Into all of us …
It’s so easy to take one another for granted, so forget how fragile we all truly are.
“Love you,” I whisper, leaning close.
I wish I could’ve known her before she was sick. She was a cheerleader in high school, I’ve been told. Had the loudest voice on the team. And she ran track, holding the Missouri state record for the girls’ 100 meter sprint until recently. Before her nerves started failing her, she’d take afternoon walks around the block, collecting pretty leaves and wildflowers and pressing them between the pages of her books. And when her short-term memory was still in working order before all the meds, she would crochet the most beautiful baby blankets with matching hats and donate them to the local NICU.
She’s a beautiful soul and she doesn’t deserve this.
“Love you too, baby girl,” she whispers before turning to my father. “You two should go home, get some rest. Pretty sure visiting hours are almost over anyway.”
Exhaustion colors my father’s face with gray lines and deep shadows. We exchange looks. I lift my brows, leaving the decision to him. I’m too tired to decide.
“We’ll be back first thing in the morning. Get some rest now.” He bends over her and kisses her forehead. Then he turns to me. “Kiddo? You ready?”
We’re halfway to the elevator when my phone buzzes in my purse. I haven’t checked it in hours because I’ve been by Mama’s side. I opt to wait until the car ride home to see who it is. It’ll give me something to do besides stare at oncoming headlights for the next fifteen minutes.
When we leave the parking lot, Dad messes with the radio, tuning it to a classic country station. He always listens to country when he doesn’t want to think because he can’t help but hum along. When you’re too busy humming, you’re too busy to worry, he always says. And it reminds him of summers at his grandparents’ farm as a kid. Happier times.
Dragging my phone from my bag, I pull up my messages … and my stomach flips.
ENEMY DEAREST has sent you a video.
I mute the volume, dim the screen, and hit play.
It’s a thirty-second clip from the MUNRO concert he invited me to.
ENEMY DEAREST—Wish you were here.
I darken my screen and power my phone down. I don’t have the energy for this right now.
Dad mumbles along to an old Clint Black song. Whether or not he knows it, he’s white-knuckling the steering wheel. I don’t want to think about what would happen to him if he lost Mom. With me going off to college next month, he’d be truly alone.
“I was thinking …” I say after clearing my throat. “Maybe I should wait another year?”
He dials the volume to nothing. “What are you talking about, Sheridan? School?”
“Yeah,” I say. “I can put it off one more year. Stick around and take care of Mom.”
He doesn’t hesitate. “Absolutely not.”
“Who’s going to take care of her when I’m gone? You have weird work hours. She sometimes gets spacey when she’s on her meds. What if she forgets a dose? What if she has another spell and falls and no one’s home to help her? What if she has one of those days when she needs help washing her hair? Making a bowl of soup?”
Reaching across the console, he gives my hand a squeeze. His fingers are ice-cold from the blasting AC. “We’ll figure it out, kiddo.”
“Will we?”
“No,” he says. “Not we. Your mother and I will figure it out. That’s what parents do. If you put your life on hold for our sake, we’ll have failed you. All we want is for you to be happy, kiddo. To live the life you were intended. Nothing more, nothing less.”
Resting my cheek against the cool glass of the passenger window, I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and tell myself everything will be okay … even if I don’t believe it.
My world is tilted, wobbling on its axis.
Funny how a person can be floating through life, thinking everything is always going to be a certain way, and then the bottom drops out.
We ride in silence, and I think of that memento mori album from the other night; specifically the articles and how my father was falsely implicated in Cynthia’s murder. I need to talk to him about it, get some answers.
But not tonight.
The exhaustion weighing down the day is already too heavy, no sense in adding anything else to the pile.
The house is dark when we pull into the driveway. And our footsteps echo when we shuffle inside. This isn’t the first time Mom’s been hospitalized, but her absence is always a palpable, lingering silence in our home.
It’s never something we get used to.
“Goodnight, Dad.” I head to my room.
