“Kiara said that—”
“You talked with Kiara before you talked to me?” His voice pitches up on the end. “How could you? Why would you violate my trust like this?”
“Violate your trust? Tell me how Tabitha knows so many of our conversations. Obviously, it’s been a fun bit of pillow talk for the two of you.”
“Pillow talk? Are you kidding me? I’m stuck with her all the time, and I’m crazy about you, so invariably I told her things. How was I supposed to know she’d use it against me? I’ve never been in love before! Besides, she’s in with the press. Anything they overheard while following us, she’d know.”
His eyes blaze as he stares at me, confused by the turn this conversation has taken.
“Finley, I told you that I love you, doesn’t that mean anything to you? Drugs ruined my life. You think I’d hold you to that level? Why would you think I’m treating you like my next fix??”
“Because you moved so fast. You always tell me that you need me, and you’re dying without me.” I can’t get the words out fast enough. They were better in my brain. Now I’m unraveling. “This isn’t how normal people act.”
His head shifts back as though I hit him. He takes a step away from me to put distance between us. Zane’s eyes narrow to slits before he says, “Did it ever occur to you that I’m not normal?” He lets the air settle between us, sharp and acidic with his venom. Zane’s jaw shifts side to side as he argues with his emotions.
“You want to know my secrets, Finn? Is that what this is gonna take?” Without waiting for my answer, Zane begins his tragic tale.
“My father was a drug dealer in Chicago. My mother was a crack addict he strangled to death in front of me when I was eleven because she took more than her share of the stash. I was dealing on the street by the time I was twelve. We lived in a trailer under an overpass. I probably wouldn’t have escaped that life except my dad was shot in front of me by his boss for holding back on the cash.”
Zane’s lips trembles, from fury or sadness, I can’t tell. “Do you know what a pistol feels like between your eyes, Finn? Because I do. I stared that butcher down and willed him to shoot me because I didn’t care. But for whatever reason, he never pulled the trigger. I ended up on the streets until I turned eighteen. I spent a stretch with a bunch of other runaway teens for a while, but I couldn’t stay clean, so I wasn’t allowed to stay. I moved in and out of youth shelters, food banks, you name it, but I did what it took to stay alive. I only made it through those years because I had a talent for survival.”
“You got left at some orphanage, and that’s sad,” his voice cracks, “but I prayed to any God who would listen that someone would get me out of that trailer, place me in foster care, and get me out of the way of my father’s rage.” Zane points at the dip in his cheek, the one I’ve brushed over and not thought of for more than two seconds. “He fractured my face when I was seven. Threw me down three flights of stairs. Kept me in a closet so no one would hear me crying.”
Tears cut channels over my cheeks. I’ve known my share of heartache, but not like this. Not chronic abuse for well over a decade. Not total abandonment. I’ve had Mona, I’ve had Oliver and Ester and Cecelia, and Zane’s had… no one.
Until me.
And now I’ve betrayed that.
“I won’t bore you with the rest,” he says. “I figure, I had two options in life, become a sociopath, or an actor. Both wear masks. I can become someone new because that’s how I survived. I gave people what they wanted.” He sniffles and rubs the back of his hand across his nose, then wipes it on his pants. “But yeah, I guess I got attached pretty quickly because you were the first one to see me under all my bravado, under all my masks. It was the first time I got to be myself. The first time I ever played in a play place.” He flashes a grin at the memory, but it fades like a setting sun. “I thought you were the first person to want me without motive, without wanting something for yourself.”
“Zane,” I start but he raises a hand to stop me.
“Cooper, Alexander Cooper, in case you want to look me up again. But you won’t find much. No one ever cared about him.”
His name, his real name. I move to catch him, but he’s headed for his car, looking for an escape.
“I guess it’s true,” Zane shrugs, “you’ve never seen past my scars, have you?”
“Wait, Zane. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. I had no idea.”
“Yeah, I know. I liked it that way,” he says, walking backwards and away from me. “I liked feeling normal, like I hadn’t been shattered. You made me feel whole, but that was the real lie, wasn’t it? Because shattered things never heal. You taught me that, Finn. And here you are, teaching me new lessons.”
