In the Middle

by S. J. Henderson

  “Hey,” I call to the waitress the next time she looks in my direction. She grins, showing off a row of teeth that contrast sharply against her shiny pink lipstick, and moves toward me.

  She sashays over. “What’s up, hon?”

  The words stick in my throat and my cheeks burn until I finally blurt, “I don’t have any money.”

  If my confession stuns her, she doesn’t show it. Her jaws keep up a steady pace, chewing away on her ancient piece of bubble gum. I wait for her to cuss me out or call the police. When she doesn’t, I prepare myself for an afternoon slaving away over a sink brimming with dirty dishes.

  Instead, she pats me on the arm and smiles. I mean, really smiles. “Don’t you worry, sweetie. Let me take care of that.” She moves a few paces to the window that opens into the kitchen. “Hey, Sal.”

  “Yeah? What is it?” A burly man with thick black hair peppered with greys peers through the slot in the window. He looks out of place here in the diner. It’s easier to see him in a pin-striped suit, fedora, and machine gun. He looks like the kind of guy who would much rather fit me with a custom pair of cement shoes than forgive my debt.

  The waitress drops her voice as she fills Sal in on my predicament. Sal pinches his forehead between fingers the size of hot dogs. My brain signals my feet to get ready to run—or hop, whatever—and I shift to the side of my stool. My knees bump the old man in the thigh, and he growls obscenities at me.

  “Sorry,” I mumble.

  Her voice drifts back to me. “Okay, okay, Sal. We’ll work it out. Keep your shirt on!”

  Sweat begins to pool just above my upper lip, and I close my eyes, sorry I ran away without a plan. At the very least, I should have thought it through well enough to grab the essentials: my cash and my disguise.

  The waitress returns to me. Her gaze rests on her clasped hands as her gleaming teeth bite gently on the corner of her lower lip.

  “Listen, hon. I’ve done some things I ain’t very proud of. This one time, I took money from Carla Giametti’s purse. It was right there, stickin’ outta the top of that fancy purse of hers. Served her right, I thought to myself.”

  “But I’m not steal—”

  She silences me with her hand. “What I didn’t know was that she was tryin’ to save up money to leave that no-good Danny of hers. She needed that money more than I did.”

  For the life of me, I can’t imagine why she feels the need to tell me all of this, but I listen politely. My only other option is a very slow and awkward getaway.

  “I’m gonna go back there right now and tell Sal to take your meal from my paycheck. Consider it my treat.” She pauses, then adds, “It’s the least I can do. For Carla.”

  I deflate a little at her generosity. “That’s so nice of you . . . Uh, I didn’t get your name.”

  Her eyes twinkle as she taps her name badge with a hot pink fingernail. “It’s Vera.”

  A name tag, of course. I never notice that kind of thing. “Vera,” I correct myself. “Thank you so much. I’ll pay you back, I swear. I’ll go get—”

  “Don’t be silly.” Her face lights up. Beneath that mountain of hair and spackle on her face, Vera is beautiful—and I’m not just saying that because she’d saved me from sleeping with the fish.

  “Thank you, then.”

  Our eyes meet. “No. Thank you, Lucy.”

  She knows my name even though I’d made it a point to keep that info to myself.

  These creepy small towns, I think, but I keep my smile pasted in place until Vera bumps open the swinging door to the kitchen with her hip.

  “Oh Sal . . .” she sings. Then her voice hushes, and I can’t hear her anymore.

  The energy in the restaurant changes like the flip of a light switch. The normal buzz of conversation dies down, and the heat of a dozen pairs of eyes turns on me. I’d missed something major.

  Before I can figure out what happened, Sal storms through the swinging door. Patches of red stand out on his cheeks. “Out.”

  I look around, feeling embarrassed for the poor target of his wrath. Sal’s kind of a scary guy.

  He stabs the air in my direction with the spatula in his fist, then points towards the main entrance. “No, you. Get out!”

  Even though I’m confused and want to ask him what the problem is, I trust my instincts. Time to leave before Sal starts chucking things at me in blind rage.

