful block letters on the accompanying card were two small words.

For you.