“Mama?” Oliver’s voice breaches the darkness of the garage as he stumbles outside in his bare feet.
“Oli, go back in the house,” I say through my tears.
“Zane?” Oliver asks. “Zane, you came back!”
My son’s excitement cracks Zane’s hard exterior. Oliver rushes him, and Zane takes him in his arms, squeezing him tight. Hands shaking, he sets Oliver down and pats his head. “I’ve gotta go, Buddy. Take care of your Mama, okay?”
“No, Zane. Don’t go.”
“Please,” I tack on my own petition, “don’t leave like this.”
He shrugs as if it’s out of his control. “It’s gone, Finn. Maybe you’re right. Maybe it never existed. That makes more sense anyway. Guys like me don’t get happy endings.”
The wet earth soaks my jeans as I drop to the ground. Oliver runs after him, but Zane sets him down, whispering, “Stay with your mama, Oli. Stay here.”
“I’m going with you!” Oliver screams through his tears. I dig my fingers into the earth and propel myself forward to catch my son before he gets hurt.
Zane pauses outside his car door, the Camry we bought together the night he played with Oliver. “You are a good mom. You kept him safe. You protected him. You didn’t shove him toward the monsters before you hid, hoping they ate him first. You’re a good mom. I’ve always loved that about you.”
“Please don’t go.” Emotion squeezes the volume from my voice. “Please. I’ll change. I’ll be what you want me to be. Please, Zane.”
The car door opens. Oliver throws himself to the ground, inconsolable.
“I only wanted you,” Zane says. “This whole time, that’s all I’ve ever wanted. But I’m done. Maybe we’re both too broken after all. Goodbye, Finn.”
The car door slams. I barely catch Oliver before he throws himself on the car. I can’t catch my breath. I struggle and gasp, knowing what I’ve truly lost. I’m dying as he pulls away.
“No Daddy Zane!” Oliver screams as he fights against my grip. “Come back! I’ll be good! Come back!”
My breathing speeds to hyperventilating. I can’t stop shaking. My knees buckle. I tumble to the ground. I did this. I ruined it. I trusted the wrong person. My face to the dirt, I sob and cling to my child.
Alone again.
My fault again.
But this time, I’m not fractured. I’m shattered, because there’s no way I can fix this mess.
Chapter 19
I trace the lines in the vase, one jutting into the next. It’s a maze, and if I find the end, maybe I’ll get a prize.
“You spend too much time staring at that thing,” Mona says from the couch. “It’s pretty, but not that pretty.”
“If I throw it at the wall will it make new cracks, or use all the old ones? What do you think?”
“Let’s not try. Glass is a pain to clean up. Shards get stuck everywhere.”
I nod, but I’m still thinking about it. Something has to give tonight. It’s the premiere. Jay left five more messages asking me to be his date, but I never called back. Zane’s going with Tabitha, and with my luck, they’re actually together now. Or maybe he’s got someone new. It doesn’t matter because he doesn’t want me.
“Coverage is starting, come on,”
Mona says, slapping the couch.
“I think it’ll make all new cracks.” I slip off the bar stool. “All my cracks were new.”
“Stop talking like a poet and sit your butt down. This is a huge deal for you. You helped make this movie, Finley. I’m so proud of you.”
I make a looping motion with a finger to give her a whoop-di-doo. Mona rolls her eyes and looks back to the screen. “Look, there’s that one girl with the red hair.”
“That’s Marley, she played Marina’s sister. I met her the first day.” It feels like years ago, not months. Six months to be exact since we started shooting. Everyone is talking about how fast Jay pushed it out of post. Well, they aren’t talking to me about it, but the internet chat rooms are certainly a buzz.
No one misses me.
“Oh, this woman is named ‘Glenda Marshalle’. It says hair and makeup, but that can’t be right.”
“So that’s Glenda,” I say to myself. “Not bad for having a baby six months ago.”