  As I thump quickly to the door, Sal grumbles, “Where’m I gonna find another waitress? Stupid girl . . .”

  Out on the sidewalk, I can feel their eyes. Even though the windows obscure everyone inside the diner from my view, I know they’re still watching. Goosebumps prickle on my arms and intuition tugs at me again, eager to get back to the mansion. I hate that mansion and I hate my aunt, but at least my room is a haven from the creepiness of Mitte.

  Before I finish crossing the street, a gruff voice yells out to me from outside the diner. “Hey!”

  He means me, no question about it, but I act like I don’t hear.

  Step-thump-step-thump-step-thump. I concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other then repeating the awful process.

  Heavy footfalls chase me from behind. I whirl around to face him. A wave of nausea rolls through me at my careless movement, but I fight to focus. This time my predator is not my pain, it’s the man dressed in black leather and chains.

  He doesn’t blend in well here, with mirrored shades covering his eyes and a wiry red beard trailing down to his chest. A tattoo of a skull on fire—a skull! On fire!—peeks out from under the cuff of his black t-shirt. The man’s only reassuring feature is the bandana covering his head, but I’m mostly jealous. The late morning sun makes my scar feel too hot and exposed.

  “I’m talking to you, girl.” He curls his upper lip. When he takes in my wide eyes and frightened posture, he softens. “Stop looking at me like that. I ain’t going to hurt you.”

  I find little comfort in his words, but I draw in a breath to steady my racing heart. “Ohhhhh-kay . . . Can I help you?”

  He swivels his thick neck to look over his shoulder, then back at me. “Who are you?”

  My parents taught me never to talk to strangers. This is a new town, though. In Mitte, I am the stranger.

  “I’m Perdita’s niece. I just moved here,” I say.

  His expression changes. “Listen, I don’t need no life story, cupcake. Who you know or where you came from—that don’t matter. All I wanna know is what happened to Vera.”

  “How should I know?”

  “But you gotta know. It has somethin’ to do with you.” Desperation colors his tone. The veins on each side of his wide, sunburned neck pop out.

  A small group of fellow diners have filtered from the restaurant, watching us from the sidewalk. My gaze flits past the biker and back before I shrug. “I’m sorry.”

  The man heaves a great sigh and takes a step back. It seems like a good time for me to make my retreat, so I urge myself forward. He will catch me easily if he takes a few long strides, but I don’t dare look backwards. I don’t want to know if I am being followed.

  After a long while, the mansion comes into view. Summoning my last ounce of energy, I drag myself up the stone steps and to my room. I don’t bother showering at all, and instead burrow beneath the down comforter in my room.

  These four walls are my only safety.

  Chapter 4

  I spend the next day exploring the mansion, careful to avoid my aunt. It’s easy to figure out when she’s awake and moving throughout the house because she makes a lot of noise. Especially when she bangs around in the kitchen like a poltergeist.

  My room is in the south wing. I count thirteen white doors in my hallway, all closed. When I try the doorknobs, about half of them are locked. A few of the unlocked rooms are clear of furniture, just an expanse of bare hardwood surrounded by blank white walls. In each of the empty rooms, the sheer drapes have been pulled across the windows in a pointless attempt to keep others from peering in
. The furnished rooms are set up identically to mine. They are all too bright and sterile, not unlike the hospital.

  I wait until my aunt retreats to her room before I gather the nerve to open the heavy door in the foyer. I expect something sinister—a dungeon, perhaps, or a sweatshop. When I slide the paneled door to the side, instead of toddler seamstresses or stretching racks, all I find is a row of overinflated red-upholstered couches. Those couches might be considered sinister, I guess. I know they’re liars, at least, not nearly as comfortable as they appear. On both sides of the room, books of every shape and size spill from floor-to-ceiling shelves. I resist the urge to plop down on one of the rock-hard loveseats with a musty old novel in favor of venturing deeper into the space.

  Four gigantic panes of glass comprise the far wall, with a set of French doors nestled within them. Beyond the windows stretches my own personal Garden of Eden.

  I glance over my shoulder to make sure I’m still alone, then I ease the door open and step outside. The breeze wraps around my body, lifting the loose tail of my head scarf and sending it, tickling, across the nape of my neck.

