I raise my hands, assuring her no offense has been taken.
By all appearances Dan is very straitlaced (his laces being the only straight thing about him!), though I have no doubt the guys at the Bone Yard have slightly different insights into that perspective.
I shift against a little pang of anger.
“You’ve only been with one man?” Mom asks, eyes wide in disbelief. “What are you, religious or something?”
“No, not particularly.”
“So, you were just saving yourself for Mr. Right, is that it?”
I shrug. “Yeah, something like that.”
“Janie’s got the perfect husband and the perfect life,” Julie joins in, winking at me while she tosses the rest of the Skittles into her mouth. “I want to be her when I grow up.”
Her comment is meant as a compliment, and two months ago I would have taken it that way, but now? No. I wouldn’t wish my perfect life on anyone. Even my train wreck of a little sister.
News of my weekend illness spreads through Mount Ivy like wildfire and seems to grow more dire with every passing day. What started out as a little flu bug on Saturday evolves into near appendicitis by Thursday night’s Rotary meeting. Anita Riggs, of “Riggs Realty, where everything I touch turns to sold!” even showed up with a bouquet of get-well lilies and a box of Godivas for when I was feeling strong enough to eat.
Thankfully, I was armed with a snug-fitting rubber band and managed to snap my way through that stressful situation without breaking, but it’s getting harder and harder to keep up with all the lies. How Dan has managed to live this way—undetected and mentally sound—for as long as he has is nothing short of impressive.
I should probably erect a statue in his honor.
A great big penis statue with his face etched into the balls.
Speaking of my loyal husband, he hasn’t brought up the incident even once, but he is very intent on making sure I get down to Chicago for my “meeting” (how we’re referring to it in case Avery’s within earshot) on time. He went so far as to push back this morning’s coronary bypass surgery just so he could take Avery to school and I could get on the road earlier.
Of course, Avery looked miserable when I said my goodbyes—she’d always prefer to ride in smug silence with me than her father—but I didn’t really have a choice. With my criminal record on the line, and the Mount Ivy gossip mill eager for another frenzied round of the telephone game, I couldn’t run the risk of being late again.
It’s only 9:27 when I pull into the parking space in the police station lot, which is perfect because I still need to respond to our first writing prompt. I cut the engine, turn the ignition back so Dr. Deedee can stream through the speakers, and pick up the notebook. I stare down at the prompt:
IF I COULD CHANGE ONE THING ABOUT MY LIFE, IT WOULD BE . . .
The answer is obvious, but I’m not about to write it down in a book, or anywhere else for that matter. That would be about as foolish as actually telling someone! No. Despite Bates’s assurance that she doesn’t care what we write down, I have to be very careful how I respond to anything inside this “journal.” If I were to be honest, and it ended up in the wrong hands—
A blanket of goose bumps suddenly erupts across my skin, sending a chill snaking up my spine.
My god.
The damage would be devastating.
I quickly scribble out something vanilla enough not to be damning but still containing enough truth that I don’t feel like I’m lying, again:
I want a better relationship with Avery.
I close the notebook, then dive into the box of Godivas I left in the car last night. A little celebration for my punctuality and completion of my first assignment. Good job, Jane!
At quarter to ten, I head for the building. The same homeless man I saw on Monday is still camped out near the crosswalk. Today his sign says, WIFE WAS KIDNAPPED. 98¢ SHORT ON RANSOM.
I can’t help but laugh.
“Good morning, pretty lady. Got thum thpare change?”
“I’m sorry, I don’t,” I reply without any real thought. Not only do I never carry cash—if it’s not plastic, it’s not in my wallet—but Dan has a strict rule when it comes to helping the homeless: never give them money because you don’t know where they’ll spend it.
“Thath okay.” He offers up a wide, toothless grin. “God bleth you anyway.”
I’m not sure if it’s the sincerity behind his gummy smile or the nauseating thought that any part of Dan is rubbing off on me, but one of the two prompts me to say, “Actually—wait. I have something in my car you can have. Hang on . . .”
