Imaginary Friend Read online

  “What do you think, Mom?” Christopher asked.

  “Not bad,” she said, trying to sound casual.

  Mrs. Soroka kept talking about washer/dryer hookups and maintenance, but Kate had stopped listening. What had started as a crush in the living room had grown into a full-blown love affair by the time they mounted the stairs to the bedrooms. She had never had stairs. Only walk-ups. And fire escapes.

  She could finally tell her son not to run on the stairs.

  “Let’s see the master first,” she said.

  “You’re the boss,” Mrs. Soroka said with a smile.

  Kate loved the beautiful staged bed and large windows. But the walk-in closet finally did it. Her face broke into a Cheshire grin, and her palms started to sweat with the anxiety of having to fill so much closet space. Her guilt couldn’t take this many trips to the mall. Outlet or otherwise. But maybe she could go to Goodwill and get some things.

  Stop it, Kate. You deserve this. Breathe.

  “Now, the second bedroom is a little cozy. That’s code for small,” Mrs. Soroka joked. “So, maybe that could be a guest bedroom for relatives.”

  There were no good relatives. There would never be guests. But Mrs. Soroka didn’t need to know that. The guest room would make a perfect office when Kate finally went back to school. It was right above the two-car garage. No more parking tickets during street cleaning days. No more brown paper bags on parking meters. Their brand-new (certified pre-owned) land shark would have its own dock.

  “And this would be Christopher’s room,” Mrs. Soroka said as she opened the door.

  It was perfect.

  A little bed with a desk. A big bay window with room for a child to sit and stare and wonder. A large closet for clothes. A separate storage closet for toys. Nice clean carpet. The whole room smelled like spring. Like lemons without the sour.

  “You like it, honey?” she asked.

  “I love it, Mom.”

  “I love it, too.”

  “So, are we happy?” Mrs. Soroka asked.

  “We’re very happy,” Kate said.

  “Are you ready to make an offer?”

  Kate got quiet. Her heart beat with thoughts of being given the pen to sign her name. But she had already collected her winnings, and when it was all added up and taxes were taken out, she was completely out of debt. She paid for Christopher’s stay at the hospital. She paid for her late husband’s funeral. Then, she paid off all of her credit cards like Suze Orman said to on TV. She started a college fund (for both of them). And when it was all said and done, she still had enough money left for a down payment on the one thing Christopher always promised to buy her.

  Their very own house.

  No more running. No more moving. Her boy was going to have a home.

  Slow down, Kate. Ask the questions.

  “Is it a good deal? Be straight with me. We girls have to stick together, right?”

  “Right. And it’s a great deal. The only reason they’re selling is they bought a condo in Palm Springs to get away from the winter and the son-in-law. This location is about to explode. Even if you went above the asking price, it’s a steal.”

  Kate knew she was telling the truth. She had done her homework.

  “What do you think?” she asked Christopher.

  “It’s the nicest place I’ve ever seen,” he said.

  “Then, let’s make an offer,” she said.

  Mrs. Soroka clapped her hands.

  “You’re doing the right thing! And do you want to know something? I haven’t even shown you the best part!”

  Mrs. Soroka walked across Christopher’s bedroom to the large bay window. She threw open the curtains and let in the view. Right under Christopher’s bedroom was a big backyard with a tree and a tire swing and a jungle gym and a sandbox. It was every boy’s dream. Flat and well manicured. Perfect for football. Perfect for anything.

  “Just think,” Mrs. Soroka said. “You get that backyard, and then take a look right behind it.”

  It was the Mission Street Woods.

  Christopher may have forgotten the six days he was lost in them, but Kate never would.

  “I don’t want to live near those woods,” she said.

  Mrs. Soroka nodded, as if remembering Christopher’s picture in the newspaper when he went missing.

  “Look, me, you, and the wall…Mr. Collins is planning a new housing development a stone’s throw from here.”

  “I know,” Kate said.

  Mrs. Soroka nodded, then dropped her voice to a conspiratorial whisper.

