by C. B. Stagg
The other men were expertly stuffing my mom’s lifeless body into a hanging bag that looked to be part of a luggage set from 1974, clearly well-practiced in this type of ‘packing.’
“Damn, I don’t need another mouth to feed. What the hell I’m gonna do with her?” He knew I could hear him. He just didn’t care.
“Look at her, boss,” one of the men said, pointing to where I huddled in the corner by the broken refrigerator. “She may be nuthin’ now, but clean her up, give her some food, and things will round out nicely. She could end up making you some legit cash, a pretty little thing like her.” His smoker’s laugh morphed into a cough.
Toby turned his attention to me, coming to get a better look. With his nose inches from mine, he brushed some of my unruly, wiry hair out of my face and asked, “How ‘bout that. You are a pretty little thing. How old are you? Ten? Eleven?”
Once, when my mom hadn’t responded to one of his commands quickly enough, he’d slapped her out of her chair, then stepped on her hands when she tried to get back up. I learned that day if Toby asked a question, it was wise to answer.
“I’m fifteen.” The statement came out more like a breath, and I hoped to God he’d heard me.
A few minutes later, after being allowed to pack what I could fit in the backpack I used for school, I was physically carried out to an old brown van and taken to the home Toby shared with Myra, a woman I’d only ever heard about. And from what I’d heard, I had no desire ever to meet.
The house was somewhat familiar. My mom came by here all the time to pick up deliveries, but always left me in the car, telling me to hide on the back floorboard until she’d driven off. I was never under the impression that life with my mother was safe. It was the only life I’d ever known. But this new life, the one I’d been forced into with Toby and Myra, was a whole new level of dangerous.
My breaths came quickly, and my heart pounded to a new, unfamiliar rhythm, but I worked hard to remain invisible, burying myself further down into the pile of clothes and towels that littered the closet floor. I recognized the sound of handcuffs being slapped around flesh, and I prayed Toby would just forget about me. I wasn’t too worried about Myra ratting me out. She was so strung out most of the time; I was sure she couldn’t even remember her own name.
I could hear the little kids, presumably ones born to Toby, Myra, or both, though I never was quite sure. They were screaming and crying as they were forcibly taken out the front door, followed by Toby and Myra, him screaming, “You dumb bitch. I know it was you, Minnie. I’LL KILL YOU! I’ll KILL YOU!” Toby, probably blitzed out of his mind, continued to yell threats to my dead mother while Myra whimpered in a language all her own until the lights, the sounds, and the chaos melted away. I was left alone, sitting in a puddle of my own blood at the bottom of a closet in a derelict crack house on the edge of town, to fend for myself.
I knew it was time to get the hell outta Dodge. I wasn’t safe. I had never been safe. Someone would be coming back.
It was almost six in the morning. Even though school didn’t start for a few weeks, I knew teams were in summer practices, so locker rooms would be open. That would give me a safe place to shower or at least clean up before looking for a new living arrangement. I grabbed my yellow backpack, my prized possession. It was the only new thing I’d ever owned, and the only thing I had left that reminded me of my mom. I changed my clothes, then stuffed as many of my belongings into the bag as would fit before walking out into the heat of the Texas summer to start the two-mile hike to the high school.
Chapter 2
Jase
October, 1999
MY NEIGHBOR CASEY and I jokingly called it The Coven. But in reality, it was just a monthly meeting of three women on our cul-de-sac. I used to find it odd: our phone would ring—sometimes early, sometimes late—but when my mom’s jovial, “Hello,” turned to whispers, I knew another Coven meeting was being called. It had been that way for years.
The ladies of The Coven consisted of my mom, my best friend Casey’s mom, and Jill Hanson, who was no one’s mom. Jill and her husband Bennett had been trying to get pregnant for years, but it wasn’t happening. It was a long time before I put two and two together and realized that, each month, when Mrs. Hanson confirmed she, in fact, was still no one’s mom, she’d start the phone chain eventually leading to a meeting of the Coven.
