Home with You

by Shirlee McCoy

  That had been the original plan, the one Sullivan had been following every Sunday since he’d arrived.

  Unfortunately for all of them, Moisey had woken screaming in the middle of the night. There’d been nothing anyone could do to calm her. She’d been crying for Sunday, shrieking for Rumer, yelling at the top of her lungs that she didn’t want anyone else.

  Two hours later, when every kid and every adult in the house was wide awake, she’d finally collapsed on her bed and sobbed that she just wanted everything back the way it used to be. Daddy and Mommy. Dinners at the big table in the dining room. Sunday mornings at church and library time every Saturday.

  They’d missed library time, but Sullivan would be damned if they were going to miss church. The kid deserved to have some of her old life back. So, of course, he’d made promises that he was now regretting.

  Promise 1: church.

  Promise 2: dinner at the dining room table.

  Minutes later, she’d fallen asleep, content in the knowledge that some of what she’d lost would be returned to her. Somehow, he and his brothers had managed to get the other five kids settled, and then they’d sat at the kitchen table, swigging orange juice like it was one-hundred-proof whiskey and discussing a plan for getting six kids out of bed and ready for church on time.

  Flynn had suggested drawing names from a brown paper bag and taking responsibility for whichever kids they picked. It had seemed like the only fair way to choose who’d deal with which kid. They’d planned two kids each, but when Flynn drew Heavenly’s name on the first round, he’d gone about three shades of pale and claimed he’d rather face down a pit of vipers than wrangle her into going to church.

  Sullivan felt the same way, so he’d offered to take on three kids to ease some of Flynn’s pain. He’d ended up with Moisey, Twila, and Milo. Porter had ended up with Oya and Maddox. All of it had been settled by three a.m., the plan in place for almost certain success.

  Except they were dealing with kids, so success was about as likely as finding a pot of gold at the end of a rainbow.

  “Try these, Uncle,” Twila said, pressing two more hairbands into his hand. She, at least, was ready to go. Milo looked presentable too, his hair combed, his shirt pressed, his tie straight, an inch of white sock showing between his black shoes and pants.

  Sullivan did a double take.

  He was pretty certain those were the same pants Milo had worn to Matt’s funeral. The ones that had been a half inch too long.

  “Hey, sport,” Sullivan said as he gently parted Moisey’s hair again and wrested a band around half of it. “How about some black socks?”

  “I like white.”

  “Uncle Porter and I are wearing black,” he pointed out, and Milo shrugged.

  “I still like white. My black ones are too tight for Henry to fit in.” He lifted his right cuff a little higher, revealing a bulge beneath the white sock.

  “Then, I guess you should wear white.” He also guessed that he needed to buy the kid longer pants and bring him to the animal shelter to find a dog. Preferably one he couldn’t fit in his socks.

  “Maybe you should, too,” Milo suggested, moving in close enough for Sullivan to smell something flowery and sweet.

  Perfume?

  God, he hoped not! Because if it was perfume, he’d probably gotten it from the girls. Which meant he’d been in someone’s room. If he’d been in the room without permission, things could go south really quickly.

  “What’s that smell?” Moisey asked, turning her head just as Sullivan managed to get the second band around her hair.

  It stayed.

  Thank God!

  “Are you wearing Mommy’s perfume?” she continued.

  “It’s Dad’s cologne,” Milo said proudly.

  Sullivan hadn’t spent a lot of time with Matt the past few years, but he was certain his brother hadn’t worn cologne. If he had, it sure as heck hadn’t smelled like a field of wildflowers.

  “Dad doesn’t wear cologne,” Twila said.

  “It was his. I found it in his drawer.” Milo frowned, dragging his shirt up to his nose so he could sniff it.

  “Don’t worry.” Twila patted his arm. “You smell good.”

  “He smells like a garden,” Moisey said, her nose wrinkled. “Of dead flowers.”

  “Moisey Bethlehem,” Sullivan said with a sigh. “That’s enough.”

