6 1/2 Body Parts

by Stephanie Bond

  Valerie walked ahead toward the kitchen, as if nothing were amiss. Carlotta trailed after her, glancing around, noting objects she’d forgotten—the oil painting her parents had brought back from Italy, the Steuben glass dolphin her father’s company Mashburn, Tully & Wren Investments, had given them for an anniversary. Carlotta reeled from sensory overload—none of this could be real.

  So how could her nose be tickling from the cinnamon-orange scent that Valerie stocked in oil diffusers in every room?

  Still, she’d bet the downstairs had been staged to sell the house—the rooms on the upper floors were probably bare.

  Carlotta wanted to say something—to scream at the top of her lungs—and confront her mother about her unforgivable act of abandoning her children, but she was afraid to break the spell, afraid to trigger an episode if her mother was operating within the boundaries of a mental illness. And the compulsion to see how this bizarre encounter would play out was overwhelming.

  “Cappuccino?” Valerie asked, breezing up to a state-of-the-art beverage machine installed into one of the solid cherry cabinets. The kitchen had been updated to rival a commercial food preparation center.

  “When did you start making morning coffee?” Carlotta asked, unable to keep the suspicious tone from her voice. Perpetually hung over, Valerie typically didn’t put in an appearance until afternoon.

  “Henny has the day off,” Valerie said without missing a beat.

  Henny, their former maid, Carlotta recalled. It was the first chink in her mother’s story—she could pretend she’d never left Atlanta, but when it came to other people who had once occupied the house, of course she would have to manufacture stories to explain their absence.

  “Cappuccino, yes?” Valerie prompted.

  “Just black coffee is fine.”

  “How was yoga, dear?”

  “What?”

  Valerie gestured to Carlotta’s outfit. “I assume you went to an early yoga class.”

  “Oh… right. It was… fine.”

  “Did you and Peter have a fight?”

  Carlotta frowned—her mother assumed she and Peter were still a couple? Her gaze darted to her left hand, but her finger was bare. Then she bit down on the inside of her cheek—she and Peter were still a couple… weren’t they? “No, we didn’t have a fight.”

  “Is your car acting up again?”

  Carlotta pressed her lips together. “Yes. I need to put it in the shop.”

  Valerie shook her head, poured them both a cup of black coffee, and extended a mug to Carlotta. “I don’t know why you insist on hanging on to that toy car.”

  “Because Daddy bought it for me,” Carlotta said rather sharply. “It’s special.”

  Valerie lifted her hand. “Far be it for me to get in the middle of you and your father.” She turned her back to position herself between Carlotta and something she removed from a drawer, but Carlotta saw the bottle as Valerie poured a glug of vodka into her coffee. Her mother was still drinking, but had found new ways to incorporate it into her schedule.

  Carlotta opened her mouth to ask if Valerie happened to know that Randolph had been taken into custody, when the sound of someone jogging down the stairs made her turn her head. To her astonishment, Randolph himself burst into the kitchen in full stride. He wore a flawless gray suit, white shirt, and striped tie. He was a handsome ball of energy, fit and tanned. The gray at his temples lent a distinguished air to his boyish good looks. His grin took Carlotta’s breath away. She was starting to think she’d stepped into the Twilight Zone.

  “Hey, Sweetheart,” he said, stopping long enough to drop a kiss on her cheek. “What brings you around so early? Did you and Peter have a fight?”

  She frowned. “No.”

  “Good.” Satisfied, he turned his attention to Valerie and her spiked java. “Starting the day off right, my dear?” His voice was laced with sarcasm.

  She gave him a tight smile. “Just getting a head start on the celebration, my dear.”

  Even with her mind racing a hundred miles an hour to figure out what was going on, Carlotta couldn’t miss the undercurrent of hostility between her parents. Whatever alternate reality she’d entered, that hadn’t changed.

  “What celebration?” she asked.

  “Peter didn’t tell you?” Valerie said.

  “Peter doesn’t know,” Randolph said.

  “Know what?” Carlotta asked.

  “Your father is going to be named president of the firm today.” Valerie’s voice was a mixture of pride and something else—resignation?

  “That’s wonderful, D-Daddy,” Carlotta said, stumbling over the word that was rusty on her tongue.

  He smiled, obviously pleased himself. “Thanks, Sweetheart. The office is having a little cocktail party after five—stop by if you like.”

  She could only nod.

  “Gotta run,” Randolph said, lifting his coffee cup toward Valerie in lieu of a kiss.

  “Say hi to Liz Fischer for me,” she said sweetly.

  Under his tan, Randolph blanched. “Liz?”

  Valerie picked up his phone from the counter. “It beeped with a reminder that you’re seeing her at noon.”

  “Right,” he said smoothly, reaching for his phone. “To go over the new employment contract the firm drew up.” As if to punctuate his fidelity, he stepped forward to kiss her mother, but Carlotta didn’t miss Valerie’s last minute head turn that resulted in the kiss landing on her chin.

  “Okay, then,” Randolph said cheerfully. “I’ll see you both later.”