I hustle back to the parking lot, grab the box of chocolates (nine of the dozen still intact), and hurry back to him.
“I’m not sure if you like chocolate, but here.” I cautiously hand him the box. “They’re really good.”
And thankfully all truffles, so you’ll be able to gum them down pretty easily.
“Wow. Tho fanthy,” he says, eyeing the gold box with reverence. He raises his gaze to mine. “Thank you, pretty lady.”
My chest swells. “You’re welcome. I hope you like them.”
The security line to get into the police station is easily twelve people deep, but it’s moving quickly, so I’m feeling good about things. Not only do I look a heck of a lot better than the last time I was here, but I’ve still got eight minutes to get to my class, and I practiced a random act of kindness; I could be my own bumper sticker today—
“Somebody’s trying to avoid the wrath of Officer Bates, huh?”
I glance over my shoulder and find that Iris woman, whom I sat next to on Monday, standing behind me.
Iris, arrested for petty theft.
On instinct, I tighten my grip on my purse straps.
“I’m sorry?”
“You’re on time,” she says, motioning to her watch.
“Oh . . . yeah.” I force out a little laugh. “I’m pretty sure she’d have me tarred and feathered if I wasn’t.”
She grins. “Probably.”
I turn back around, shuffling forward as the line continues to move.
She continues with her probing. “Do you have a long drive in?”
“Um . . . yeah.” I cast a quick look back but don’t make eye contact. That should give her the hint that I’m not really looking to chat. “It’s just over an hour.”
“An hour? Where are you coming from?”
“Mount—er . . . Morris Creek.”
Morris Creek?
Seriously, Jane?
Yes, it’s better than revealing the truth, but saying you’re from Morris Creek is like returning to the scene of the crime.
Dumbass.
“Morris Creek? That’s gotta be close to a hundred miles. It only takes you an hour to get all the way down here?”
My breathing grows shallow beneath her barrage of questions. Questions I’m definitely not prepared to answer.
Please, just leave me alone.
“Yeah, I, um . . .” I drop my head, avoiding her speculative gaze, which I can see from the corner of my eye. “I tend to speed a little bit.”
She makes a snorting sound. “I guess so.”
We shuffle forward again.
Only two people ahead of me now.
Come on, hurry up.
“So, how did it work out that you ended up all the way down here?” she questions. Again. “Aren’t there some other programs closer to home?”
I clear my throat, buying myself some time as I mentally dig through all my lies for one that will sound legitimate. One that won’t reveal that my arresting officer was a guy I sort of knew from high school. A guy who could easily dismantle my life with one well-worded Facebook post. (I didn’t actually check, but we’ve got to have some friend in common.) My heart starts to beat a little faster. As subtly as possible, I slide my finger up under the cuff of my sweater and give it a little tug.
Snap!
“Yeah, I guess they, um . . . they d
on’t offer a program like this up there,” I reply, nerves thankfully settling a twinge. “I think it’s more of a big-city kind of thing.”
I brave a look up and find her nodding. But it’s not a nod of understanding; it’s one of those really slow nods that suggests she knows I’m lying.
Shit.
“Uh-huh. Right,” she says.
“Ma’am. Come on through, please.”
Thankfully, the officer calls me to the security checkpoint, permitting me to turn my back on Iris.
I unload my purse, phone, and keys onto the table, then quickly walk through the metal detector, hoping to put a little bit of distance between me and my interrogator.
“Looks like your boyfriend’s here again.”
Boyfriend?
Definitely not another question but still a comment I wasn’t prepared for.
Confused, I turn toward her and follow her gaze across the lobby—oh.
My breath catches.
It’s him.
Detective Chavez.
He’s talking to a couple of uniformed officers near the elevators—
He suddenly turns my way, dark eyes instantly locking onto mine as if he could feel me looking at him. Embarrassment floods my chest as the same amused grin he wore on Monday quickly slides back into place.
Officer Sexy Pants.
Another onslaught of broken memories flits through my mind, snapshots of what happened just a week ago tonight: him banging on my window, me searching for buttons—so many buttons!—the wine. I gave him the wine, and then I—
Ohmygod.
