Page 10 of Save Me

“The farm?” Everything about Jamie MacDougall’s boyish charm and do-good attitude suddenly clicks into place. “Up at the crack of dawn, cow-milking, egg-gathering, chicken-feeding kind of farm?”

Jamie nods like it’s no big deal. “But I’d always wanted a job with the police, or to be a firefighter, or some career where I could help people. So, when I got older, I went to college and got my undergrad, and worked for the Seattle Police Department for several years. Then I was head-hunted by the Marshals. My brother Camdyn mostly runs the farm now. Da still putters around but his days of heavy lifting are mostly behind him.” I can’t believe the volume of information Jamie is freely sharing with me. We talked a lot in the safehouse, but he always kept information about his family and life outside of the Marshals very limited. “I guess I always figured someday I’d go back and help.”

“When the world doesn’t need saving anymore?”

He smiles sheepishly. “Something like that. Yeah.” He rubs his neck and looks around the living room, so I do too. There’s an overstuffed russet-colored sofa on one side of the fireplace, and a coordinating russet and cream plaid-patterned club chair on the other. The coffee table is an old flat-topped trunk, and it all sits atop a handmade braided rug. It’s way too country for my taste, but it’s homey and I’m surprised at how comfortable it feels.

Everything must be in order, because Jamie heads toward the next room, and I trail behind like a lost puppy. I take the opportunity to imagine Jamie on the farm, golden curls shimmering in the afternoon sun, arms flexing as he single-handedly tosses a bale of hay somewhere bales of hay go, a stalk of wheat clenched in his teeth. It almost makes the fact that we’ve wandered into the kitchen palatable.

I don’t envision spending much time in this room for anything other than eating, especially when I spy the large wood-burning stove against the far wall. An actual wood-burning stove with kettles and pans placed around the flat surface, and lots of metal doors on the front, which I assume open to compartments for wood burning and food cooking. It looks incredibly intimidating, and I silently vow to have nothing to do with it. I keep turning, trying to take in the whole pioneer theme while not having a panic attack. There’s a rustic-looking sink and several butcher block countertops, and in the center of the room is a beautiful pine table with six bow-back Windsor chairs. Jamie sees where I’m looking and smiles. “My Da and Cam made the chairs. I helped with the table.”

“Of course you did.” I’m glad Jamie doesn’t seem to pick up on the snark. Or if he does, he’s ignoring it. The skill needed to make such beautiful furniture really is remarkable, imposing even, and it only makes me feel more inadequate. Jamie and his family can build useful things from materials found in their surroundings. I can go into mind-numbing detail about biochemistry, wax poetic about the attributes of any given wine, and compare and contrast various schools of art. Those skills are only useful when trying to impress wealthy customers or rich friends at cocktail parties. I am utterly incompetent at day-to-day existing, and I need to distract myself before I slide into a morass of self-pity and loathing. “Should we unload the car? Or do you want to check upstairs first?” The change in subject is abrupt and my words come out sharp.

Jamie turns and narrows his eyes at me. “When was the last time you slept?”

“What time is it?” It’s said half-jokingly, but Jamie isn’t laughing.

“One.” He cocks his head to the side and waits, his eyes daring me to lie.

I sniff loudly and glance away. “Twenty-nine hours.” I’m actually pleased my brain could pull off the math needed to calculate that because I really am exhausted.

“Mhmmm. Okay. Here’s what’s going to happen. We’re going to unload the car quickly, because between the two of us, it won’t take long. At that point, you can make the bed in the main room. That one will be yours. I’ll deal with the other bed and put away the food while you get some sleep before you have a complete meltdown on me. I’ll wake you for dinner.”

His tone leaves no room for argument, and I bristle. “I’m not a child, Jamie. I am a perfectly capable adult.”

“I know what you’re like when you don’t get enough sleep.” I want to fire back that I’m always a ray of fucking sunshine, thank you very much, but unfortunately, he has first-hand experience.

At the start of my protection, I’d suffered regularly from terrible nightmares. They were emotionally vivid but horrifyingly vague. I’d dream I couldn’t move or yell, as if I were bound and gagged. I’d try to warn people that something terrible was happening, but I couldn’t move my lips, and then I’d panic and wake up sobbing and sweaty, with my heart pounding out of my chest.

My solution? Stay awake until I passed out, too exhausted to dream. After a particularly awful night of one nightmare following another, I stayed up thirty-six hours straight and ended up throwing a temper tantrum to put any three-year-old to shame. Jamie had to physically restrain me, and all but carried me into my room, practically force-feeding me a banana before threatening to sit on me so I would lie down. We’d had a bit of a row about it and I’d finally admitted what was happening and why I refused to sleep. I’d expected scorn or derision. Instead, Jamie volunteered to sit with me while I slept, promising to wake me at the first sign that I was having a nightmare. I’d been so shocked at his generous offer, and exhausted beyond reason, that I’d agreed to give it a try.

When I next opened my eyes, there was light streaming in the window from outside. I’d slept straight through the night, and been surprised to see that Jamie, true to his word, was reading a book in the chair next to the bed. That was the exact moment when my feelings for him moved past “like”, and into something deeper.