  “Yes, but did you know that he hired my boss to sell those houses? And he’s going to build a road to connect both sides of town? In six months, you will have a house in the hottest neighborhood in Mill Grove that will be worth a hundred thousand dollars more than you paid for it. I like you, Kate. And I’m a mother, too. So, I don’t want you to miss this opportunity. Two words…Ker ching.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Trust me. Those woods will be gone by Christmas.”

  Chapter 18

  They moved the day after Halloween.

  Christopher and his mom were on their knees as they packed their lives in boxes. They were used to moving by now. Michigan was only a couple of months ago. But this was not running away in the middle of the night to get away from Jerry. It wasn’t escaping a town where every signpost reminded her of her late husband.

  This was her own home.

  This was her new life.

  Kate packed up the old hot plate and dishes. She was so excited with thoughts of her new kitchen that she almost accidentally wrapped the cereal bowls with Christopher’s picture from the newspaper.

  The Pittsburgh Post-Gazette had run the story about him. Kate didn’t want her picture in the paper, but she wanted her son to have the glory. So, he went to the jungle gym at recess for the photo with his teacher Ms. Lasko. The photographer, an aspiring filmmaker, took the snap. And on Sunday, Kate proudly got every single copy at the Giant Eagle where she bought the lottery ticket.

  Boy’s Test Wins Lottery

  She looked at her seven-year-old son dragging his Bad Cat sleeping bag into the small pile of boxes near the door. There wasn’t a lot from the old life. Just a few things she was able to sneak into the trunk of the old land shark to get ready to run from Jerry. And a few new things to mark the beginning of this era.

  The posse arrived shortly after. Kate was actually rather proud that they were able to make so many friends in so little time. Special Ed and his mother Betty brought her husband to help them move. Big Eddie had a heart almost as big as his man boobs. He spent the afternoon entertaining everyone with stories about how he put himself through college working for a moving company.

  “Back then, I was ripped,” he kept saying.

  “You’re ripped now, baby,” Betty said, blinded by love.

  The M&M’s pitched in, too, with the help of their two moms. A quiet lady named Sage. And a not-so-quiet lady named Virginia. One a vegan from Connecticut. The other a carnivore from Texas. They were made for each other.

  Little by little, the gang sweated and muscled their belongings into a small truck, generously supplied by Big Eddie’s Hardware Stores.

  When it was all packed, Christopher and his mom went back to look for anything they might have left behind. When they realized the only things left in the motel room were memories, they said their goodbyes to their old life.

  “I will never pay rent again,” Kate said and closed the door.

  When the new land shark pulled up to 295 Monterey Drive at the end of the cul-de-sac, Kate and her son were given a special treat. Special Ed’s mom and dad (“I said call us Betty and Eddie, for Christ’s sake!”) had bribed Mrs. Soroka with a bottle of Chardonnay for the keys to the garage. Two of Big Eddie’s finest employees had set up the automatic garage door. And when Christopher’s mom was about to get out of the car to open it manually, Betty hit the button. Eddie pretended it was a ghost, much to every
one’s delight, and then everyone went inside to begin unpacking.

  It didn’t take long, considering how little they had. The trips to the truck became even shorter once the sheriff came to help after his shift had ended. He and Kate had kept in touch since Christopher had left the hospital. When his deputies found nothing in the woods, the sheriff made sure to call her. And before she put the offer in on the house, she made sure to call him. Christopher’s safety came first. The sheriff did his due diligence, and after combing the last decade of police reports, he assured her that the house was safe. The neighborhood was safer. But if she’d like, he’d walk the area with her to make triple sure.

  “Not necessary,” she said, much to his disappointment. “But if you want to come on moving day, I’m buying the pizza.”

  Deal.

  All day, Kate watched Christopher and his friends try to act like real men. When the sheriff helped her carry in the new furniture (from the outlet mall), the four boys were there to volunteer. When Big Eddie stopped to have his beer, they stopped to have their lemonade. And when the house was done, and Big Eddie fired up the grill to cook his famous “pancake dogs” to “wash down” the pizza, the boys studied his technique with a trained eye and listened to him talk to the sheriff and nodded along as they pretended to be grown men.

