How To Save A Life (Emerald Cove #1)

by Lauren K. McKellar

  This is what I’m running from. It’s why I changed schools, deleted my social media, and got a new number. It’s why I have to get out of here because I am so sick of those looks, of always being that girl.

  One of the women walks over to my car, her green paisley dress flapping about her calves. There’s a look of determination on her face, mixed with the expression I hate most.

  Pity.

  I jerk the car into reverse, and the woman still behind it startles, darting to the safety of the pavement. Already I can see her mouth opening, no doubt to add to the mix of stories they tell about the Stanton family and how poorly they’re recovering from what happened. It makes me sick.

  As I speed down the road toward the scout hall, I dial Mum.

  “Baby, I am so sorry. Was the doctor’s today?”

  A huff of air escapes my lips. “Yes, Mum.”

  “I’ve missed it now … I’ll make it up to you, though. We can go another time.”

  My hands tighten on the wheel. Because with only 146 days to go, I worry that soon there won’t be enough “other times” left.

  ***

  The lights were on at the bar on Wednesday and again tonight, but no one came to the door and commented on the sadness of my song, or offered me a job. Instead, I played and I played until my fingers started to cramp.

  When I finally arrive home, it’s after eight, and I’m tired to the bone. My arms are weary from lugging around my backpack plus my piano bag, and my head ready to explode from another week of late nights spent studying and early mornings spent on the house. Cleaning. Buying things to eat. Making my mother sandwiches in the hope that she'll eat them.

  I pull up in the drive, my little car shuddering in relief as I turn the engine off. Straight away, I know things aren't as usual. Usual Friday night affairs in the Stanton household involve loud music, lights on, and occasionally, the odd Whitney Houston-cry-herself-to-sleep number.

  They don't ever involve rap music.

  Or more than—one, two, three, four—I count at least five bodies moving behind the curtained front window.

  "Frick," I mutter, slamming the door on my car and hightailing it down the drive. The door is locked, and I fumble with my keys, trying to get in as soon as possible, but none of them seem to fit.

  Finally, I swing the door open, and am met with four men and two women, including my mother, all gyrating to this horrid snarling beat. It's so loud, I worry my ears will bleed.

  "Lee Lee!" Mum cries, throwing her hands up in the air. The drink she's holding sloshes dark brown liquid over the sides and it trickles down her arms, but she pushes past Smith and throws her arms around my neck anyway. She smells like sugar and smoke, all at once, and I wipe my jaw where her sticky residue was left.

  "Mum, what's going on?" I ask, a smile plastered on my face.

  "Having a gathering." She nods sagely. "These are Smith's—Smith!" Mum screeches, and he turns around. His eyes light up when he sees me.

  "It's Lia the lady," he yells, then barrels toward me, wrapping me in a lumberjack hug. "This li'l lady cooks like a bloody demon, you lot!" He brandishes one arm toward the others, leaving one still firmly wrapped around my shoulders, and then all the attention is on me. The iPod takes far too long to change tracks.

  "Hi." I give a small wave. The sweat from Smith's shirt dampens my skin, and I try not to shudder.

  "I'm Julietta." The woman with too-blonde highlights and too-black roots stumbles over and air-kisses my cheeks on both sides, or I'm sure she would have if I were a little taller. Instead, she tries to bend in her six-inch heels, and only succeeds in meeting my forehead.

  "Steve."

  "Elmo."

  I pause. "For real?"

  "Be polite, Lia." Mum laughs, and it's light and happy and everything I like to think of when I think of my mother. It's Mum before it happened. Only, with about a quarter of a bottle of bourbon in her system.

  Thumping bass fills the room and Julietta squeals, lassoing her arm in the air. "I fucking love this song!"

  She jumps up on the coffee table and drags Mum up with her. I rush to turn off the overhead fan before these two rock stars lose their damn heads (although, at least it would solve Julietta's roots problem).

  The guys all congregate and dance on the floor around the two women, and I pinch the inside of my arm. Is this really happening? How did I end up with a frat party for fifty-year-olds in my lounge room?

