The Road She Left Behind

by Nolfi, Christine

Or so Latrice said.

  Despite the gravity of the situation, Darcy entertained a feeling of hope. Emerson prepared well for his unsanctioned forays into the forest. His organizational skills were excellent. How many kids thought to pack extra batteries and dental floss?

  A slow smile crept across her face. At his age, she’d been scatterbrained, too busy having fun to even make her bed.

  Chapter 3

  A shadow fell across Darcy. The interruption pulled her from her thoughts.

  Samson asked, “What are you grinning at? There’s nothing out there but ocean.”

  Her jaw fell open. “What are you doing here?”

  “Making sure you’re all right.” He sat down beside her on the beach. “How are you holding up? You were awfully low when we talked.”

  “I’m not feeling low.”

  Abysmal is more like it.

  Samson tugged off his shoes. Wiggling his toes, he bumped her, shoulder to shoulder. “I didn’t mean to give you a hard time when we talked, even if you did take the wind out of my sails. You’ve got the right to keep your family a secret. Doesn’t mean you should’ve hung up on me—you’ve got better manners than that. But it did start me thinking. You might have lots of reasons to avoid talking about your family.”

  “I can’t even imagine what you came up with.”

  “Nothing good, I’ll admit.”

  “Samson . . .”

  He held up a hand, silencing her. “Who’ve you got to confide in besides me? Now, come clean. There’s no need for embarrassment between good friends. Your mama . . . did she beat you?”

  A preposterous query. “Only at tennis,” she said. “When it comes to competitive sports, she’s vicious.”

  Relief washed over Samson’s features. Then a strange fascination bloomed in its place. “You ever met the slapping kind of women?”

  “Please tell me you’re not serious.”

  “If you don’t know what I’m talking about, you’re lucky.” He gave out a low whistle thick with wonder and an undertone of trepidation. “I’ve seen uncivilized women up close. Like at my second-to-last foster home. My foster mother was built like a tank. Solid, bigger than most men. She gave off a scary vibe like she’d steamroll over you if you put one toe out of line.”

  “Tank Lady had a short fuse?”

  “Especially when it came to the next-door neighbor. You’ve never seen two women who hated each other more.”

  “What happened?” Darcy asked. Other than remarks about his need to find a new living arrangement since he’d just aged out of the system, Samson never talked about his foster care years. Now he’d captured her interest with the bizarre story of female aggression.

  Her curiosity lit his face with excitement. “My foster mom and the neighbor lady both owned mangy dogs. You know the kind—flea-bitten mongrels with a taste for chasing mail carriers and small children.”

  “That doesn’t sound good.”

  “It wasn’t. Those dogs barked at each other from opposite sides of the fence, making all sorts of racket from dawn till midnight. One afternoon, the neighbor’s mutt got loose. Eighty pounds of hostility racing all over the neighborhood, dropping poops everywhere, scaring the mail carrier when she hopped out of her truck, scaring children. Like little Jimmy, the kid who lived around the corner. When the beast charged down the sidewalk, Jimmy flew right off his bike.” Samson twined a dreadlock around one long finger, his dark eyes rounding with sympathy for unsuspecting children and, Darcy presumed, mail carriers. “You know what happened? Right before that rotten dog went home, he trotted onto our front porch and made a piss puddle.”

  “He peed on your foster mother’s porch?” Darcy’s knowledge of matters canine was limited. She assumed dogs preferred tree trunks, or the occasional fire hydrant.

  “Right by our front door.” Samson’s eyes grew even wider. “I’m talking about a lake of pee with an ammonia stench like nobody’s business. My foster mother should’ve smelled the foulness. She didn’t—not until she was standing in the mess. She’d gone outside to collect the mail.”

  Alarm stiffened Darcy’s spine. “What did she do?”

  “After she soaked her shoes good and screamed to high heaven? Well, she went wild. Leaped down the front steps, hopped the fence, and slapped the neighbor lady silly. You wouldn’t expect someone her size to move so quick.”

  “Rage will make anyone speedy.”

  Samson nodded in agreement. “I felt sorry for the neighbor lady—watering her petunias, paying no mind. She didn’t have a chance.”