  Carlotta opened her mouth to say something—anything—to her father, to demand to know what the heck was going on and why he and her mother were both acting as if nothing was wrong, but she was confused. Her father was under arrest—she’d seen Jack handcuff him and haul him away with her own eyes… so how could he and Valerie be standing here in the kitchen of the home she’d grown up in, as if they’d never left?

  As if they’d never left.

  She’d wondered and wished to know and experience what her life would’ve been like if her father hadn’t been accused of investment fraud, if he and her mother hadn’t abandoned her and Wesley… was this her wish being answered?

  While her mind whirled in bewildered revelation, her father walked out the door whistling. Valerie took a hefty drink of her coffee, then gave Carlotta a shaky smile. “Don’t you miss this happy family morning ritual?”

  “Actually,” Carlotta murmured, “I do.”

  Valerie angled her head. “What’s wrong, dear?”

  Only everything. “I guess I’m just feeling out of sorts today.”

  Her mother made a rueful noise. She reached out to stroke Carlotta’s hair back from her face, resurrecting memories of when she was a little girl. “You do look different—tanned. You know the sun is bad for your skin.”

  “I just feel flushed,” Carlotta said, conceding she hadn’t been diligent about applying sunscreen as her mother had drilled into her head since she was a preteen.

  “And your hair looks longer—did you get extensions?”

  “No.”

  Valerie shook her head as if to clear the cobwebs. “I could’ve sworn… well, never mind, it suits you.” She took another drink from her mug, then brightened. “How about some breakfast?”

  Carlotta had never seen her mother turn on the stove, but she was hungry, and she wanted to prolong her visit. “Maybe a bagel?”

  “You’re eating carbs again?” Valerie squinted. “Are you pregnant?”

  Carlotta’s eyes flew wide. “What? No!”

  “Just checking,” Valerie said in a sing-songy voice. She opened six cabinets before she found a bag of bagels, emerging triumphant. She pulled one out and dropped the halves into a toaster.

  “Aren�
��t you going to have one?” Carlotta prodded, thinking the bread would help to soak up the alcohol.

  Valerie waved her hand. “You know I only eat one meal a day.”

  Yes, she remembered… and the meal usually consisted of a sparse green salad. Valerie enjoyed her reputation for being famously thin among her circle of friends at the club.

  From the counter, the cordless phone trilled. Valerie glanced at the caller ID screen. “Oh, that’s Bette calling about our bridge game, I should take this. I’ll keep an eye on your bagel. Do you mind running upstairs to try to get your brother out of bed?”

  Carlotta couldn’t contain her surprise. “Wesley is upstairs?”

  Valerie gave a dry laugh as she reached for the handset. “Of course. And he needs to be somewhere in thirty minutes.”

  “Okay,” Carlotta said, shot through with curiosity. She slowly walked toward the rear stairway, and tentatively set a foot on the bottom step. When it didn’t disappear out from under her, she continued to climb.

  If her parents hadn’t left and life had gone on as planned, how had Wesley turned out?

  Chapter 3

  As Carlotta climbed the stairs to the second level of the home she’d grown up in, memories rolled over her. Framed chronological photographs of her and Wesley hung on the stairwell walls… she remembered that Easter bonnet, that Halloween costume. Wesley’s mischievous smile shined back at her. The photographs continued at the top of the landing, and one in particular caused Carlotta to stop.

  In the picture, she stood in the foreground of a party wearing a short pink dress. The cake on the table in front of her read “Happy Graduation, Carlotta!” along with the year she’d graduated from high school. By the time she’d graduated from high school, though, her parents had fled. There had been no party, no dress. She had zero recollection of this event, or of the picture being taken.

  With her heart pounding against her breastbone, she scoured the photos that followed: A picture of her in cap and gown. From her cap dangled a tassel in Vandy’s school colors of black and gold.

  She smiled in revelation—she was a college graduate. She desperately wished she could remember the experience. What did I major in? Was I a good student or did I goof-off and squander the opportunity?

  There was a photo of Wesley as a teenager—she leaned closer—wrestling? It was hard to picture her brainiac brother as being a jock. And another of him in a tux standing next to a blonde with cheerleader written all over her. He looked… cocky? Her myopic, quiet little brother who had been bullied in school and who to this day betrayed his insecurities with unwitting stabs to his glasses?

  And why was there no photo of Wesley graduating high school?

  Then she caught herself—she wasn’t even sure what year this was… or was supposed to be. She glanced around for some sort of reference, and spied a digital infinity clock on a table in the hallway. When she saw the year was the current year, a chill ran down her spine.

  She’d been so quick to assign a mental deficiency to Valerie, but was it possible she was the crazy one? That she had dreamed up the scenario of her parents leaving to protect her from facing some other traumatic event? Something she herself had caused? She’d read about people having psychotic breaks… it would explain why Valerie had been treating her with kid gloves since she’d “arrived” this morning.

  The sound of loud snoring filtered out into the hallway. She turned her head in the direction of Wesley’s room, then made her way over. Gingerly, she lifted her hand and knocked. When she received no response, she knocked harder. Suddenly, the snoring stopped.

  “Go the hell away!” Wesley shouted.