  The stone patio beneath my feet arcs in the shape of a crescent moon. I picture large parties here under the stars, with a live band and colorful lanterns strung about. If that is the sort of thing that takes place, I find no evidence of it, not even the tiniest of patio tables or a wilted lawn chair. Aunt Perdita, you party pooper.

  The green velvet of the lawn trickles down until it fades into the dancing shade of the trees beyond. The fragrance of the fruit among the branches wraps around me with the next crescendo of wind. It draws me in, and I move quietly into the shadowy arms of the orchard.

  Surrounded by trees, I feel at peace for the first time since driving into this crazy podunk town. It doesn’t make sense, because being in the middle of nowhere, away from the comforting background noises of the city, usually makes me anxious. It was the reason my parents had to drive three hours in the middle of the night to pick me up from summer camp when I was ten. Here, though, I don’t feel the usual panic. Among the thick carpet of grass, sparkling with beams of sunlight filtering through the leaves, I feel whole. Despite my limp, I weave my way among the maze of tree trunks, immersing myself in this new place.

  I’m not sure how long I wander before the orchard thins out and slopes downward and out of sight. Traversing the hill isn’t easy but, really, nothing is anymore. Out here, at least I don’t have to worry about Aunt Perdita and her mood swings, or the psycho inhabitants of my new town.

  Near the foot of the hill, a weathered split-rail fence forms a boundary. On the other side of the fence, bushes full of roses of all different shades grow. Not seeing a gate or gap into the thicket, I stuff myself into the opening between the splintered rails. My bad leg doesn’t cooperate when I ask it to bend, but with a bit of coaxing I ease my way to the other side.

  A dirt path, dark and slick with late-day condensation, leads into the center of the greenery. I follow it with hesitation, certain I must be trespassing on someone’s property. But the perfume from the blossoms pushes a memory to the forefront, clouding my good sense.

  Pink roses had always been mom’s favorite. Dad used to bring her a freshly-cut pink rose every Friday. She would act surprised, as if he’d never done it before, then reach up on her tiptoes to kiss him. Afterwards, she would prune the stem down until it was just the head of the flower and release it in a crystal vase half-full of water.

  Always a pink rose. Always the shared kiss. Always, and perhaps most importantly, the surprised joy.

  A lump forms in my throat before I can brace myself against it. I bring my hand to my forehead and squeeze my eyes shut, physically trying to quell my tears. The whole thing happened because of me. I don’t deserve to feel sorry for myself, to cry.

  Behind me, in the direction of the path, a twig snaps. Such a small thing out here in nature, except I remember the whole trespassing thing. My imagination jumps into overdrive. Uncertain of who or what lurks towards me, my sadness flashes into a surge of adrenaline. I swing my head around, ignoring the bolt of fire in my neck. That path stands as my only way out unless I want to fight and bleed my way through the rose bushes, and I most definitely don’t.

  “Look what we have here. A rose of unspeakable beauty amongst the thorns.” Oliver smiles, tipping the brim of his brown fedora as he steps into view.

  My heart beats again. “I’m so glad it’s you. You have no idea.”

  “Lucy, you do care about me, after all.” He laughs and his dark eyes sparkle. “I knew it.”

  “‘Care for you’ is such a strong statement, but so far you’re the only one I’ve met in Mitte that (a) I’ve seen more than once, and (b) hasn’t been a complete sociopath.” I turn to follow him as he sidles past me and closer to the flowers.

  He pulls a pair of small scissors from the pocket of his trousers and busies himself with cutting away the spent blooms. “I could be a sociopath, you know,” he says, pausing long enough to arch his eyebrow at me.

  “Yeah, you do seem pretty shady, now that I think of it.”

  Oliver chuckles. “And, for the record, they’re not sociopaths. The people here are—” He looks off into the distance as he handpicks the perfect descriptive word. “—troubled.”

  Perfect. “Troubled, how?” Though I really don’t want to know the answer. He doesn’t offer one.

  “Rumor is you met Angus yesterday.”