Oh, but I hated those damn meetings. I hardly saw my mom as it was, so when she walked in that night already frazzled, telling me to heat something up for dinner as she grabbed a bottle of wine and started to walk back out without even looking at me, I was pissed.
“Mom, wait!” I chased her down the hallway, past the laundry room, where she was headed to the back door. “How long are you gonna be gone this time?” I asked, finally getting her to slow down in the mudroom. In a normal situation, on a normal night, my bratty tone would have caused an issue, but not on a night when the Coven was meeting. Not on a night when Jill, one of my mother’s best friends, got another negative pregnancy test and needed her support.
She stopped and turned toward me, pinching her eyes shut and taking a deep breath.
“Mom, I have that report you were gonna help me with, and it’s due on Monday.” School was gravely important to me. I was technically only a junior in high school, but I was in all advanced classes, and a dual-credit, college-level English course was not something I could afford to slack off on. My mother was an attorney, so was my grandfather, and so was my father—at least that’s what my mom tells me. It was in my blood.
“What’s the topic again?” she asked, scrunching her brows together. For someone so brilliant, a leader in her field even, she was puzzling. Sometimes I wondered if she even listened when I talked.
“Seriously, Mom? I have to write a 1,500-word report, documenting changes in the foster care system over the last twenty years, comparing changes in law, both at the state and federal level. I’ve got most of the research done, but one of my sources has to be an interview, and you were going to go with me to the Hanson’s tonight to interview them about the process they’ve gone through to become foster parents, remember?” How did she not remember this? She’s the one who suggested it. She was the one who convinced Jill and Bennett to pursue fostering in the first place.
My mom sighed again, her face softening in sympathy. “Oh, Jase, that’s right. I forgot all about that.” She closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose. “Baby, I’m not sure tonight would be a good night to bother Jill and Bennett. Do you suppose I’d do?” She smiled and shrugged. I rolled my eyes. Of course she’d do, and she knew it.
My mother, Marian Vaughn Pearson, was one of the top family attorneys in Texas, specializing in adoption. She’d written multiple books on the fostering and adoption laws, and she even taught an online graduate course through Texas A&M University. She was truly an expert in her field.
“Yeah, I guess. But, Mom, you kinda have to actually be home more than five minutes to do that.” I looked from her, to the bottle of wine in her hand, then back to her again. She sighed and shame settled in my gut as I realized I was making her feel like a bad mother, and I was doing it purposely. When in reality, she was doing the absolute best she could, juggling the roles of both Mom and Dad for practically my whole life.
I was just about to apologize when she held up one perfectly polished, manicured finger. “One hour,” she said, leaning in to kiss my cheek as she walked out the door. “Just give me one hour.” I walked out behind her, but when she turned right to head down the driveway, I turned left to grab some firewood from the wood stack by the shed, my breath creating small, puffy clouds in the frigid night air. I was on my way back to the house, arms full of cold, damp wood, when I noticed the thinnest strip of light slipping out from under the shed door, and the door to the shed, usually locked, was slightly ajar. Since the shed was primarily my territory, I immediately thought back to the last time I’d needed any of its contents for yard work or other small project
s I was learning to do around the house, thanks to the world wide web. It had been quite awhile since I’d been out there and I know I’d have noticed that door being open unless we’d been broken into recently, which was really the only explanation.
As I approached the small structure situated in the far back corner of our yard, I remained silent and kept my footfalls light. With the wind chill, it was at least freezing outside, and while it had been one of those gross, wet days, the ground was still too warm for ice to form, giving me the perfect conditions in which to sneak up to the small building undetected. As quietly as I could, I put the wood on the ground beside me and right as I was reaching to grab the handle to the shed door, my mobile phone rang. Damn it!
It was Casey. Of course it was. No one else called me, aside from my mom and grandfather.
“Casey?”
“Hey, man,” came his reply, low and grumbly. His voice always sounded rough with sleep, even in the evening when he’d been up for hours.