  "I'm going upstairs to study," I mumble, grabbing my two bags where they fell on the floor and hiking up to my room.

  Only, I don't study. If I'd thought trying to read while Mum did her best love-song dedications was hard, this is a million times house-shakingly worse. I even consider calling the police to make a noise complaint, but I know that with Mum's history, they may not look upon any even minor infringement too lightly.

  After two hours, I scrounge an apple from the bottom of my bag, eat it, and hope sleep will come, even though I'm hungry and stressed about the amount of work I just missed. I could go to Duke's, but him and Kat said they were going out to another party tonight, and I don't know what time they'll be home.

  What if something happens?

  I swallow down that lump of worry. Just because she said she likes him doesn’t make any difference. He likes me. He loves me.

  Step number two: Trust in love

  It’s what’s held me together since back then. What makes me believe Mum will get better. Sometimes, you just have to trust.

  I take my phone from my desk and open a new text.

  Love you.

  It's two simple words, but as soon as I hit send, I hit my safe place. Duke's arms. Me. Him. Together.

  His reply comes less than two minutes later.

  Luv you 2, baby

  I stand up, and cross another day off my poster, day 146, then strip down, change into my cami and sleep shorts, and lie on my bed. Knowing there's a time limit on this, and that Mum has some friends down there to help her when I go? It makes it all seem bearable.

  I fall asleep to thoughts of Duke, me, and fifty-year-old strippers who do house calls.

  ***

  It’s that same dream scene again …

  She walks up the stairs, and straight away my heart leaps into my throat, beating a staccato that raps against my windpipe, the pulse point at my wrist, all throughout my body. I go from steady to strung-out in the blink of an eye.

  "Mum," I call, and this time on the staircase, she spins around.

  "Yes?" She frowns.

  Don't go up there,

  I try to say the words, but my stupid voice won't work. My mouth moves, but no sound comes out, and Mum tilts her head to the side. "Lia ..."

  Don't!

  I try to scream so loud my lungs hurt, and still, nothing.

  Don't go into your bedroom.

  You can't see that.

  It will ruin you.

  "Lia, you're normally such a sensible girl." She sighs and turns her back, then walks up the stairs again.

  My voice mightn't work but my feet do, and I charge after her, leaping up those stairs two at a time. She floats down the hall toward their room, and I run, run as fast as I can, and grab onto her shoulder just as she tightens her grip on the door.

  "Lia, will you drop it?" She turns to face me. "I'm just going to see if your father is home. What harm could I possibly do?"

  My stupid voice isn’t working once again, and as I try to yell at her, to tell her that no, she shouldn't go in there, that seeing what's behind that door will destroy her—

  She twists the handle.

  She opens the door.

  And she screams.

  And straight away I'm back on the couch, hearing that blood-curdling noise that chills me to my very bones, that signifies the start of the end of life as I know it. I race up the stairs to try to help her, to try and make it stop, but when I get there, she has collapsed in the hall.

  She's broken.

  And nothing I do wi
ll fix that.

  "Shit," I breathe as I bolt up in bed, clutching my chest. My breath comes at a million miles an hour and I consciously try to slow it, to make the beat of my heart race a little less and steady a little more.

  "Wanna glass of water?"

  I jerk my head up. The door is cracked open, and Smith looks inside.

  I pull the covers tighter to my chest. What the hell is he doing here?

  As I gather my bearings, I hear the noise from downstairs is still going, even though it's—quick glance at the clock—after two. Why hasn't someone called the cops?

  Because you live in a derelict part of town, and they're probably too busy having their own parties to do much about it.

  "N ... no." I shake my head. He steps into the room now, and pulls the door slightly to behind him. My breathing shoots up with my heart rate again as the hairs on my arms stand to attention. "Thanks. I'm just gonna go back to sleep."

  I lower myself back down to my pillow and hope he'll take the hint. Every cell in my body screams that this is not normal and that no ordinary man would do this, but I don't know what my options are. Technically, he hasn't done anything wrong.

  Mum really likes him. Mum really likes him. Mum really likes him.