  “It’s true,” she responded as he finger-combed de-tangler into her hair. “But, don’t worry, Milo. I like dead flowers. Are we done, Uncle Sully?”

  “I think so,” he said, stepping back and eyeing the uneven part and the cute little pom-pom-like puffs of hair that jutted out on either side of it.

  “Do I look beautiful?” she asked, her hands on her hips, the bright pink dress she’d chosen sagging down her chest and bagging at her waist.

  “You don’t look beautiful. You are beautiful,” he replied, and she grinned.

  “Thank you, Sully.”

  “Uncle,” he corrected, but she was bouncing across the room, shoving her feet into yellow rain boots that were sitting near the mudroom door.

  It wasn’t raining.

  As a matter of fact, the sun was streaming in the kitchen window.

  He didn’t have time to fight her on the choice.

  “Everyone ready?” he asked, glancing at his watch. They were running three minutes behind, but he figured they could still make it in time.

  “We’ve been ready for twenty minutes,” Porter said with more pride than was necessary considering he’d only had two kids to corral.

  “What about Heavenly?” Twila asked as they filed outside, the sun, already warm and high and bright, glinting off her dark brown hair and her shiny leather shoes. He’d left his sketch pad inside, but his fingers itched to draw her, to capture the inquisitive look in her eyes and the way she cocked her head to the side as she glanced back at the house.

  “That’s a good question,” he responded. “I’ll go check.”

  He took a step toward the house, and then stopped, because Flynn was on his way out, dark pants and white shirt pressed and neat, tie slightly crooked, jaw set. He wore the look of a man who’d just fought a hard battle and lost.

  “What’s wrong?” Sullivan asked.

  “You’re not going to believe this,” he muttered.

  “What?”

  “This.” Flynn reached back, snagged something.

  Someone.

  Because, Heavenly was suddenly in the doorway.

  Dressed in black from head to toe. Long black skirt. Long-sleeved black shirt. Black shoes and fingerless black gloves. She’d painted her nails black, too.

  But that wasn’t what caught Sullivan’s attention.

  No. It was her hair he noticed. It had been chopped to within a couple inches of her scalp, the strands dyed what was probably supposed to be blue. They looked more purplish-brown than anything. There were splotches of color on her forehead and sections of mud brown near her nape.

  For a split second, he could hear his father’s voice in his head, feel all those words and curses and recriminations sitting on the tip of his tongue.

  They were late, for God’s sake!

  They needed to leave now!

  What the hell had she been thinking?

  Why the hell would she do something so stupid?

  But, she was watching him defiantly, her chin angled up, her hands fisted, and all the words fell away, all the anger died.

  “You cut your hair.” He stated the obvious and her chin jutted up a notch more.

  “And colored it,” she said. “Sunday said I could.”

  “When did she say that?”

  “On my birthday last year. She said when I turned thirteen, we’d get my hair cut and colored any way I chose. And, we’d get another piercing in my ear.”

  His gaze jumped to her ear.

  Sure enough, there was a silver stud in the cartilage and smeared blood on the lobe.

  “I’m not sure
she meant that you should do those things yourself,” he said, and she shrugged as if none of it mattered.

  “I guess at my age, I’m old enough to do what I want,” she responded, her voice wobbling.

  And, that’s when it registered.

  Not the hair or the ear or the sadness in her eyes.

  The words:

  She said when I turned thirteen . . .

  I guess at my age . . .

  “It’s your birthday,” he said, but it came out as more of a question, because he was hoping to God that he was wrong. That he hadn’t somehow missed one of the most important milestones in a kid’s life. Child to teenager. Young girl to young woman.

  “So?” she responded, her voice still wobbling, her chin still high.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Because I hate birthdays,” she said.

  “You told me about Twila’s birthday. You can’t hate them that much.”

  “She’s a kid. She deserves nice things.”

  “So are you,” Porter said. “So do you.”

  “Whatever,” she replied. “It’s just another day. Sunday and Matt were the only ones who ever remembered it.”