I sag a bit and take a breath, knowing there isn’t any point in arguing. “Fine. Let’s go.”

We go back into the living room and out the front door, following the wraparound porch to the parking area. Jamie unlocks and opens the Rover’s tailgate, catching a few of the bags that shifted during the ride and hands them to me. “Non-perishables. These go in the kitchen on the counter.” I grab a few more bags just to prove I’m not useless and go into the house. I dump everything on the counter and turn around, almost running into Jamie carrying a large hard-sided cooler. “Whoops! Sorry, I didn’t know you were so close behind me.”

Jamie sets the cooler on the floor against an empty part of the wall and smiles reassuringly. “It’s fine. Nothing got dropped and no one’s hurt.” He heads back out to the car, and I hurry to keep up. On the next trip, I insist on taking all the remaining grocery bags at once. “Ashley, we don’t need to rush. You can take two trips.”

“It’s fine. I have them.” I’m infinitely glad my vanity forced me to join a gym in San Francisco, and even more glad that I actually went frequently enough that all the bags aren’t too much of a strain, even in my exhausted condition. I half set, half drop the load on the floor in front of the sink and step out of the way to let Jamie come through with another cooler.

On the third trip, Jamie hands me a large box with bedding and towels. “Master bedroom’s up the stairs and straight down the hall. The linen closet is in the bathroom.”

I nod and am about to turn around when Jamie places his hand on my arm. “Here’s your duffel. Make the bed and go to sleep. I’ll wake you for dinner, but it’s alright to keep sleeping if you’d prefer.” I jostle the box until it rests on my hip awkwardly, and take my duffel from Jamie, slipping it over my shoulder before readjusting the box and going inside. I turn left past the door and slowly climb the steps. Now that sleep is mere minutes away, I’m losing steam and the stairs seem like Mount Everest, especially when I hit the landing and have to turn right and climb four more steps.

I plod down the narrow hall and peer into the first room on the right. There are six built-in bunk beds down the right side of the room, two large windows along the far wall with built-in window seats, and five dressers placed at random intervals throughout. It’s a large room, and I suppose it would have to be to comfortably accommodate five children of varying ages at once. The two doors on the left wall mildly pique my curiosity, but I’m too tired to investigate. I’ll do that later.

I shuffle down the last of the hall and step into a large, bright bedroom. I’m immediately enveloped in a deep coziness that is somehow charming instead of cliché. There’s a small reading area directly across from the door, with an overstuffed loveseat, mounds of throw pillows, and two low bookcases tucked under the windows that are stuffed with a variety of books. I promise myself to investigate the contents of the shelves when I’m more awake, but now my focus is drawn past the large fireplace on the outside wall to the four-poster king-sized bed at the far side of the room. It’s covered with a fluffy white down comforter and loads of colorful pillows that seem to call my name. I whimper with exhaustion and stumble further into the room. My duffel slips from my shoulder and I let it fall to the floor, looking for the bathroom so I can finish my task, climb into that heavenly bed, and pass out for a month.

There are two doors on the right side wall, and I assume one of them leads to the bathroom. The first turns out to be the closet. I try the second and sigh with relief, setting the box of linens on the sink top as I reach for the light switch. It takes a minute before I remember there isn’t one. Thankfully, it’s still bright outside and the sun streaming through the window and reflecting in the large, beveled glass mirror proves more than adequate to light the space. Nighttime will be another story, but that’s a problem for future me.

It’s at this point that I register the bathtub. It’s a five-foot round, galvanized steel wash tub, and I laugh, because of course it is. There’s a showerhead positioned over it, and old-time white porcelain handles labeled hot and cold, which answers a question I wasn’t aware I even had about the availability of hot water. The toilet has pipes I can actually see, and I heave a sigh of relief. I hadn’t been completely sure Jamie had been telling the truth about indoor plumbing. The two side-by-side sinks are also galvanized wash tubs, set into an oak vanity with hot and cold handles that match the shower fixture. The bathroom is spacious and charming, and I promise myself I’ll admire it later.

Two doors taunt me from the opposite wall, and I sigh disgustedly, tired of playingwhat’s behind door number one. I open the first, hoping it’s what I’m looking for, but it leads into the first bedroom I’d seen. I close that door and open the other one, and internally cheer when it’s the linen closet. With as much speed as I can muster, I load in the towels, washcloths, and extra linens, and keep the larger set of bedding for myself.

The thought of having to make the bed threatens the tenuous hold I have on my inner three-year-old, but I will myself onward. It’s almost over and then I can sleep. I stumble back into the master bedroom, yank the comforter off the bed, causing the throw pillows to tumble to the floor in a colorful explosion. I step over them and haphazardly put the sheets and blanket on the mattress, too tired to be bothered to tuck anything in, and then haul the comforter back up. With my eyes already half shut, I strip down to boxer briefs, drop the rest of my clothes in a heap at my feet, and climb between the sheets, pulling the comforter up to my chin, and am asleep seconds after my head hits the pillow.

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