“’Night, kiddo.”
I turn my phone on and place it on my nightstand before switching on my box fan. It’s cooler tonight, but the stuffiness of the past two weeks loiters in the air.
I’m almost asleep when my phone screen lights the room.
ENEMY DEAREST—You awake, Rose girl?
ME—Leave me alone. Please!!!
Rolling to my side, I tuck my pillow in half and shove it under my head before wrestling with the sheets for the next several minutes.
Fidgety and hot with a mind that won’t stop conjuring up worst case scenarios, I can’t get comfortable.
I drag myself out of bed and trek to the kitchen for a glass of ice water. My parents’ door is closed but my father is sawing logs so loud I’m sure the neighbors two houses down can hear.
I grab my favorite glass, an old Flintstones jelly jar, and drop three ice cubes in, one at a time, so as not to wake him. I’m halfway to the sink when his phone illuminates the dark space with a text.
Normally I wouldn’t read my father’s text messages, but with Mama being in the hospital and him out cold in the bedroom, the urge comes over me to make sure it’s nothing. Just in case. His screen turns dark before I have a chance to read it, but it comes back to life as soon as I pluck it off the charger and give it a tap.
KT—Just checking on you …
KT—Just remember, it’ll all be over soon. Mary Beth isn’t going to suffer forever. And neither are you. Soon this will all be in the past.
KT—Keep your head up and know that I’m here for you. It’s going to get better. You’re on the right track. Too late to give up now after everything we’ve worked so hard for. We’re so close …
I re-read the messages through squinting eyes.
What does this mean? My mother isn’t going to suffer forever? It’ll be in the past? Last I checked, the doctors said they could treat her Guillain-Barre, but that she’d have the nerve disorder and heart defect the rest of her life. She’ll always be sick or suffering in some capacity.
My stomach drops.
Nausea steals my thirst, so I abandon my cup of ice by the sink.
With shaky hands, I plug the phone in, leaving it exactly where I found it, and return to my room. And for the rest of the night, I wrack my brain in an attempt to figure out who “KT” is or why my father would have someone’s name stored in his phone as simply their initials or why they’d be talking about ending my mother’s suffering.
For hours, my mind wanders down the darkest alleys and the most unspeakable paths.
What if the accusations against him are true? What if he did kill his sister? What if he did cause Mrs. Monreaux’s death? What if the man who raised me and sacrificed for me and taught me everything I believe to be true … is nothing more than a self-serving liar?
By morning, the sunrise paints my curtains shades of orange and pink. I still haven’t slept—and I’m not going to sleep. I can’t rest until I know what’s going on.
I slip into a pair of jean shorts from the floor and dig a t-shirt from my dresser. After freshening up, I leave a note by the stove and head to the hospital—alone—before my father wakes.
I can’t tell Mama what I saw because I’ve yet to make sense of it.
But I can’t take another minute of bein
g under the same roof as my father…not until I get some answers.
Chapter Eleven
August
* * *
“Hey, hey. What brings you in?” Adriana sidles up to me at the cell store the instant I walk in the door Sunday afternoon.
My head throbs from last night’s concert, and I haven’t slept a fucking ounce after partying all night on the tour bus just to make Soren feel like I give a shit about our “relationship.” But I’m here on a mission. Unfortunately, a quick perusal of my surroundings tells me Sheridan isn’t working today.
“Need a new charger,” I say, handing her the broken one I brought in. Or rather the one I destroyed this morning with the help of a pair of pliers.
“Oh.” She examines the frayed wires. “How’d this happen?”
“Does it matter?”
“Um, I mean. Yeah. Sort of. I can warranty-it-out for you if it’s from the phone you just bought the other week?”
“It’s not.” I’m in an honest mood today.
“Okay. Do you want to go with a six foot cord or ten?” She leads me to a wall covered in an endless assortment of phone chargers. “Sometimes ten can be a little much. Six is standard.”