  The story finished, Samson began making lazy patterns in the sand. Darcy watched, her thoughts bounding forward. It was difficult to understand how someone with low impulse control slipped under the radar to become a foster parent. She wondered about the other homes the well-mannered youth had been shuttled through. Were they also bad? The thought made her queasy.

  It also worried her to consider where he’d land next. At eighteen, his options were limited.

  Samson patted her leg. “Now you tell me,” he said, drawing her from her troubled thoughts. “Does your mama have a mean streak? I’d like to understand why you’ve never brought her up.”

  “God’s honest truth, pal. The great and powerful Rosalind Goodridge never resorts to physical violence.”

  The proverbial light bulb switched on inside Samson’s head. “Great and powerful . . . like the Wizard of Oz?”

  “Believe me, you do not want to look behind the curtain. As for slapping people down, my mother can turn hardened lawyers into mincemeat with a few choice words.”

  The cryptic remark puckered his brows. “What’s mincemeat?”

  “Never mind,” she said, content to leave him clueless. “Listen, I came to the beach to decompress. While I’m thrilled you stopped by, I won’t sit through an interrogation. Will you please give it a rest? I’m asking nicely.”

  “Why should I?”

  “It hurts to discuss my mother.”

  “But I’m your friend.”

  “True enough, but I’m still not going into it.”

  With a nod, he continued trailing his fingers through the sand to form a moon straddled by two stars. His North Star and hers, Darcy presumed. Guiding lights to carry her past the pain.

  He said, “Suit yourself. I can tell you’re hurting something awful. Talking can make you feel better, but I’m not going to push you.” He looked away. He squinted at the sun, which seemed content to bake them to a crisp. “Got any water in your ugly purse? I’m thirsty.”

  “I should’ve grabbed a bottle from the car.” She knew he meant well, and the prospect of hurting his feelings didn’t appeal. “Look, if I give you the really short version, will you drop the subject?”

  “Sure.”

  Darcy searched for a calm impossible to conjure. “There’s a simple reason why I never talk about the past. My younger sister and my father were killed.”

  The disclosure halted Samson’s doodling in the sand. He stared at her, hard.

  “It’s been almost ten years,” Darcy forced herself to add. A spasm racked her face. She rushed on, determined to get through this quickly. “They died because of me.”

  “You killed them?”

  “By making a series of incredibly stupid choices. If I’d been more responsible, they would’ve been home safe in their beds. They never would’ve been in harm’s way.”

  “What about your mother?”

  “We don’t have a relationship. She can’t forgive me. The mistakes I made . . . I’ve earned her loathing.”

  Sadness rippled across Samson’s lean face. “People do lots of dumb things. They don’t mean for their dumbness to bring disaster.” He shrugged. “Want to tell me the whole story?”

  “Not ever.”

  “Have it your way. I’ll sit here minding my own business until you change your mind.”

  A gurgling laugh erupted from her throat. “Have I ever mentioned you’re determined? Granted, you’re nowhere n
ear the size of a tank. But you’re doing a decent job of steamrolling over my objections.”

  Oddly, the laughter brought a measure of relief. A small easing of the weight Darcy carried, a brief respite from the self-loathing and the shame. Absently, she wondered if Samson had been right all along. She did need a friend, someone capable of sifting through the wreckage of her past without casting judgment.

  Together, they watched the surf roll in to lap at their toes. An old man strolled by with a Pomeranian on a leash. The Pomeranian wore knitted booties in an attractive shell pink. Apparently, the booties kept the pampered canine’s paws free of irritating sand. They both chuckled at the sight.

  Darcy said, “I forgot to ask how you got to the beach.” Samson didn’t own a car, and Uber was a luxury he couldn’t afford. “Someone from Big Bud’s dropped you off?”

  “Miz Irma drove me.”

  “That was nice of her. Plus, I’m glad we got another chance to say goodbye.” Much as Darcy hated ending their time together, she needed to get on the road. “Ready to head out? I’ll take you back to work.”

