“Let me guess. You expect me to take you back.”
My mouth goes dry because the answer is yes, but I don’t know how to ask him. I don’t know why he’s helping me. I don’t know why he stopped being my friend. More important, I don’t know how to return home without my cell. I have to plug my cell into the power cord in the kitchen every night before I go to bed, in the slot that’s right next to my mother’s. The slots my father checks before he goes to bed.
I don’t know what Dad will do if I don’t have my cell, and I don’t want to find out. And what happens if someone from the store finds my purse, calls my home and Dad answers? Oh my God, what have I done?
I meet Jesse’s eyes and will him to do this for me because I can’t bring myself to open my mouth and ask even though I should. Even though it shouldn’t be a problem for me to do so, but I can’t ask for help. I … can’t.
Behind me, a crow caws and while the sound does nothing for me, Jesse’s eyes snap over my shoulder. He blinks once, twice, a third time, and then with a low curse, he slams into reverse. Dust flies from the rear wheels as he backs into the grass then lurches toward town.
I glance behind me, through the back window, and the massive crow perched on the wooden horse fence bordering our property flaps its giant wings in agitation. A chill runs along my skin, and I rub my hands down my arms for warmth. I swear to God that bird is watching me and that’s not normal. Nothing feels normal.
Jesse takes the left onto the state road and something in the bed of the truck shifts. It’s a shovel, and then my heart sinks as I notice more gardening tools and flowers. All of them in flimsy containers that suggest the flowers are ready to be planted.
I don’t have to be a brilliant detective to figure out where Jesse was going after he dropped me off. I bet he had plans to scatter his grandmother’s ashes today, and that he was going to mark the spot with her favorite flowers.
My stomach churns, and I slink down in the seat, sick to death of being me.
JESSE
If it weren’t for that blackbird, I would have thrown Scarlett out of my truck and took my chances on the votes. Maybe the pastor will be called on by God to vote for me. Maybe hell will freeze over and my uncle will believe I’m responsible by May. But I did see the blackbird. I felt that caw all the way to my marrow. That bird was a dull knife plunged into my chest, and it made me think of Gran.
Scarlett stays silent the entire ride to the Save Mart, holding on to the seat as I take turns at breakneck speeds. It’s her silent protest I’m going too fast. I am, but I don’t care. Being reckless makes me numb.
I pull into the Save Mart lot and back into a spot. Scarlett doesn’t bother acknowledging me as she jumps out and slams the door. I might as well go ahead and put a For Sale sign in the front of my trailer and have the land sold now for how well things are going between me and her. Even though I got her what she wanted, Scarlett’s a brick wall.
I drum my fingers against the steering wheel in an attempt to drain some of the annoyance from my muscles. The flowers I dug up need to be in the ground and rooting soon, or I’m going to lose them and then that will really piss me off. Gran’s urn is in the box on the floorboard, and the goal was to settle her ashes today near her favorite oak, next to my mom. At this rate, I’m not going to be able to start until after dark, which isn’t what I wanted. Not at all.
Scarlett weaves through the parking lot toward the store. Elegance, grace, beauty. Hardheaded, stubborn and every ounce of an ice princess. My gut twists with a flash of guilt. Ice princess. That’s what she called herself, and that’s my fault. What the hell is wrong with me that I feel bad for hurting a girl who feels nothing for me? V’s right. I do need my head examined.
Minutes pass. Cars come and go. People walk in and out. A shiny Beamer washed and waxed the way rich people pay others to do pulls in and that causes a raised eyebrow. Most wealthy people believe they’re too good for discount food.
That car’s familiar. Too familiar. A jolt as Mr. Copeland exits the driver’s side looking as happy as someone swarmed and stung by wasps.
My mind swirls at a whirlwind pace. Scarlett asked for help with a job, needed a ride and asked to be dropped off a quarter mile from home. One plus one means Scarlett’s dad doesn’t know she’s working here. Divide that answer by another number, and I’m betting that means Mr. Copeland might have been in the dark about her having a job at all.