  After all, Eddie was the only father any of them had known in a couple of years.

  And the sheriff was the sheriff.

  When their feast was over, the family of friends said their good-nights. Sage and Virginia promised to swing by that week to help Kate clean. Betty promised to swing by to help her drink and watch them clean. Big Eddie said that if she ever needed any hardware to fix the usual first-month-in-a-new-house pain-in-the-ass problems, he’d help out. And Christopher told his friends he’d see them all Monday.

  The sheriff was the last to go.

  “It was nice of you to come and help, Sheriff,” she said, shaking his hand.

  The sheriff nodded, then turned his eyes to the floor. He shuffled his feet like a middle school kid, and his words suddenly sounded as if his chest was beating like a ball in a racquetball court.

  “Yeah, well. I know what it’s like to move to a new place and have no one pitch in. I only came from the Hill District a year ago.”

  She nodded. And he swallowed. And he tried.

  “Mrs. Reese…have you been to Primanti Brothers yet? It’s a real Pittsburgh institution.”

  “No.”

  “Can I take you?”

  Maybe not as elegant as he’d planned. But there it was.

  She looked at him. This big bear of a man who suddenly looked small. She had known enough bad men in her life to recognize a good one when she saw one. But she wasn’t ready. Not even close. Not after Jerry.

  “Give me some time, Sheriff,” she said.

  That seemed to be enough for him.

  “I have plenty of that, Mrs. Reese,” he said, smiling. “Good night.”

  With that, he walked to his car. Kate stood on the porch and watched him drive away through the first few drops of rain. Then, she went inside her very first house and locked the door.

  As she listened to the rain pitter-pat the roof, she walked up her very own stairs to her son’s bedroom. Christopher was already in his pajamas, curled up in bed, reading Robinson Crusoe. Mrs. Henderson recommended the book after Christopher loved Treasure Island so much.

  Kate couldn’t believe how far he had come with his reading in the past month. His math, too. He had started preschool shortly after his father died. After struggling for so long, he was finally thriving. So, maybe his early learning problems had as much to do with stress as anything. Whatever it was, she promised herself to get Mrs. Henderson and Ms. Lasko extra-special gifts at Christmas.

  Those women were miracle workers.

  She sat next to him and read a few lines over his shoulder, tucking his hair behind his ear. She looked around his bedroom at the two things she’d promised to get him with the lottery money.

  The first was a bookshelf.

  This didn’t come from an outlet mall or IKEA, either. Oh, no. For her son’s first real bookshelf, she had combed all over town until she found a lovely antiques shop. She said he could have any he wanted. There were beautiful ones. Oak. Pine. Cedar. But instead, Christopher picked out an old one covered with this ridiculous duck wallpaper. It was the bookshelf equivalent of Charlie Brown’s Christmas tree.

  “You can have any bookshelf you want. Why do you want that one, honey?” she asked.

  “Because it smells like baseball gloves.”

  The second was a silver frame for the picture of his father. He proudly put it on top of the bookshelf as the centerpiece of his room. She stared at the photograph. A moment frozen in black and white. Christopher’s father smiling next to the Christmas tree. That was one of the good days.

  Kate lay there for twenty minutes, listening to her son read his book, his voice as soft as the rain outside. When they were done, she kissed his cheek and tucked him into bed for sleep.

  “Christopher…you bought your mother a house. Do you know who does that?”

  “No.”

  “Winners do that.”

  And with that, she turned off his light with a “One two three…ah-choo!” Then, she went down to the kitchen. After a couple of swigs of beer on the rocks, she started to tackle her bedroom. Her very own bedroom. Other than a few years with her husband, she’d never known a safe home in her entire life.

  And now she was giving one to her son.