  Her voice broke, then. Just broke, and he broke, too, because she was the toughest kid he’d ever met, and she was standing on the back stoop with home-dyed hair and a self-pierced ear crying.

  “It’s okay,” he said, moving past Flynn and pulling her into his arms. She didn’t lean against him, but she didn’t pull away. Just stood stiff and straight, her skinny frame shaking with sobs.

  “No, it’s not. It’s horrible. Everyone at school is going to laugh at me. Just like they always do. My damn mother was right. I’m a freak!” she wailed.

  “If she really said that, she was the freak. Not you,” Flynn said, his voice gruff.

  “Who cares?! This is the biggest stupidest mistake I’ve ever made!” she sobbed, tears rolling down her cheeks and carrying black eyeliner with them.

  “Everyone makes mistakes,” Sullivan responded, her words dancing around his head. The ones she’d spoken when she’d given him advice about Rumer: If she messes up, don’t make her feel stupid.

  How many times had she messed up and been made to feel that way?

  “No, they don’t. Not like this. Not when they have to go to school and see all the people who hate them.” She swiped at the tears, took a quick step back.

  “You’re wrong. Plenty of people cut their hair and regret it,” he said, not touching on the school thing. As far as he’d known, she’d been doing just fine. Apparently, he hadn’t known anything. He’d call the school in the morning and arrange a meeting with the principal. For now, though, he’d just deal with what was in front of him.

  “They do?”

  “Sure.”

  “I’ve never seen anyone with hair messed up this bad.”

  “That’s because they fix it before they go out in public.”

  “Even if you’re right, it doesn’t matter. I don’t know how to fix it. I’ve been trying all morning.” She touched the ends.

  “Then it’s a good thing you have us around,” he said, glancing at his brothers and hoping against hope that one of them had a clue.

  He could tell from their expressions that they didn’t.

  “Hair salon?” Porter finally suggested.

  “This is Benevolence. Not LA. Nothing is open on Sunday.”

  “Right. I forgot.”

  “See? I told you,” Heavenly spat, all her tears replaced by anger. “I’m going to have to go to school like this.”

  “No, you’re not!” Moisey nearly shouted. “I know what to do!”

  “You’re not touching my hair!” Heavenly shouted back, but Moisey was running inside, and Sullivan doubted she heard.

  “She’s not touching my hair,” Heavenly muttered meeting his eyes.

  “Of course she’s not.”

  “So . . . what’s the plan?” Flynn asked as they walked into the mudroom, the kids trailing along behind them.

  “I guess we rinse and wash it first. Then, we color it again.” He’d think about the uneven jagged butcher job after that.

  “Don’t you think she’s got enough color in it?” Porter was still holding Oya, but he reached past, turning on the faucet in the mudroom sink.

  “She needs the right color,” he responded, offering Heavenly a smile that he hoped made him seem confident.

  He was confident all right.

  Confident that failure was right around the corner.

  Poor kid.

  “I vote for purple,” Maddox said.

  “No! Green!” Milo argued.

  “I think her regular color is pretty,” Twila cut in.

  “Since I’m the artist,” he said, “I’ll decide. One of you grab a towel. Someone else bring shampoo. Maddox, get a chair.”

  For once, everyone did exactly what they were told.

  Minutes later, he had Heavenly settled in the chair, a towel wrapped around her shoulders and chest.

  The rest of the family stood nearby, watching with mixtures of fascination and horror.

  He thought about waiting, just letting it be until he could find a hair salon that could fix it, but he imagined some damn bully seeing her and snapping a photo that could be posted to social media and used to torture her for years.

  “Uncle Sullivan?” she said, and he realized he was standing there with a shampoo bottle in his hand, staring at her poor messed-up hair, doing absolutely nothing about it, because he had no idea where to start or how to help and he was scared . . .

  Yes, scared . . .

  That he was going to fail her.

  “Yeah?”