  “There’s no need.” Samson darted a cagey glance her way. “Miz Irma doesn’t mind waiting. She said to take all the time I need.”

  Darcy lifted her brows. “She’s in the parking lot?”

  “She brought along a book. She’s catching up on her reading while I reason with you.” The youth dug his smartphone from his pocket. “I’m supposed to send her a text after you make up your mind.”

  “Samson, hold on. We’ve already been over this—”

  “I’m not a charity case,” he broke in. “I’ve been in Charleston my whole life. I don’t expect to find what I want if I stay here. Don’t ask why I’m sure. I just am. There’s something better waiting for me—I just have to go looking for it. Like that saying about nets and having the guts to jump off.” He frowned. “What’s the saying?”

  “Leap, and the net will appear.” It was one of her favorite maxims, although Darcy had yet to find a way to leap past the grief dominating her life. To bound forward and move on.

  “That’s the saying! I’m eighteen now. I’m ready to make the leap. Besides, look here what I’ve got.”

  Leaning sideways on one skinny hip, he produced a white envelope rolled into a fat tube. He unwound the rubber band keeping it closed. Darcy gasped.

  The envelope was stuffed full of ten- and twenty-dollar bills.

  “The whole staff pitched in,” he announced, waving the windfall before her face. “Put your mind at ease, Darcy. We’ll split everything down the middle—rent, food, even gas for the drive. Oh, I almost forgot. Miz Irma sent a message.”

  Darcy returned his cagey look with one of her own. “What’s the message?”

  “Set your prideful ways aside and take good care of our Samson. Everyone at Big Bud’s will miss you both.”

  She stifled a groan. She’d already disappointed Latrice by refusing to drive back to Ohio. There was no telling when Emerson would reappear, or if the police were still searching the forest. Given Darcy’s refusal to come back, Latrice might not call with an update anytime soon.

  Now Samson believed his cash prize guaranteed a seat on the road trip. A trip she always took alone. Hands down, he’d become the thornier issue.

  An air of resignation brought her to her feet. Overwhelmed, she trudged into the warm surf. She studied the Atlantic as if the solution to an unsolvable dilemma lay hidden among the waves. She doubted she had the stamina to look out for Samson. If she allowed the eighteen-year-old to tag along, he would become a permanent fixture in her life. Assuming the responsibility meant she must help him find a good job, decent friends his own age, and suitable roomies once he moved out of her apartment. It was a tall list.

  Trapped on the emotional fence, she plodded back to shore. Still seated on the beach, Samson read her face with the breathless anticipation of a child hanging dreams on a wishing star. Doubt shadowed his eyes as he searched her face for a decision she hadn’t yet made.

  Darcy halted. Twenty paces off, a gray lump on the beach snagged her attention. A duffel bag.

  One big enough to hold the scant belongings of a recent graduate from South Carolina’s foster care system.

  Her disbelieving gaze swung to Samson.

  “Miz Irma helped me pack,” he said. “In case you made the right choice.”

  In the green hills of North Carolina, Darcy exited the highway.

  They were somewhere north of Fayetteville in a stretch of beautiful country. Her muscles ached from hours behind the wheel—a minor inconvenience compared to the hunger cramping her stomach. Between the morning’s conversation with Latrice and Samson ambushing her at the beach, she’d forgotten to eat.

  Curled up on the passenger seat, Samson continued to sleep. Reaching into the back seat, she grabbed the beige thigh-length sweater, an old favorite, wedged beneath his duffel bag. She layered the sweater over him as she came to a gentle stop at a light off the exit ramp.

  An unconscious, nearly imperceptible grunt rose through the silence. He snuggled deeper beneath the wooly fabric.

  Darcy let him sleep.

  During the first hour of the trip, they chatted nonstop about nothing at all. When she flipped on the radio, he skipped the opportunity to give his vocal cords a rest and sang to every song. If the lyrics were unfamiliar Samson invented his own, adding references to the Gullah culture of the Lowcountry.

  Darcy sang along. And why not? They were marking Samson’s first trip outside Charleston—his first trip anywhere. His fizzy excitement made the air inside the Honda lighter than helium. Together, they filled the car with song until his eyelids began to droop.