  When she finally unpacked the last of her clothes, she realized that they only filled up one-third of her walk-in closet. Normally, Kate Reese would wait for the other shoe to drop. But this was heaven. Sheer heaven. She retraced every decision, every moment that led to her standing in her very own house listening to the clouds drop rain on her roof.

  She felt like it couldn’t have worked out any better if someone had planned it.

  Chapter 19

  Christopher was curled up in his Bad Cat sleeping bag. He listened to the pitter-pat rain, and he felt warm and toasty. The moonlight winked through the streaks of rain on the bay window, casting little shadows on his new bookshelf and picture of his dad. His mom said he could paint his walls any color he wanted because they never had to worry about getting a security deposit back ever again. He told her he wanted blue with clouds. Like the sky. Or Mr. Ambrose’s eyes.

  Without a sound, Christopher got out of his sleeping bag.

  He walked to the bay window and climbed up. He sat there, cross-legged, looking out over his backyard. With the tire swing. And the big field perfect for baseball with the guys.

  And the Mission Street Woods.

  A streak of lightning broke across the sky. The rain leaving impressions of itself on the glass like tears down a windshield. In CCD, someone said that rain is God’s tears. He wondered if Noah’s Ark was from anger.

  Or God’s sobbing.

  Christopher opened the bay window. He looked up and saw the clouds. Little drops of rain fell on the ledge. They were cold on his cheeks, rosy and red. He sat there for half an hour just looking and listening, feeling special and happy. There was something familiar about the clouds. He just couldn’t remember what. But they felt like they were smiling. And Christopher smiled back.

  It wasn’t a voice. It was the wind. It was a whisper. Not like a voice. Like an impression of a voice. Christopher didn’t hear it so much as remember someone saying it to him. But it was there. It was coming from the woods.

  Asking him to come.

  Christopher grabbed his boots and red hoodie off the floor. He quickly glanced at his father framed in silver. Then, he opened his bedroom door. He looked down the hallway. His mother’s room was dark. He tiptoed down the staircase and walked through the kitchen. There was no cookie smell anymore.

  Christopher opened the sliding glass door to the backyard. The fog was thicker now, but he could still make out the trees swaying in the bree
ze. It was soothing to him. Like a lullaby or the nice side of the pillow.

  His feet hit the wet, cold grass. He walked through the fog, past the tire swing, to the very edge of his backyard. He looked back at his house. He saw the log cabin across the street. Every window was dark. Then, he turned back to the trees. And there it was. One foot away.

  The Mission Street Woods.

  Christopher watched them. The trees swaying all pretty and bare and still. Like arms waving in church. Back and forth. Back and forth. He couldn’t see anyone, but he could feel them there. And he could smell the baseball-glove smell even though his baseball glove was packed in the living room in a box.

  “Are you there?” Christopher finally whispered.

  The trees rustled. He heard the sounds of twigs crackling. Christopher’s ears turned red. He knew he should have been afraid, but he wasn’t. He took in a breath, feeling relieved. Because he knew something was in there. Watching him.

  “Thank you for getting my mother a house,” Christopher whispered.

  There was silence. But it wasn’t silence. It was listening to him. Christopher thought that maybe it was right behind him. The tickle on the back of his neck.

  “Are you trying to talk to me?” Christopher asked.

  The breeze wrestled with the leaves. Christopher felt a voice on the wind. It didn’t speak. But he still felt words on his neck. As if the wind pushed through the trees just barely enough to understand.

  Christopher entered the woods.

  The rain hit the tops of the leaves and ran down the trunks in small rivers. Christopher didn’t know where he was going, but somehow, his feet did. It felt like riding a bike. His brain might have forgotten, but his body never would.

  His feet were taking him to the voice.

  Christopher’s heart skipped a beat. He couldn’t see anyone, but he could feel something. Like static that goes crack when hands finally touch. He followed it through the woods, and the light on the trail became brighter. A smell came to him. A delicious autumn smell. Like bobbing for apples. He saw names carved into the trees. Initials of teenage lovers from a hundred years ago. People who were old now.