  “It’s okay. I trust you,” she replied, and then she leaned her head back into the sink and waited for him to begin.

  Chapter Eleven

  She was driving like a bat out of hell, speeding along at twenty miles an hour above the posted limit, probably breaking every conceivable traffic law that existed.

  And, she didn’t care.

  All she cared about was getting to Heavenly.

  It’s an emergency. She’s blue. We don’t know what to do.

  That’s what Moisey had said, her call an unexpected interruption in an otherwise quiet morning. A very quiet morning. Rumer had been alone, mucking the stalls, listening to her own thoughts. Most of which had to do with Sullivan or the Bradshaw kids. She had no idea what she was going to do about them, and that was weighing on her.

  Quitting the job seemed like the easiest and least painful solution. She’d just have to come up with an excuse, give her resignation, walk away before Sullivan had the chance to walk away from her. She would have already made the call and given her notice, except for the kids. They needed her. Even if they hadn’t, she wasn’t sure she would have been able to do it.

  She’d grown up a lot the last few years.

  She’d matured.

  She didn’t want to let herself be the person she’d been when she’d met Jake—a little childish, a little nervous, content to have a mediocre relationship because she hadn’t wanted to be alone.

  She enjoyed being alone now.

  She liked her own company.

  But, it had been nice to have Sullivan enter that empty space in her heart, the one that no other man had ever been able to fill.

  It had been nice, but it wouldn’t last. If she didn’t walk away from him, he’d walk away from her.

  She believed that with every fiber of her being, and she still hadn’t made the call.

  So, maybe she didn’t believe it.

  Not the way she’d believed in sunrises or second chances.

  That’s what she’d been thinking about while she mucked stalls.

  She’d been so deep in her head, she’d nearly jumped out of her skin when her cell phone rang. She’d pulled it out, seen the Bradshaws’ number, and answered immediately, certain there was something wrong.

  She’d been right.

  She’d ma
de all the kids memorize her cell phone number. Just in case. Now, she wished she’d had them practice emergency protocol. The information Moisey had given had been limited. Something about Heavenly being blue and crying and the uncles not knowing what to do. When Rumer had asked if anyone had called 911, Moisey had insisted that the uncles were taking care of things, but that they needed her help. Now.

  That had been Moisey’s last word before she’d disconnected.

  Rumer had called back, letting the phone ring a dozen times before she’d given up. Obviously, something was going on, and obviously, she needed to be there.

  Now.

  Not when Minnie’s sluggish vintage Cadillac decided to get her there.

  “Dang it!” she growled, stomping on the accelerator and getting a lukewarm response from the transmission. “This car is slow as molasses.”

  “Not quite,” Lu said calmly, her purple dress tucked neatly around her legs, her black leather purse in her lap. She’d been getting ready for church when Rumer had barreled into the house, and she’d insisted on coming along.

  So had Minnie. She was sitting in the back seat, going through her medical kit. Just in case she needed it.

  Rumer was hoping and praying she wouldn’t. But a blue kid? That didn’t sound good.

  “Better floor it,” Lu said conversationally, her gaze on the side mirror. “The cops are on our tail.”

  “What?” She glanced in the rearview mirror, saw lights flashing and a squad car closing in. She was on the country road that led to Pleasant Valley Farm. There was no one else around, so she had to be their target.

  She’d be happy to stop and give them her information. She’d be happy to accept a ticket and own up to her mistakes.

  After she reached the house.

  “He’s getting close. Hopefully, he’s called in our location and blocked the road leading in and out of here. I’d hate for anyone to get in the middle of this. At these speeds, someone could get hurt,” Lu said, a note of warning in her voice.

  “This isn’t Cops, Ma. We’re not involved in a high-speed chase,” Minnie responded. “Rumer’s going fifty.”

  “The speed limit is thirty,” Lu reminded her. “And, she’s got a cop behind her, so it’s a chase. Things could get dicey if we don’t pull over. Then again, if we do, we’ll probably get arrested for fleeing an officer of the law.”