I kissed him!
His grin seems to grow, as if he’s tuned into my thoughts, like he’s reliving the mortifying experience along with me. My humiliation deepens, but with it comes a twinge of annoyance.
Okay, I get it.
I made a complete ass of myself.
It was funny.
But the joke’s over!
Move on!
And please, god, don’t tell anyone!
“You okay?” Iris asks, astutely reading my body language.
I peel my gaze away from him while giving my head a righting shake. “Yeah, I, um . . . I just don’t want to be late.”
She casts a skeptical glance toward Chavez, then turns back to me and over a shrug says, “Whatever you say.”
CHAPTER 10
The chairs have been rearranged from Monday’s half-circle formation into a tight circle with all chairs facing inward so that when seated, we’ll be looking at each other.
I swallow hard and give my band a preemptive snap.
That’s a whole lot of face-to-face lying . . .
“Glad you finally decided to show up, Holliday.”
Despite the fact that Iris and I walked in together, and that it’s only 9:57, Officer Bates once again makes a point of putting me in my place.
“Good morning,” I mutter back to her, shifting beneath the straps of my bag.
“Take a seat,” Bates grumbles.
There are only two empty seats in the circle, and thankfully they’re not together. Not that I don’t want to sit beside Iris. I mean, I’m sure she’s a perfectly lovely woman—aside from her petty theft arrest—but I’m not looking to buddy up with anyone while I’m here. Especially someone who asks so many questions . . . and who already knows I’m a liar.
Iris takes the seat between Donna, the smoker arrested for assault, and . . . Lina? Yeah, Lina. That mouthy woman who was arrested for assault and possession of crank, which I think is slang for cocaine, but I’m honestly not sure.
I take the last empty seat on the opposite side of the circle from Iris, right between Maya, the way-too-young heroin user with enviable black curls draping down her back, and Birdy, the southern girl arrested for indecent exposure. As I look at her now, wearing a delicate, peasant-style top, her freckled cheeks flushing the prettiest shade of pink thanks to the warm air blowing down from the vents above, I can’t begin to imagine how she earned that arrest. Indecent exposure? She looks so sweet and innocent. There must be an interesting story there—not that I intend to find out what it is.
“Mornin’,” she says to me, her thin smile traveling all the way up to her pale-blue eyes.
“Good morning.”
She surprises me by leaning in a little closer and, in just above a whisper, saying, “What’d you do, run over her dog or somethin’?” She says the word dog like it’s spelled with an a and a couple of extra w’s: dawwg. She glances toward Officer Bates. “She doesn’t seem to like you a whole lot.”
“No, she doesn’t,” I whisper back to her and, despite my annoyance with Officer Bates’s greeting, find myself smiling. Her accent is so adorably thick and backwoods it’s a bit of a struggle to understand her.
“Well, hopefully she eases up on ya a little bit.”
I nod. That would be nice.
“All right, ladies. Now that everyone’s finally here, we can get started. Pull out your journals and open them up to your first prompt.”
We all heed Bates’s terse instruction, flipping the covers on our notebooks so the first page is exposed. I can’t help but notice that my southern neighbor has written down a lot more than I have. She’s filled up the entire first page, and by the rippling of the lined paper, it appears she even wrote on the back. I steal a quick glance over at Maya’s and see that she’s also written a lot more than me. Two full paragraphs.
Uh-oh.
“Fine. Good. Okay . . .” Bates is circling us from behind, glancing over our shoulders to confirm that we’ve done the work. “Nice,” she says when she comes up behind Birdy, and then she stops dead in her tracks when she’s behind me. I hear her sigh.
“Seriously, Holliday? You can’t come up with more than a sentence?”
All eyes in the circle shift toward me. My breath catches, and on instinct, I press my notebook against my chest to protect it, even though there’s nothing damaging there. I glance back at her. “Sorry. I, um . . . I didn’t realize we needed to do more than that.”
“Well, you do,” she grunts over a tired look. “A lot more.”