“Sup?” I whispered, backing up the way I came.
“The Coven is meeting tonight,” was all he said.
“Yeah, and… ?” I looked back to the shed door and no longer saw the light from underneath. Damn it. Maybe I’d been imagining things.
“And,” Casey continued, “you’ve got a couple hours of alone time in your nice, quiet house, while I’m stuck here with Christian, who’s decided to become the next John Coltrane. I swear if I hear Pink Panther screeching from his room again, I’m gonna shove that sax down his throat.”
I usually found his exacerbation comical. Growing up an only child, I just had to spend a little time at the Clark house with Casey and his brother Christian, who were as different as salt and pepper and always at war with each other, and their new baby brother Curt, who was constantly screaming his fool head off, to be grateful my parents had stopped at one. I always wondered if I’d have brothers or sisters if my dad had stuck around, but probably not. Mom hardly had time for one kid as it stood.
“Oh, I see how it is. You’re using me for my empty house. Where’s Lacey? Shouldn’t you two be somewhere, sittin’ in a tree? K-I-S-S-I-N-G, or some crap like that?” For practically our entire existence, Casey and I had been attached at the hip, having been raised right across the cul-de-sac from each other, starting while we were in diapers. But since our sophomore year, he’d become obsessed with a new girl who moved to town last year. They’d started dating a year ago, and from that point on, my guy time with Casey had reduced drastically. ‘Hate’ is a strong word, but I hated Lacey Green. She led Casey around by his balls, and he was too lust struck to see it. Our once bulletproof relationship had taken a pretty big hit when Lacey decided there wasn’t enough room for both of us in Casey’s life and persuaded him that she had more to offer. I had little ammunition against her C-cup chest size and her willingness and enthusiasm to make Casey smile, so I’d spent the last year spending more time reading and studying and less time fishing, lifting weights, and playing Xbox. I steered clear of all things involving the golden couple, resenting more and more the idea that a stupid chick, no matter how well she filled out a pair of Gap jeans, could come between me and someone I thought of as a brother. I prayed for the day she broke his heart and I got my best friend back.
“Nah, she’s celebrating her brother’s birthday or something, so I’m all yours. Save me from this hell!”
“Dude, look,” I said, trying to stifle the sarcasm begging to be unleashed on my selfish friend. “I sympathize, but tonight’s no good.” I cupped my hand over my mouth. It was becoming apparent I’d be a terrible spy, but I couldn’t resist letting the theme song from Mission: Impossible play like a soundtrack in the back of my mind as I edged the perimeter of my yard, wanting to get back to my task. “I’ve got loads of crap to do tonight. Besides, I’ve seen your grades. It wouldn’t kill you to crack a book or something.”
Casey sighed. “Fine, you’re probably right. Hey, why are you whisp—”
The light flashed back on. “Hey, Case, I gotta go. I’ll talk to ya tomorrow.” Not waiting for an answer, I punched the red end button and slid the Motorola back into my coat pocket. Creeping up, I grabbed the door handle and swung it open wide to find…
Nothing.
Well, not nothing, exactly. I found the riding lawn mower, the weed eater, the edger, a few gas cans, and some soda cracker wrappers—the same brand readily available at the salad bar in the school cafeteria. And there was a backpack. I recognized the backpack, and it most certainly did not belong in my shed.
Chapter 3
Becky
“REBECCA?”
Oh, God, it’s Jase. How in the world did he find me?
As Jase moved further into the shed, I could smell the piney, woodsy scent of his cologne. At least it was him and not one of his parents.
How could I have left that damn backpack out?
Rookie mistake. I huddled in the corner, frozen and praying for him to leave. It was a cloudy night, so the moon was all but blocked out, leaving the shed pitch dark.
“Man, I must be going crazy,” I heard him mumble under his breath as he walked back out of the shed and closed the door. I jumped at the slamming of the door. Alone once again, I exhaled, steadying my breathing as I willed my heart to calm, wondering how long I needed to wait before I opened the door again. Tight, closed in spaces were not my friends.