I grab my cell then curse. I don’t have Scarlett’s number, never have, but she needs to be warned. There’s a bull on steroids with sharp horns on the warpath. My hand grasps the handle of the door as Scarlett steps out of the store with her purse in hand.
Her father says her name, her head jerks up and her expression of pure fear causes my heart to stop. I’ve seen that look before. I saw it on my mom, too many times, and I wasn’t fast or strong enough the last time.
Mr. Copeland’s mouth moves, and Scarlett’s eyes widen. He grabs her arm and my vision tunnels. His hand is on her arm, and it’s clear she doesn’t want it there. Mr. Copeland pivots on his feet, goes for his car and drags Scarlett with him.
My door screeches open, and Scarlett whips her head in my direction. My feet are on the ground, I step toward her and she shakes her head at me, violently, and mouths, no. I halt dead in my tracks, and I squint because there’s no way she’s telling me no. But she does it again. She shakes her head at me, her black hair flipping with the movement, and she mouths, Please don’t.
I’m paralyzed. Every ounce of me needs to intervene, but our eyes meet again and her fear practically creates a direct connection between us.
If I step in will it be worse? I know she can’t hear me, no way at all, yet she nods and that nod keeps me rooted on the spot.
Scarlett’s father releases her at the passenger side door. She’s slow to get in while he yanks his door open hard enough that if it were my truck the door would have fallen off the hinges. He starts the car, his engine too smooth to growl. He backs up without looking and slams the gas so hard that he probably hits forty before he reaches Main Street.
A glance at the bed of my truck. I have things to do, promises to keep to my gran. But I made a promise to Scarlett first, and it broke my gran’s heart when I reneged on that vow, which is why I’m guessing she made Scarlett one of the people responsible for the vote.
I thought you promised her you would always be her friend, Gran had once said to me.
“I did, Gran,” I mumble to the ground.
Then why’d you stop? Why did you hurt that girl? Hurting her is hurting you, and I don’t want to see you hurt.
The words in my brain aren’t real. Just memories of a conversation we had too many times to count. “You know why.”
Keep your promise to her, Jesse. You’re nothing if you aren’t a man of integrity. You’re nothing if you don’t know how to be a real friend.
“I let her go to save her.”
From who?
From me.
I want you to love.
“That’s the problem, Gran. That’s always been the problem.”
A blackbird lands a few feet from me, inches from a dead carcass. The bird looks at me. I look at him. It’s like staring into a black abyss. It’s a lot like looking inside myself.
SCARLETT
Dad doesn’t take me home. That would have been predictable and simple. Nope. He throws a curveball, and he takes me to church. It’s not even the small quaint one where Suzanne’s funeral took place. It’s the huge one that was recently built in town.
This is the second time I’ve stepped inside a church since freshman year, and like when I had walked into Suzanne’s funeral, I’m shocked when I don’t go up in flames. I’m also a bit disappointed. Flames would be easier.
Mom, Dad and Isabelle attend church here. They used to go to church on the occasion that it didn’t impede with sleeping in, but after Dad hit Mom last month they became the type of regular attendees who get ticked off when someone els
e sits in their pew. As far as I’m concerned, they’re Sunday morning hypocrites.
We’re in a sad office the size of a walk-in closet. There’s all the religious crap one would expect for a pastor: crosses, stenciled Bible verses on the wall, apple-cinnamon wafting from a Glade plug-in because I guess that’s what heaven must smell like.
On the desk are pictures of a perfect family on the beach. Each little girl is dressed in starched periwinkle dresses and wears a bow in her hair. Mom included. I suppress a gag.
I’m in the exact limb-numbing position as when Dad dragged me in here twenty minutes ago: arms folded, my ankles crossed, and I stare at the brown industrial carpet. Occasionally, I check the clock on the desk. My stomach is queasy as I don’t know where I stand with my father. He’s angry, and I’m angry. He’s disappointed, and I’m devastated. It’s like we’re a slow chemical burn bent on destruction.