  “Angus? The sasquatch in all the leather?” I sink down to the earth to rest my aching leg.

  “That’s the one,” Oliver says.

  “If by ‘met’ you mean ‘was hunted down by,’ then, yep, I met him.”

  His hands move quickly and without faltering, like he’s memorized every vine. If the thorns rip at his flesh, he never once complains. He remains quiet a long while, until I forget what we’d been talking about. The woods around us fall silent, too, except the snip-snip of Oliver’s shears as he works.

  “Sal’s pretty upset by Vera leaving,” he says, finally. “You probably should avoid him for a while.”

  I groan and pinch a blade of grass from the soil. “I didn’t do anything. I keep telling everyone.”

  Oliver pitches a withered bud to the ground and turns to me. “It would also be a really good idea if you didn’t go exploring around town on your own. I’m not sure it’s safe.”

  I study his face for any hint of joking, but find none. Oliver and I barely know each other, but I guess he isn’t serious very often. His smile is gone and my blood chills within my veins.

  I pry my eyes from him and stare at my lap, not sure what to say. If he’s concerned, maybe I should be, too. Oliver seems to know everything about my strange new home, so what if there really is something or someone out there I should be wary of? Then again, everything about him screams old-fashioned, from his wool pants and suspenders to his ideals. I consider the possibility that women aren’t treated as equals in Mitte. My mind conjures up the image of him lugging my suitcase up the front stairs for me because, as a woman, I lack the strength to manage it myself. A flash of anger streaks through me and I struggle to stand.

  Oliver notices my flopping and groaning, and steps to me with hand outstretched. “Here, let me help.”

  I slap him away. “I can do it myself.”

  A look of confusion settles upon his features. “Lucy, I never said you couldn’t.”

  I ignore him until I make it to my feet. The effort of standing nearly incapacitates me, but I refuse to let him know. Instead, I grit my teeth. “Stop treating me like a child.”

  The words echo inside of me. Stop treating me like a child. I crash to my knees, all the energy it took to stand wasted.

  Crash . . .

  Dad sits in the back seat. My mother barks worried instructions from my side.

  “Lucy. LUCY, SLOW DOWN!” she screeches, digging her fingernails into the vinyl seat.

  I shoot her an irritated look over my shoulder, defying all I’
ve ever learned in Driver’s Ed. “Chill out, Mom. I know! Stop treating me like a child.”

  “The road, Luce!” Dad bellows. I catch the whites of his eyes before I snap my gaze forward.

  It’s too late. My knuckles blanch white on the steering wheel. My body braces for impact.

  Chapter 5

  I bolt upright in bed, my clothes plastered to my body with sweat. I’d been dreaming, but about what, I can’t remember. Something was a dream. Something was reality.

  More than anything, I want the crash to have been a horrible dream. I want to open my eyes and be whole again. I want my parents to be in the other room, sleeping peacefully under their covers. I don’t want to accept them as dead and gone, sleeping eternally under the cover of earth. I want to be with them, as I should be. I squeeze my eyes shut against the tears.

  My conversation with Oliver in the rose garden didn’t make an ounce of sense, and it seems more like the nonsense dreams are usually made of. He’d made it clear there’s reason for me to be cautious in Mitte, and that my neighbors all have issues. I’m sure the “issues” part includes my lovely aunt. If my safety is questionable within the mansion, Oliver never clued me in. Guess I’ll just have to watch my back.

  This place just keeps getting better and better.

  The sky remains light beyond my curtains, allowing me to make out the sparse furniture in my room. There’s something very disorienting about Mitte, and I’m sure entire days could be lost here without even realizing it. I turn to look over my shoulder at the bedside stand and, again, the absence of an alarm clock ticks me off. I make a mental note to buy one next time I summon the bravery to venture downtown.

  Instead of being greeted by the time, a single pink rose floats inside a clear vase on the table. My breath catches in my throat, and I scuttle backward until there’s nowhere to go but to my feet. No one knows about the rose except for my parents. I’d never told a soul, especially in this Godforsaken town. But, yet, someone obviously knows.

  A pink rose, every week. Always floating in the bowl. A pink rose.