“Whatever.”
She clears her throat and plucks one off the hook. “I can check you out over there.”
I follow her to the register, scanning the room once more in vain.
“Sheridan working today?” I ask.
Biting her lip, she winces. “No. Her mom’s in the hospital.”
Fuck.
No wonder she wasn’t putting up with my shit last night.
“Sorry to hear that.” I hand her my card. “Anything I can do?”
I don’t know what I could possibly do in this situation, but it feels like the right thing to say in this moment. Plus, it wouldn’t be the worst thing if Adriana relayed my sympathy to her friend.
She slides me a pen and the receipt to sign. “Um, I don’t think so?”
Twirling a dark strand of hair between her fingers, she tucks it behind one ear.
“Can I say something?” she asks.
I lift a brow, sliding the receipt across the counter. “What?”
“It’s probably not my place, but Sheridan … she’s not interested.”
“Well aware.” I smirk. “And you’re right; it’s not your place.”
Her eyes widen and her cheeks tinge with cherry-pink heat. “I just mean … I don’t want you to get your hopes up with her or anything. She’s not really the dating type.”
“Neither am I.”
“And she’s really into the clean cut guys,” Adriana adds, eyes trained on mine as if she’s trying not to stare at my tattoos, piercings, or messy fuck-if-I-care hair. “I have this friend,” she continues. “You’re so her type.”
Dragging in a deep breath, I check the parking lot out of boredom.
“I’m having this party on Friday. My parents are going to be out of town and my sister said she’d buy us a couple of kegs. Just a few people. Maybe, like, ten or fifteen at most. But you should come. If you want, I mean …”
“Maybe.”
Her eyes light, as if I’ve just handed her a giant Publisher’s Clearinghouse check. “Really?”
“Yeah, sure. We’ll see.”
Grabbing a slip of paper, she scribbles her number in blue ink and hands it over. “Cool. Just text me so I have your number, and I’ll send you the details on Friday.”
I don’t commit to anything, ever. It’s against policy. But I’m happy to keep my options open, especially if there’s a chance Sheridan will make an appearance.
Chapter Twelve
Sheridan
* * *
“Hey, sweets. How’s it going? How’s your mom?” Adriana greets me Thursday afternoon at the cell store with a wilted hug and pouty face.
“She just got out yesterday. Finally.” I hug her back, and then hide my purse in the employee office before signing in. “The spells stopped, but she’s basically on bed rest for a few days, at least when she’s home alone.”
“That’s good, right?”
I shrug. This is par for the course. “It is what it is.”
“You look so sad, babe. I’m so sorry. I wish there was something I could do.” Adriana examines me. The other night she offered to drop off a pizza for my father and me, which was sweet of her, but by that point, he was on his way to work, and I wasn’t in the mood for company. “How often does this happen?”
“A few times a year lately,” I say. “You think I’d be used to it by now.”
“That’s not something you get used to.” She rubs my shoulder. “Don’t be so hard on yourself. You have to think positive. My grandma had a stroke last year, and they told us she had a fifteen-percent chance of making it out of the hospital alive. It’s been eight months, and it’s like it didn’t even happen. She made a full recovery. Doctors can be wrong sometimes.”
I don’t want to get my hopes up …
“Yeah. Anyway.” I force a small smile and head to the register to wait for a client. Thursday afternoons are notoriously slow.
“Keep that pretty little head up,” she says, resting her chin on her hand after she follows me to the counter. “And know that I’m here for you, doll.”
Her words are an off-kilter echo of the ones I read on my father’s screen several nights ago, the ones I’ve now practically memorized.
My bottom lip trembles. My eyes well until my vision blurs. A wave of repressed, tamped-down anger floods my veins until my skin burns.
Those texts are all I’ve been thinking about all week.
I even see them when I close my eyes.
“Oh, my God, Sher.” Adriana gasps as she lunges for me, her hand on my back. “What’s wrong? Was it something I said?”