  Downstairs, the music continues, and glass shatters against something. I press my eyes shut, hoping no one gets hurt, then force them wide open. I don't like the idea of this guy being in the same room as me, and me being vulnerable.

  Well, more vulnerable than a teenage girl in a freaking cami fighting against a lumberjack who looks like he used to be a wrestler in his younger days already is.

  "Well ... g'night." He turns and opens the door again, shutting it behind him.

  Footsteps thunk down the hall, and then I hear him yelling at Julietta, or maybe it's that Elmo guy, to turn the sound down a little.

  Because I'm trying to sleep.

  See? My subconscious tries to give me a chuck under the chin, to cheer me up. He’s being thoughtful.

  Nice never felt so wrong.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Why is someone trying to call me at five something in the—

  I grab for my phone. "Hello?"

  Silence.

  Oh yeah. Alarm. Not incoming call.

  "Frick," I whisper, and throw the piece of metal on the pillow beside me. What a night. No wonder I feel as if I've been hit by a bus. Less than four hours sleep will do that to a person.

  I wrap a robe around me then creep over to the bathroom, showering in record speed before tiptoeing downstairs to face the carnage.

  Carnage is right. Empty glasses are all over the room, most with some form of liquid still in the bottom of them. The ashtray is overflowing, and the stench of used smoke and what I am ninety per cent sure is someone's spew makes my stomach churn.

  On the couch, Julietta is sprawled, her shirt unbuttoned, boobs on display. They're saggy and loose, hanging out on our couch. Where I sit sometimes. Ew.

  "Get a good look?"

  I jump and drop my cell. "Smith." The word is on a whisper, so I don't wake Julietta. I turn to face him. Purple shadows his eyes, and I wonder how much sleep he’s had. If he went to bed at all. "I wasn't looking ..."

  "Nothin' wrong with it if you were." He raises his arm to give my hair a mussing, and I duck down to grab my phone and avoid his style-ruining, skin-crawling action.

  "I'm off to work. See you." I give a half wave. It takes everything in me to walk to the door instead of running.

  Outside, the world is fresh, new, and the sheen of early morning mist covers the streets. It feels and smells so much cleaner out here, away from the destruction that is my house. I strip off my cardigan, letting the cool spring air wash my skin clean.

  "Lia."

  I spin to face the road in surprise. "Kat." She smiles and strides toward me, hands in the pockets of her jeans.

  "Put a jumper on, you dag. It's freezing."

  "It's not that bad." I shrug, but I pull the cardigan back on anyway. Kat is a textbook good friend. She has an easy way with words, is always quick to supply a laugh, and as for fun? She can do fun. Kat doesn't do anything by halves—she is all in or nothing.

  Once more, a wave of remorse washes over me. I have what she wants.

  "Didn't you go to a party last night? Why are you even awake?" I ask, a smile curving my lips.

  Kat shrugs, and hands me a bottle of something red and kind of fizzy looking. "Yeah, but it wasn't that raging. I thought you could use a pick-me-up."

  I narrow my eyes at her offering. "Why and what?"

  "You've been really tired and stressed recently," she says. As soon as the words leave her mouth, I feel it. She's right. With exams fast approaching and the performance of my life hot on their heels, I have been getting a little uptight. Add the nightmares to the mix ...

  And that things with Mum have been getting worse.

  Not that Kat knows that. She might know where I live, but she's never been inside.

  We start walking, turning left at the cul-de-sac and onto the grassy path by the lake.

  "Is she getting sicker?" Kat chews on her lip, and guilt rushes through me again at the mention of yet another little white lie I've told. It had seemed like a good idea at the time—parents who were 'sick' didn't want their kids to have friends over. They had an all-time excuse for not showing up at student-teacher nights, at school functions and events.

  And she did have an illness.

  Just probably not the kind Kat was imagining.

  "I can't tell," I reply honestly. "The other day, it seemed as if she were a little better? But y'know ... it's ..." I let the sentence hang, because the thing is, Kat doesn't. And even if I told her, I don't know that she would. How do you explain to someone close to you that your mother is basically incapable of keeping her shit together?