“You better see the checks from this thing,” Mona says wagging her finger like I have some choice in the matter, “that woman doesn’t deserve to walk that red carpet.”
“It doesn’t matter,” I say in my one-note voice, “they all thought I was Glenda anyway.”
A gentle grumble burbles from Mona’s chest. Could be a burp. She’s getting older, I try not to point those things out.
“And there’s Little Jaimie McGuire!” Mona says as she waves at the TV. Jay’s hair is slicked back like a vat of oil collided with his scalp line. The kohl liner is extra dark tonight, almost a pirate on a bender. I still regret not offering him a makeover.
But then there’s a lot that I still regret.
“Look at Tabitha’s dress. See that’s why I wanted you to go, imagine the clothes you could wear, sweetheart.”
But it’s not Tabitha’s dress I’m looking at. It’s the man candy hanging off her arm.
Zane Alexander, in all his glory.
“And Zane, he’s looking rather sharp, isn’t he?” she asks, but I’ve already left the couch, headed for the kitchen to eat at least a half-gallon of chocolate ice cream. Mom jeans have certain hip size requirements, and I aim to fill them out tonight.
“Finn, come back here. This isn’t healthy, honey.”
“Nope, you’re right it’s not,” I say as I pull two gallons out. I wonder how much I can eat before my stomach pain outweighs my heartache.
“Come sit with your mother.”
“I’ll be there in a minute.” I snag the whipped cream spray from the fridge. It’s not alcohol, but it might be just as dangerous. I balance it between my chin and chest, only wincing once at the cold burn, stick a spoon in the corner of my mouth, and tuck the gallons into my arms.
I walk around the corner and Mona frowns, “No spoon for your mother?”
She turned the TV off. What’s the point of drowning in my sorrows if I can’t ogle how amazing my sorrows look without me?
“Sorry, Mona,” I say as I drop everything on the coffee table. “No room.”
She draws a deep breath in and squints her eyes. I’m about to jog back to the kitchen if it means that much to her. I’d like the chocolate syrup anyway, but she pats the couch, a Mona signal that we need to have a heart to heart.
The leather groans for me as I sink down next to her. Shooting her that same, “what?” face I’ve been using since my teenage years, she just smiles.
“Why don’t you call me mom?”
I imagine twelve rifle barrels pointed at my head as I brace for the shots on the firing squad wall. Either that, or I’ve been broadsided by a semi-truck. Maybe both.
“I don’t know. You’ve always been Mona.”
“You told Oliver to call me Gramma, but you’ve never called me mama.”
Is this really the best time for this talk? Is she trying to kick me while I’m on the ground? I watched the love of my life walk down the red carpet with the woman who destroyed our relationship, and she’s talking family dynamics, now?
“I guess because I was so old by the time you brought me home. I knew you weren’t my mom. But being Mona is better than being my mom.” Hurt plays in her features, and I know I’ve screwed it up again. “You’re my mom, Mona. More than anyone else ever could have been. If you want me to call you mom, I can start doing that.”
“That’s not what I’m fishing for.” Her hand rests against my leg, not to keep me in place, but to comfort my racing thoughts. “I want to tell you a story.”
“Aren’t I a little old for fairy tales?”
“No one is ever too old for fairy tales,” Mona says with that familiar glint in her eye. “But this isn’t a fairy tale.”
The leather couch squeaks as she leans forward to pull her purse from the floor, then again as she straightens with her purse on her lap.
“There once was a girl named Sarah,” she says as she reaches into her purse. “Her start was not a happy one. Where most parents welcome their child into the world with open arms and tears of joy, her parents bundled her in a blanket and traveled by foot to deliver her to her new home.”
From her purse she pulls a pale pink blanket, at least what’s left of it, and sets it in my lap. Mesmerized, I run my fingers over it, hooking my fingers through the holes worn into the corners. Comfort filters through me as I slip it over my hand to test the weight. Not too heavy, but warm, probably worn out fleece from a secondhand shop.
“You see, Sarah’s parents knew they couldn’t take care of her. They were kids themselves, so they left her in the only home they’d ever known.”