“Why?” Dad shifts in the identical fabric chair as the one I’m in. Oddly enough, there’s no anger in his tone, just exasperation.
“You know why,” I whisper in return. While I have the courage to answer, I don’t have the courage to look him in the eye.
“Is this about the University of Kentucky?” Dad asks, and there’s patronizing laughter in his tone. “Do you really think you could afford to pay for school on minimum wage?”
A sharp pain strikes my chest; he makes me sound like a naive fool. The worst part? I guess I am.
“Scarlett,” Dad’s voice drops, “I’m not doing this to punish you, but to protect you.”
Because he lost his sister. I know this, and the guilt inside me screams that I should let this all go—my hurt, my pride, this growing anger—but I can’t. I’ve given up so much over the years, and I can’t abandon this dream.
“About these … sessions,” Dad says slowly, “think about what you say before you say it. Once words are out of your mouth, you can’t take them back. I want you to use this time for you to let go of your grudge with me, but remember to think about your family.”
Of course, this is all for show … for Mom.
The door opens, Dad goes quiet and I lift my head then lower it again. Why can’t I catch a break? Wearing jeans and a white collared shirt, the pastor from Suzanne’s funeral walks in. He smiles at me, but then he stretches out his hand to Dad. “Sorry to keep you waiting. I’m Pastor Saul Hughes. Pastor Morris is in a meeting. As soon as he’s out, he’ll come straight here.”
Dad clasps his hand. “It’s nice to meet you. Thank you for the last-minute meeting. I know it’s after five, but I do appreciate you fitting us in.”
“We’re here for you and your family.” All said with the same smile that’s neither happy, nor condescending nor intimidating. It’s there, plastered on his face, and I wonder if pastors take classes in seminary to look approachable without showing an ounce of real emotion. “In the meantime, why don’t you take a seat in the reception area, Mr. Copeland, while Scarlett and I talk? Betty put on some coffee, and she would love to make you a cup.”
I notice the dark disapproval that flashes over Dad’s face, but I’ve trained myself to spot it. Like how doctors understand the subtle signs of a heart attack.
“When I spoke with Edward a few weeks ago about possibly bringing Scarlett in for sessions, I told him I was comfortable with both of you speaking to Scarlett. And I thought I was to be involved in these sessions.”
Impressive. Dad was able to say all of that without becoming the spawn of Satan. Even more impressive, Dad’s being his normal demanding and controlling self yet the smile doesn’t falter as Pastor Hughes sits behind his desk. Most people back down immediately to my father.
“Edward and I believe it would be best if he continues to handle the counseling sessions for you, your wife and then for you and your wife. Now that Scarlett’s agreed to meet with us, we think she’d feel more comfortable speaking to someone different. We also believe she’d be more comfortable if she meets individually with me for a few sessions before the two of you start meeting together.” He meets my eyes then. “How’s that sound?”
Awful.
Pastor Hughes said I agreed to meet with him. What a strange word—agreed. Does dragged out of the Save Mart and then driven here equal agreed? I don’t want to be here. I want my job, I want my dreams, but once again, being here is the path of least resistance. I know I’m expected to say something to appease him and my father, but I can’t.
The silence goes on for so long that it’s heavy, yet I’m unable to speak.
“Fine,” Dad says. “You can speak to Scarlett, and I give you permission to discuss everything with her.”
Permission is what I obviously need in order to do anything in my life. I’m not sure what “permission” Dad’s granting, but Pastor Hughes seems satisfied.
“We’re here because we’re having rebellion issues with Scarlett,” Dad continues. “She’s been lying to us. I just picked her up from the Save Mart, where it turns out she has been working there without our consent. And recently, she went to a funeral without our approval when we thought she was at home.”
My spine straightens. He knew about the funeral? In fact, how did he know about me working at the Save Mart?
“She also went to Glory Gardner’s for a tarot reading without our permission and was with a person we don’t approve of when she told us she was with her friend Camila. Of which, Scarlett, your mother and I are still debating whether or not to tell Camila’s parents that the two of you snuck out.”