  Carlotta frowned. Wesley could be difficult, but he’d never been mean. For all he knew, Valerie was probably the one knocking, and since when did he think he could talk to his mother like that?

  “Wes, open up,” she called.

  “Carlotta? What the fuck do you want?”

  She blinked, then frowned. “Mom wants you to get up.”

  “Go away.”

  After nearly a minute of silence, she pounded on the door.

  “What?” he screamed.

  Her head went back at the raw fury in his voice. “Get your butt out of bed… now.”

  She heard the muffled sounds of him moving around and talking under his breath. The door opened and he stood there in a pair of Hanro micro boxer briefs, with a salon-tan and muscles in places she’d never seen on him. Even with bed-head, she could tell his hair was cut in a trendy style. “What?” he yelled.

  Carlotta scowled at this almost unrecognizable version of her brother. “Since when do you wear skivvies that cost fifty bucks a pop?”

  “Since when do you call Valerie ‘mom’?” he sneered. Anger rolled off him in waves.

  “You’re supposed to be someplace in thirty minutes?”

  He turned back to his room. “What do you care?”

  She followed him inside as he pulled on flashy designer jeans the Wesley she knew wouldn’t be caught dead in. “Try me.”

  “It’s a damn tutoring session,” he barked.

  She straightened. “Oh. Who are you tutoring?”

  He turned to glare. “Very funny. As if I could tutor anyone. I’m failing English—remember? For the second time.”

  She scoffed. “But you’re a straight-A student, and English is your best subject.”

  He gave a harsh laugh. “You been drinking Valerie’s coffee?”

  She did some quick mental math and a troubling realization dawned. “You haven’t graduated from high school yet.”

  He gave her a mean smile. “Yeah, rub it in. You, the girl who majored in pot and booze at Vandy. Did you even open that little tube they handed you at graduation to make sure there was a diploma inside?”

  So she had wasted her chance for an education. The knowledge brought tears to her eyes. Her throat convulsed, then she angled her head. “Where are your glasses?” Maybe his academic issues could be remedied with something as simple as updated lenses.

  “Duh… I got Lasik, remember? Did you get knocked on the head? You’re acting retarded.”

  “That’s not very nice.”

  He snorted. “Since when is our family nice?” He picked up a T-shirt and sniffed it, then pulled it over his head.

  Carlotta glanced around his room, appalled at the number of naked pinup posters of some rather crude-looking women having some rather lewd things done to them. She knew her brother wasn’t a virgin, but he’d always been respectful and discreet. What teenager displayed such misogyny in his parents’ home?

  “Where’s Einstein?” she asked, glancing around.

  “Who?”

  “Your snake, silly.”

  “Snake? Are you insane?” A thumping ringtone with offensive lyrics burst into the room. He jammed his phone to his ear. “Yo… Yeah, I got some lame shit to take care of this morning, then I’ll call you. Later.”

  Carlotta arched an eyebrow. “Let me guess—Chance Hollander?”

  Wes made a face. “Hollander? Why would I be talking to that fat-ass loser nobody?”

  She started to remind him Chance was his best friend, but realized this Wesley with the I’m-all-that attitude hadn’t connected with the idle-minded but good-hearted frat boy who until this moment, Carlotta had only tolerated. But Chance was starting to look downright charming compared to the hateful brat in front of her.

  “That was Zeph,” he supplied.

  “Who?”

  He gave her a pointed look. “Zephyr—my girlfriend?”

  Carlotta gave a wry laugh. “Zephyr? What is she, a stripper?”

  “Uh, yeah.”

  Carlotta gasped. “Mom and Dad are letting you date a stripper?”

  “You’re kidding, right? Jesus, it’s my life.�
��

  She crossed her arms. “You’re still in high school and still living under their roof.”

  “Who are you and what have you done with my sister?”

  She frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  He flailed his arms. “You left home and never looked back, left me here with these two misfits and now you think you can come around and try to be my mother?”

  He felt as if she’d abandoned him. Where did she live now? With Peter? Something on Wesley’s arm snagged her attention. She grabbed his wrist and stared at the red marks in the crook of his elbow. “What is this?”

  He tried to twist away from her, but she held on with an iron grip.

  “Are these track marks?”

  “Let go!” he wailed.

  “Answer me!”

  He wrenched his arm away. “Mind your own damn business.”

  She was so scared for him, her heart galloped in her chest. “What are you shooting up? Cocaine? Heroin?”

  “Get out of my room!” He put his palm on her chest and backed her out into the hallway, then slammed the door in her face.

  Carlotta stood there, shaking, trying to digest everything she’d just learned about her brother… and herself.

  “Carlotta?” her mother called up the stairs.

  She walked over to grip the stair railing and found her voice. “Yes?”

  “Everything okay up there?” Valerie’s lilting voice indicated she was sure that was the case, regardless of the commotion.

  “Yes,” Carlotta said, forcing a light tone. “Everything’s fine.”

  And suddenly, it all came back to her full-force, how her family had communicated in trite phrases and air kisses and double entendres, like her parents’ earlier conversation about Liz Fischer. No wonder Wesley had blown up when she pointed out the needle marks on his arms—they had been raised to believe if you didn’t say it aloud, it didn’t exist.