When I was confident the coast was clear, I uncurled, stretching my body after far too long in an awkward, squatting position that left my thighs screaming in pain. As I stood to stretch, I turned and was met with a set of eyes almost directly in front of me. He was holding my backpack up by one finger; its contents being everything I owned in the world.
“Jesus Christ! What the hell?” My hand flew up to cover my heart. “Are you trying to kill me?” At that moment, I was more worried about having a heart attack than I was about being caught trespassing. Why had I thought this was a good idea again?
“Rebecca?” he asked. His voice was soft, not angry like I’d expected.
“Yeah. It’s… It’s just Becky. Are you gonna tell on me?” I shivered and pulled my thin denim jacket around myself a little tighter. Where would I go when he kicked me out? And what if he called the cops? What then?
“Hey, calm down.” My breaths were shallow and quick, almost echoing in the quiet of the small space we shared. He must have sensed my panic. “So, why are you here? In my shed?”
Boy, that was a loaded question. “Ummm… ” I cast my eyes toward the ground. I didn’t have a reasonable answer. The truth was, I had a little crush on him, and one time I followed Jase and his friends home after school. That’s how I learned his neighborhood backed up to our football stadium with only a few hundred yards of brush and trees in between. So, when I saw the shed in the back of his yard and the rotten fence boards directly behind it… I reasoned if I stayed here at night, I’d be infinitely closer to school than the twenty-four-hour Laundromat I’d called home since leaving the shelter. The fact the shed didn’t have plumbing just meant I had to plan ahead, but the proximity to school and the privacy factor both outweighed the loss of a toilet. After much thought, I figured I’d attempt a truthful explanation, but he didn’t need to know all that.
“Well, I—”
“Let’s try this,” Jase interrupted. “Where do you live?”
“I don’t… I guess… ”
A knothole in the plywood floor of the shed became captivating as I scuffed the toe of my shoe over it again and again, trying to formulate the least incriminating response. I absolutely hated the idea of lying.
“Well, I live here… for now.” I chanced a glance up at him through my lashes. I expected anger or disbelief, but what I got instead was a tilted head and a soft frown, almost as if he felt compassion for what I was saying.
“Where are… um, do you have parents or someone?”
Another good question with no simple answer.
I sighed, resigned to the fact th
at I wouldn’t be leaving without providing him with at least some information. “Well, I don’t have a dad. I mean, I must, somewhere, but my momma never told me who he was. And my momma died in March, so can I go now?” I was done. He already knew more about me than any other human on the planet. But he loomed in the doorway, blocking my path to freedom. And he still had my backpack.
I took a chance and lunged.
“Wait.” He stopped me before I attempted to flee. “How long have you been out here?” Now he was starting to sound angry, which put me immediately on edge. It’s not like I was stealing from him. There was no electricity out here. I was just using his walls to escape the wind and the rain.
“Not long, okay?” I moved to leave once more, but was blocked—again.
“So you’re homeless?”
That word made me shudder. Admitting I was homeless would buy me a one-way ticket into the system. I’d heard about what happened in those places, and I had no intention of letting that happen to me. I didn’t think I had the emotional tools to deal with it.
“Look, I can go. Just please don’t call the cops, I prom—”
“No!” he shouted. “No… Please, don’t go.” His voice softened this time, and he spoke gently, like he was talking to an injured animal. “Just… Um, are you hungry? I have food. And I have heat.”
By then I was shaking, not only from the frigid night air blowing in from the open door, but from sheer nervousness. He was rambling, and his voice was shaky, but I could tell he was working hard to mask his own unease by clearing his throat here and there.
“Why?” The one-word question was simple enough, but I knew the answer wouldn’t be. I just hoped and prayed Jase’s character would meet the high expectation I’d set for it when I decided his property was a safe place for me.