  She links her arm through mine. "Berocca." She nods to the drink now in my hands. "It's Berocca."

  I grin and give her arm a squeeze. She gets it. Sometimes, saying nothing is the easiest lie of all.

  We stop out front of The View, and a crowd of around thirty women are there, clad in the usual designer lycra, sunglasses perched atop of their heads. They mill around the register, and Ana rushes past me, shoving an apron around her waist and frantically attempting to connect the ties at her back.

  "Looks like I gotta—" Words seize in my throat. Because she's here again.

  Early.

  "Thanks so much for walking me in, Kat," I say, giving her a quick hug. "I'll see you later."

  "No worries." Kat smiles, but I'm not looking at her, because Ellie’s pushing off the telegraph pole she was leaning against and walking this way. Toward us. Toward my new life.

  "What time do you get off again?" Kat asks, and then it happens.

  Step.

  Crash.

  Collide.

  "Lia."

  I press my eyes tightly shut and hope she'll go away, and that this is all a dream.

  "Who's this?" Kat asks. I prise my eyes open in time to see her grin. "Hi, I'm Kat, Lia's—"

  "Four. I finish at four," I interrupt, standing in the way of Kat's gaze and blocking Ellie completely.

  Kat frowns. "Lee Lee, what are you do—"

  "I gotta run, but I'll see you at Duke's then, yeah?" I ask, and I hope that she can read the message in my eyes, the message that I'm fairly sure is screaming get the hell out of here, now.

  "Ooookay," Kat says slowly. She bunches her forehead. "I'll see you around four."

  Kat walks away without further question, and I release the breath I hadn't realised I'd been holding, then I spin on my heel, heading for the machine. I stow my bag beneath the counter and grab my apron from the hook, tying it around my waist and giving Ana a small hip bump by way of greeting.

  But Ellie doesn't leave. I can feel her eyes drilling into me from where I left her standing, even through the crowd of wannabe walkers. They're laughing and bitching about the fact I haven't even started making cof
fee yet, but I can still hear her voice through the din.

  "You can't do this forever, Lia."

  I don't tell her that I don't have to.

  Only for the next 145 days.

  ***

  The morning rush dies down, but she doesn't leave. She just sits there at the table, ordering chai latte after chai latte, till I worry that she's going to spew all over our silverware, because dear God, that's far too much sugar, milk and cinnamon for one girl to have in a four-hour sitting. Still, she doesn't relent, and even though I desperately want to ignore her and not fulfil her order requests, Tim's eyes are on me, and he's on the warpath today.

  "You look like shit, Lia," he says as he walks over to us. With shaky hands, I pour the milk into the cup in front of me and smile. "Could you at least put on some makeup before you come in, if you're gonna go out partying the night before your shift?"

  "Sorry, Ti—shoot!" My attention on Tim combined with my lack-of-sleep shakes has meant I've accidentally hit the cup with my milk jug, sending the cup skidding over the counter and falling toward me. It hits the ground and breaks, porcelain shards underneath the counter, hot milk covering my apron.

  "Sorry, Tim." I drop to my knees and grab the dustpan from the shelf behind me, sweeping up the fragments. I wring my apron out over the sink, trying to give it a rinse but knowing that there's no escaping it—I'll be smelling like stale milk for the rest of the day.

  When I turn back to the machine, Tim is still there. I wonder if he ever left, and if I've become so good at ignoring his rants that I didn't realise he was still persisting with one.

  "Have respect for other people's property, Lia. You might be able to make a coffee, but if you're damn well wearing it, what bloody good does that do me?" he hisses to avoid the crowds at tables only a few feet away witnessing his abuse.

  "Sorry again, Tim."

  "Sorry? Sorry's not going to fix my—"

  "I should make a new coffee for the customer."

  "Damn straight you should! And for me, while you're at it. You know how patient I am with you."

  I bite my tongue, smile sweetly and turn the grinder on, letting the angry noise of blades dicing up beans do the talking for me.