  She rolled down the window as she turned onto a dusty road. The drone of the interstate faded. Wending her way along, she searched for somewhere to eat.

  For tonight, she’d booked two rooms at the Holiday Inn outside Cape May. The apartment search was tomorrow’s main event. She’d need to find a place with a second bedroom for her young charge. A minor inconvenience. There was an entire week ahead before the new job began.

  Peering through the windshield, Darcy mentally went over the items sure to occupy the coming days. Opening bank accounts for them both. Learning the streets of Cape May. Becoming familiar with her new job, new responsibilities, and the dozen or so employees working at the insurance agency where she’d been hired. Replacing her South Carolina driver’s license with a new one for New Jersey. Replacing Samson’s license too, although she wouldn’t encourage him right away to use his lottery winnings from Big Bud’s staff as a down payment on a serviceable car.

  Cape May represented her eighth move in as many years. She ticked through the list of chores easily.

  She tried to dispel the worry over her missing nephew. It was still early afternoon. The police were out searching. Chances were, they’d bring Emerson home by nightfall.

  There was nothing she could do. Nothing she should do.

  Sadness feathered through her, along with confusion, as she recalled the lonely childhood Latrice had described. Emerson was growing up without siblings in his grandmother’s elegant mansion. A privileged yet sterile life. And he’d spent last night outdoors, sensibly equipped with a flashlight and extra batteries.

  Tapping the steering wheel, Darcy reflected on her own childhood. She’d been adventurous at that age—sometimes recklessly so. However, like most children, she’d cultivated a healthy fear of danger. Bad stuff happened if you couldn’t see where you were going, especially in the sections of the forest cratering down steeply toward the Chagrin River. Walk too close to the precipice, and you risked falling to your death. She never would have stayed out alone.

  Of course, she’d rarely been alone during childhood adventures into the woods. Michael Varano—one year older and nearly as intrepid—had often leaped the fence between their properties to follow Darcy on her latest escapade. They’d spent many afternoons exploring the forest together; during summer’s hottest da
ys, they’d donned swimsuits to splash around the deeper sections of the Chagrin River.

  Darcy’s sister usually stayed indoors. The marvels hidden in the forest’s vast acres and the sheer freedom of being outdoors held no interest for Elizabeth.

  On the rare occasions when Darcy talked her sister into camping near the green necklace of forest surrounding their parents’ estate, Latrice accompanied them. Elizabeth, never a fan of long nature walks or rugged evenings sizzling hot dogs over a campfire, spent most of the time complaining. The sleeping bag wasn’t soft enough. The ground was too hard. The hooting owls made her jump. Latrice—a young woman back then and equipped with endless stores of patience—would point to the mansion’s lights, blazing in the distance, in hopes of reassuring Elizabeth that there was nothing to fear in the dark. If Elizabeth took to whining, Latrice produced the butterscotch candies both of her young charges loved.

  Once Elizabeth fell asleep, she would wedge herself like a skittish pup between Darcy and the stalwart housekeeper who was the stand-in mother for the Goodridge sisters.

  Getting on now in years, Latrice was too arthritic for nights outdoors beneath the stars. Emerson camped alone. What if he’d trekked too far into the forest to find his way home? A chill flashed through Darcy as she steered the Honda down the dusty road.

  Furtively, she glanced at the youth sleeping beside her.

  Careful not to wake Samson, she retrieved the smartphone from her bag. The urge for an update tempted her to dial Latrice’s number.

  Is there any news yet?

  Irritated by her waning self-control, she returned the phone to her purse.

  Emerson hasn’t been abducted. He walked off the grounds voluntarily. The police will find him.

  Driving to Ohio was out of the question. Contrary to what Latrice believed, Darcy couldn’t show up on her mother’s doorstep—their relationship was beyond repair. Even the crisis of a missing child wasn’t reason enough to cross enemy lines.

  Would I like the opportunity to forge a relationship with my nephew? Yes, absolutely.

  He was the child of Elizabeth, the sister she sorely missed. The child she’d promised to watch over and protect.