A dense tear coats my cheek. I swipe it away and draw in a jagged breath. I’m not a crier. I’m not dramatic or emotional. But for the past few days, I’ve almost been living outside of my body. At least, that’s the only way I can describe it because nothing feels real anymore. I don’t look at anything the same. Every family picture I pass in the hall. Every clever or sweet quip or dad joke that comes out of my father’s mouth. Every endearing, lovesick gaze my mother gifts him when their attention intersects. It all feels … empty.
“You need to sit down.” She guides me to a chair in the corner meant for guests. We’re not supposed to sit on the job. Ever. But no one’s here. “Okay, take a deep breath …”
I inhale so deeply it hurts, my lungs aching at capacity, and then I let it all out.
Everything.
Staring ahead, unfocused, I tell her everything.
“Last Saturday, we came back from the hospital,” I say. “Dad went straight to bed, but he left his phone out on the charger. I was getting a glass of water when someone texted him. It must have been ten, maybe ten thirty? I checked it, you know, in case it was my mom.” My lip quivers again. “But it wasn’t.”
“Oh, God.” Her hand clamps over her mouth, as if she knows where this is headed.
“It was someone named ‘KT’ and they were telling him my mom’s suffering would be over soon and it would all be worth it and all this other weird stuff …” I frown. “It was vague. But I couldn’t stop thinking about it, what it could mean … why my father had their name as initials in his phone. None of it made sense. My father lives for my mom. He would be lost without her …” I switch gears because where I’m about to go with this conversation needs context. “I’ve never talked to you about this before, but my parents have a thing with the Monreauxs. A long-standing feud, I guess you could call it.”
“Who doesn’t? They piss off a lot of people in this town.” She snaps her gum. “What’d they do to your parents?”
“It’s bad.” I bury my face in my hands. “Worse than bad.”
Her eyes widen. She leans closer.
“Years ago—before I was born—my father’s younger sister was killed. They found he
r body at the Monreaux quarry. She’d been dating August’s dad, Vincent. My father, to this day, believes Vincent killed her. My mother thinks so too. That’s what I’ve always been told, what I’ve always believed. I’ve never questioned it because … why would I? But the other week, I found these articles they’d saved … Adriana, my father was arrested for my aunt’s murder. The papers even reported that he was the main suspect. My parents never told me that.”
She stands in silence, studying me, digesting my words maybe. “Obviously he was never found guilty. Maybe he didn’t feel the need to tell you?”
“Yeah, maybe? But then several years later, Vincent’s pregnant wife was killed in a hit and run on our street,” I say. “Vincent once again tried to say it was my father, but there were no eyewitnesses and my father had a solid alibi—my mother—so they couldn’t arrest him.”
“Okay, so he’s innocent and Vincent clearly has it out for him. Makes sense why he’d hate the man so much. But what are you getting at with all of this? What’s this have to do with those texts?”
I tuck my hair behind my ears and sit straighter. “This KT person said something about ending my mom’s suffering, how it’ll all be over soon, how they’ve worked so hard for this to give up now … is he planning on …?”
I can’t say the words out loud; my lips refuse even though they’re on the tip of my tongue.
“What if he did do those things? What if he killed his sister and Vincent’s wife and now he’s planning on …”
I still can’t say it.
“Jesus, Sher. I don’t know.” She bites her lip, taking the spot beside me and shaking her head. “I don’t even know what to tell you.”
“It gets worse.”
Adriana rests her elbows on her knees, buries her face in her hands, and exhales. “Wow. Okay. What else?”
“So I’ve been following my dad this week … he doesn’t know.”
“And?”
“I’ve caught him in a few lies … like he’ll say he’s running to the hardware store or meeting a friend at a coffee shop, but when I follow him, he doesn’t go to the hardware store or he goes to a different coffee shop than the one he told me,” I say. “And then when he’s there, he’s always meeting up with this brunette lady.”
Enemy Dearest Page 7