I prop my elbow on the arm of the chair, and I lean my head into my hand. At least Dad hasn’t figured on that Camila’s mom is in on the act, but I’ve been caught and I guess I should be grateful that I’m here instead of home, where he could be losing his mind. I can practically hear Mom cooing, See, he’s changing.
There’s silence, and I peek up at Pastor Hughes to find him watching me. “How did you discover all these things, Mr. Copeland?”
“Scarlett admitted that she was at Glory’s, and I had a client tell me about Scarlett’s job. She was working while I thought she was at the library studying.”
Pastor Hughes switches his gaze to Dad. “And Suzanne’s funeral?”
I raise an eyebrow. Kudos to him for using Suzanne’s name. Dad readjusts in his seat yet doesn’t answer.
“Only the truth is going to heal your family,” Pastor Hughes pushes.
Dad rubs his neck then says, “I installed a tracking app on her cell.”
“You what?” I say.
“Mr. Copeland,” Pastor Hughes says, “will you please give me and Scarlett a few minutes alone?”
Dad mashes his lips together, and though I can tell it literally pains him, he stands to leave. He then places a hand on my shoulder. It’s a gentle hand, a loving hand, one as a child I came to expect and looked forward to anytime he left the room.
But this hand hit my mother last month.
It’s the fifth time this has happened, assuming he really didn’t slap her recently. The fifth time in twenty-five years, as my mother is quick to point out. I’m vaguely aware of some of the incidents when I was younger—I don’t remember the actual events as much as I remember the flashes of emotion. I’m fully aware of the one freshman year and then last month. Each of those has been seared in my brain like the crescendo of a horror movie.
“The app is on your cell so I can find you if you go missing,” he says.
I’m a strange combination of hot and cold, and I close my eyes. Should I hate him? Do I hate him? Should I want to hate him?
He hit my mom, he’s taking away my dreams, he tracks my every movement, but he’s sad. He’s broken. He loves me. He just wants to protect me.
Is this what love is?
Is love the way he decorated the living room with sparkly snowflakes when I had the stomach flu and couldn’t attend the fifth grade daddy-daughter dance? He dressed up in his tux while I stayed in my pajamas. I danced on his feet, and then when I didn’t feel good anymore, he
watched Harry Potter movies with me.
A heaviness in my chest, and I wince because every part of me hurts.
Dad finally goes, the door clicks closed, and that leaves me and the pastor looking at each other. Besides Suzanne’s funeral, I’ve seen him before—at this church. I used to attend with my family every week. But that was before Dad hit Mom my freshman year. After that, God and I stopped talking. Maybe I’m the one who stopped as I’m not sure He was ever talking to me.
Pastor Hughes talks. He explains that I can call him by his first name, Saul, but I’ll pass on that. He explains that anything I divulge will be kept confidential, even from my parents. I pull a loose string off my shirt. He says other things that sound good, sound pretty. He asks questions I don’t answer, and then I roll my neck because I want this to be over. I want this entire season of my life to be over.
Then there’s silence, and somewhat embarrassed, I look up. Lost in my own thoughts I have no idea how long it’s been since he last spoke. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”
“I asked how your friends would describe you.”
“Can we please cut to the chase—to what you really want to know? Or can I leave?”
Pastor Hughes stares directly at me. I stare directly back. He mirrors my position, relaxed in his seat and hands folded in his lap. Who knows? Maybe I’m mirroring him, though I can’t remember moving.
“I want you to know that I’m aware of some of your parents’ issues,” he says, “and they’ve given me permission to talk to you about certain things.”
Sure, he is, and sure, they have.
“I’m not here as an advocate for them. I’m here as an advocate for you. What you say to me will remain confidential,” he repeats.
I snort. I don’t mean to, but it happens regardless.
“What?” he asks.
I shrug a response.
“Tell me?” he pushes in a kind voice.
“If Dad wants to know what I tell you then he’ll find out.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because that’s who he is.”
Only a Breath Apart Page 11
