Or the right words just haven’t been invented yet.
I reach out to close the back door and shut this whole interaction down when I notice something real quick. Something I remember distinctly noticing was there just last night.
The eye charm thingy is missing.
The one from Turkey.
I look at the foot of the doorway, down the porch steps to the dirt, and out at the yard. But no. No jingling blue silver anything. Nothing.
Nowhere to be found.
I look out at Mike, having a conversation with his crew.
No, he wouldn’t take it.
I mean, didn’t he just say he wouldn’t take any “tchotchkes”?
Of course he wouldn’t.
And maybe I look around at all the other outside doors to find the Istanbul eye thingies and maybe all of them are gone, too. All gone. Not a one left.
And maybe that could freak a girl out but, then, that girl might not be me. Because I am just going to assume that perhaps some of the crew thought they were kind of nifty and decided to take a few of them home to their wives and/or girlfriends. Or maybe someone passing on the road there took a shine to them. Whatever the case may be, it’s not a big deal that they were there and then not there. It’s just not a big thing.
Let’s not let our imaginations get carried away, now, shall we?
Chapter 21
I wish I could say I was one of those people who just flops down on the bed and falls asleep at night. You know, a normal person. The kind of person who watches reruns of Friends. Or maybe is a big fan of Cracker Barrel. And this normal kind of person just falls happily to sleep, not a care in the world.
But, my dearest dears, I have never been that person. Not since I was a little stick with a mop of hair, looking not unlike a lollipop. I can’t remember a time, or a place, where I did not flop on the bed, no matter how tired, and immediately start going through the catalog in my head of reasons for impending doom. I wish I had just been named Impending Doom. If I had just been named Impending Doom, everyone would know what to expect.
The worker guys outside are cleaning up for the day. At this point I have a habit of waiting for the sound of hammers and drills to stop, then sneaking to the window and staring out from behind the lace curtains at each of them, unsuspecting, putting various screwdrivers and saws in their proper places. You learn a lot by watching people when they don’t know they’re being watched.
For instance, I notice that these guys don’t feel nary an iota of shame walking around in a slump with their guts spilling out over their jeans. Not like girls.
No, it’s too terrible. But these guys. Welp, they just let it all hang out. And another thing, this may sound weird—and it’s quite possible I don’t know anything about this, mind you—but it really does seem like they’ve been digging that hole for the foundation for an awfully long time. Like, the whole time. And every day I expect to wake up and see the beginnings of the guesthouse, but it’s still, somehow, that same amount of dirt dug out of the ground. No change.
Is there some issue with the permits? Is there some issue with the ground? Maybe they accidentally dug into an electrical line? A water pipe? A water vein? What do you even call it? Is there even a way to measure it? To measure their lack of progress? For what? To report back to the professor. Yes, that’s it. I must report their progress.
But then, wait. Am I then a snitch? Am I prepared to be a snitch?
Snitches get stitches.
That’s weird. That just jumped into my head. How do I even know that expression? What am I? A hardened criminal? From C-block? (Whatever that is.)
I’m about to contemplate the intricacies of digging a foundation when—
BANG.
The screen door clanks in its frame from the direction of the pantry, and I feel a sudden draft of air.
I try to regain some sense of composure, but there is Mike, everyguy Mike, standing not two feet away from me. Quite frankly, a little too close. Where the heck did he come from?
I think the rule is . . . you announce yourself. Then, when the other person acknowledges you, you step forward and begin the conversation. This guy is a little too close. This guy is a space invader.
“Oh, hi. Yeah, no, I was just—”
(Spying on your friends.)
(Analyzing your digging progress.)
(Judging your rate of progress.)
“I was just—cleaning the window here.”
He looks at me.
I don’t have a sponge or a rag or nary a paper towel. I don’t have window cleaner, or any kind of cleaner whatsoever in my hand or anywhere near me.
Normal Mike keeps staring at me.
Okay, this is just getting weird now.
Yes, I know I just made up the most ludicrous excuse of all time but, seriously, pipe up, mister!
He stays looking at me, his eyes almost a bit . . . I want to say . . . glassy. Maybe just kind of unfocused. Like he’s looking at me but not looking at me. Almost like he’s looking through me.
I gotta say, Mike is a pretty basic guy and this is definitely not basic behavior. We have left station stop Basic and gone straight to Weirdoville.
“Um . . . Mike?”
He stands there.
“Helloooooo. Anybody home? Mike? Earth to Mike? Come in, Mike?”
And yet nothing.
Alright, folks, now I am officially starting to get freaked out. Before, that was like a minor snafu. But this . . . this is getting a little into dead-eyed White Walker territory.
I take a tentative step backward and the sound of the floorboard, on a scale of one to ten of creaking is probably, I would say, at about a hundred.
CReeeeeEEEEEAAAAK.
Somehow the impossibly loud sound of the floorboards wakes him from his zombie state and he looks around him in confusion. Flustered.
“Um . . . hello? Are you okay? Mike?”
“What? Oh, um . . . I just. Wait. How’d I get in here?”
Well, this is strange.
I look behind him at the back door, ajar, by the pantry and point.
“Looks like that’s probably how . . . seeing that the door is open.” I try to make a joke but both of us are too confused to really feel the humor.
“No, but . . .” He scratches his head. “I was just . . . outside.”
Now he’s pointing to the backyard. The rest of the men seem to be gone and the only sound now is the screen door clattering up against the doorframe.
“Well, hmm. You’re inside now, so . . .”
“Yeah, okay. Um. Sorry to bother you. Musta just—” He turns around to leave, embarrassed, “Musta just not drank enough water or something.” He attempts a vague laugh.
“Oh, yeah. That’s . . . I totally get it. Hydration is very important.”
Yes, that was me who said that, sounding not unlike my kindergarten teacher.
“Well, I guess I’ll see you next week. Have a good weekend!” He dashes off, giving an awkward little wave on his way out the door.
Weekend?
Who said anything about the weekend?
Is it really the weekend? I must have lost track of the date in my halcyon days of summer here.
Isn’t the weekend supposed to illicit some sort of general elation? Like, “Oh, yeah, it’s the weekend! Party time!”
But somehow that’s not what I feel when I hear the word “weekend.”
Nope. Not at all. When I hear the word “weekend,” all I can think is . . .