In my hands, she places a dog-eared photo of a baby wrapped in the same blanket I’m holding. Wrinkled hands rest near her face, touching her tenderly, and on the other side, young hands with chipped, black polish on half the nails holding the blanket.
“You may think that Sarah’s parents didn’t love her because they left her there and never came back, but that’s not the case. For a sacrifice like this requires selflessness. They loved Sarah very much.”
I wait for the next picture and take it with greedy fingers. The couple are holding the baby together, one final picture as a family. Tears streak the mother’s face. Her matted blonde hair is pulled to one side as if she’s trying to cover the holes in her sweatshirt but failing. The father isn’t looking at the camera, he’s staring at his baby, a deep frown chiseled on his cheeks. One hand gingerly pins the folds of the blanket in his grip. Tears fall from my eyes, splashing on the photo so that I have to rub it against the blanket to dry them away.
“My friend, Sister Mary Bennet called me soon after and told me about this baby, knowing I’d be interested in a girl like her. But, my home was full of ferocious boys with no care for the rules and no desire to obey the law. It wasn’t safe for little baby Sarah, and I had to decline.” Mona’s mouth dips downward before she gains control. “But, I visited Sarah as often as I could.”
She places picture after picture in my hands. Mona with baby Sarah wrapped in the blanket. Mona rocking baby Sarah back to sleep. Mona reading to young Sarah, blonde hair in pig tails as just a toddler.
I can’t hold back the tears as the realization falls over me. I touch the picture of Mona hugging little Sarah with her bright blue eyes that look just like Oliver’s and even more like her birth mother’s.
“I grew those unruly boys and slowly made a space for my little Sarah, careful not to take on any more of those troublemakers, because all I cared about was bringing my daughter home.”
She sets the last photo in my hands. I’ve seen it, but through my own eyes. The moment I stepped out from behind Sister Mary Bennett and saw Mona there to take me home at last. In the picture, I see her arms outstretched as I ran to meet her.
“You were supposed to be allowed to be adopted any time during those years I couldn’t have you, but Mary said you’d run and hide every single adoption day. As if you were waiting for me to rescue you.”
“But that’s what you do
,” I say between my tears. “You’ve always rescued me.”
Mona’s nod is slow as she swallows her emotion. “That is true. Do you know when I brought you home?”
“I was eight,” I say, but staring at the picture, I know it’s not right. “Wasn’t I?
“Four,” she says, touching my face and wiping back my tears. “I don’t know why you always thought eight. Maybe it makes you feel better that you waited so long to be officially mine. Two years sounds a lot better than the grueling six I waited. I asked you every month, Finley, do you want me to be your mama? You’d smile and say, ‘I want you to be my Mona, forever’.”
“Because mommies leave,” I say, knowing it’s true. “Families don’t stay together.”
“We have,” she says.
“We’re not—” I stop myself before I tell her she’s not my family. “That’s not what I meant.”
“It is though,” she says rubbing her hand along the side of my face. “You’ve never really wanted me to be your mother, because you’ve been waiting for her to rescue you.”
I pull my parents picture from the pile and touch her face. “Is she still—I mean, are they?”
“They’ve been gone a long time,” Mona says. “Before your first birthday. They grew up in the orphanage, aged out without a family to claim them. You were born soon after. At eighteen, they knew they couldn’t keep you, not with their lifestyle. They stayed clean while Hannah was pregnant with you. They tried to stay sober, to earn you back, but they died in a car accident when you were only one, Sweetheart.”
“Oh,” I nod like it’s a checklist.
I know where my birth parents are.
Check.
I know my real name.
Check.
But my brain is a flurry of questions and worry.
“I guess I should stop waiting then, huh?”
Mona’s arm goes around my shoulder and the gates blow free. Tears for the baby in the pictures. Tears for Hannah. Tears for the years I’ve wondered but never spoke the questions aloud. Tears enough to drown all of Ridgedale.
Shards of My Heart (The Forgotten Ones Book 2) Page 18