“Okay. Sorry. I’ll do more next time.”
Birdy casts me a sympathetic glance while Bates finishes her rounds, then settles up against her podium. “All right, so the prompt was, ‘If I could change one thing about my life, it would be’ what?” she reminds us, her gaze sweeping across the room. “By show of hands, how many of you responded to that prompt by including someone else in your answer? Your significant other, your kid, your friends . . .”
“I talked about my mom,” Angel (assault and meth), sitting on the other side of Birdy, says while waving her hand carelessly through the air.
Other hands start to rise. First Donna’s, then Lina’s, Iris’s, Birdy’s . . .
Beside me, Maya raises up her right hand because her left is pressed up against her mouth. She’s been nibbling her nails since I got here.
I tentatively raise my hand.
“Exactly,” Bates says over a slow nod. “That’s the thing about women. We view our world through our relationships, and when given the opportunity to change something in our world, nine times out of ten it won’t be limited to us—it will involve someone else. Angel, what did you say about your mom? What would you like to change about her?”
She shrugs. “I want her to get off her ass and get a job.”
Donna snorts and Maya giggles over her fingers.
“So, your mom isn’t working?” Bates follows up.
Angel shakes her head, the four-inch gold hoops in her ears swaying with the movement. “She hasn’t worked in almost two years.”
“Why not?” Lina asks.
Angel reels back. “Excuse me?”
“Go ahead and answer,” Bates jumps in, then glances around the circle, saying, “This is what this group is all about, ladies. I told you we were going to dig deep to find out what got you here, and you do that by communicating. So, go for it.” She raises her palms as if
conceding authority. “Ask questions. Talk about things. So long as you keep it respectful, it’s always beneficial.”
My stomach turns, and I instinctively tighten my hold on the notebook.
There’s no way discussing my life with perfect strangers—criminals!—will ever be beneficial.
Angel sighs, then turns back to Lina. “Because she’d rather cash her disability check than go to physical therapy and get better.”
“Shit, everybody’d rather collect than go to work,” Lina fires back, unimpressed.
“Your mom has an injury?” Iris asks.
“Yeah, something with her back. It’s called . . .” Her shimmery lips purse in thought. “I don’t know . . . socratic or scio—”
“Sciatica?” Iris follows.
Angel nods, pointing an affirming finger at Iris. “Yeah, that’s it. Her sciatic nerve. She used to work at the Home Depot and was lifting some bags of concrete, and it just went out on her.”
“That can be a really hard injury to recover from,” Iris says.
“Yeah, I’ve heard that sciatic thing hurts real bad,” Birdy chimes in, and even though the topic isn’t funny, and her comment isn’t meant to be, Maya still giggles and Lina snorts and says, “Damn, girl. Where the hell are you from?”
“Pine Bluff, Arkansas,” Birdy answers easily, like she gets that question a lot.
“What are you doing in Chicago?” Donna with the Marlboro voice asks.
“I moved up here to be with my boyfriend, Wade. That’s who I wrote about.” She motions to her journal.
“What would you like to change about him?” Bates takes over again.
“Oh, um . . .” Birdy turns to Angel, as if seeking permission to shift the conversation her way.
Angel raises her palms without hesitation, like she’s just dropped a bomb on a doorstep and is grateful to be rid of it. “That’s all you, girl,” she says.
“Okay, well, um . . . well, Wade’s real sweet most of the time. Like, he’s always leaving little notes around the house and bringin’ me flowers and stuff, bless him. But then there’s other times when he’s like . . .” Her blonde brows furrow in thought. “I don’t know, it’s like his panties get all twisted, and he gets upset real easy about stuff. It’s just hard to deal with. I think it’s on account of his childhood,” she goes on, her thoughts sounding more absent now. “His daddy got put in jail when he was little, so his mama remarried this guy, Larry, who’s a good-enough guy, but, you know, he had other kids already, so he never paid much attention to Wade. So, I think maybe he’s got some issues with all a that, you know? ’Cause his real daddy wasn’t around—”
See Jane Snap Page 11
