Magda. Mikhail. The moonstone. A shiver crawled down my spine.
I chopped vegetables and tried to decide what to do while Kizzy browned beef cubes. Finally, I made a decision. “Kizzy, did Magda ever mention a brother?"
Once again, Kizzy surprised me. She wiped her hands on her apron and looked over at me. “Are you talking about Mikhail?"
I nodded.
She frowned. “How do you know about Mikhail?"
I told her what Larry had learned, but made it sound like a fairy tale. In fact, by the time I finished the story, Mikhail wasn't the vicious psychopath described by Larry. He was the village bad boy. In my own defense, I was talking about Kizzy's blood kin, her uncle. If she knew he was a Trimark, she'd feel guilty about giving me the moonstone.
Kizzy covered the pot and turned the heat down. “That sounds about right. Mother said he'd been banished from the village. That's when their father, the Gypsy from the prophecy, gave the moonstone to Magda."
I'd left out important stuff, like Mikhail hooking up with the Trimarks and the second prophecy. I could tell Kizzy was waiting for me to tell her more. When I didn't elaborate, she said, “Strange this Larry person would call and tell you about Mikhail. I wonder why."
Mental slap upside the head. I'd brought this up ... why? I scrambled for an answer. “Well, uh, I guess he thought it was important."
I lifted my hands helplessly. “I have no idea why he thought I needed to know."
I was a terrible liar. Kizzy studied my face, but all she said was, “Hmmm."
At 6:45 p.m., stuffed to the gills with Magda's Special Goulash, I watched out the window for Faye. 6: 50 p.m. No Faye. At 6:55, I was officially worried. I called home. No answer. She showed up two minutes before seven and parked in front of Kizzy's house with the nose of the truck in the hedge and the rear sticking out on the road. I thanked Kizzy, grabbed my coat and backpack and dashed out to the truck.
"Here, you drive.” Faye dropped the keys in my hand.
I smelled her breath and my heart sank. “You've been drinking."
She gave me a lopsided grin. “I was nervous about meeting Ms. Yeager."
Great. Now, so was I.
[Back to Table of Contents]
Chapter Sixteen
My mother's not an alcoholic. She only drinks when she anxious, bored, scared or celebrating something. Okay, maybe she has a little problem. But, she does go for days without drinking a drop. I know. I know. I shouldn't make excuses for her drinking. She already has an ample supply of excuses. She doesn't need my help.
When I saw Faye's condition, I was seriously freaked out, because when she drinks, she talks too much. I thought about all of the above as we drove to the school and came to the following conclusion: Our butts were in a sling!
"I only had two glasses of wine."
Faye was popping breath mints and peering at me through the dim dashboard light. “I think."
She couldn't remember how much she'd drunk. Great. Just great.
"Okay, okay.” I tried not to hyperventilate. “We need a plan."
It was hard, but I reined in my anger. I knew from past experience, it would only make things worse.
"Let me do the talking, okay?"
Faye nodded solemnly.
"Don't offer to shake hands. The woman has a nose like a bloodhound. If she asks you something directly, stick to simple answers like, ‘Yes. No. Just fine. I don't know.’ Or ... ‘You should ask Allie that question.’”
For the remainder of our short trip, we practiced.
Me: “How is your relationship with your daughter?"
Faye: “Just fine."
Me: (sarcastically) “Oh, really! That's not what I heard."
Faye: “You should ask Allie that question."
I was feeling better when we pulled into the school parking lot. Faye was reciting her lines like a pro. The parking lot was deserted except for Miss Yeager's Honda SUV. I parked the truck, turned to Faye and repeated the first line of our silly little ritual. “I'm stickin’ to you ... Like Elmer's glue,” Faye said, with a goofy grin.
We bumped fists and marched into the school, arm in arm. Drunken, screwed-up mother and freakoid daughter, ready and willing to do battle with the nosy school counselor.
Miss Yeager, looking extremely pissed, was waiting for us.
"Sorry, we're late,” I said, a frozen smile stuck on my face. I was relieved to see she'd tossed the bean bag chair in the corner and replaced it with three chairs set in a circle. Hers, of course, had a big, cushy seat and padded arms.
I made the introductions. Faye, as per instructions, did not offer to shake hands.
Before Miss Yeager could start firing questions, I launched into my cover story. “My mother's on cold medicine. It makes her a little spacey."
Ms. Yeager stared at Faye, blinking rapidly. “Over-the-counter meds?"
Faye said, “Just fine."
Miss Yeager frowned at Faye's inappropriate answer so I gave a little cluck of amusement. “See what I mean? Of course, over-the-counter. What else would they be?"
Fortunately, Faye pulled it together and we plowed through the first painful half hour. I could see Miss Yeager was getting frustrated by my mother's repetitive answers, but that was her problem. We were racing toward the finish line when Miss Yeager came up with the one topic that pushed all Faye's buttons.
"I understand your father has a big house in Vista Valley and would like you and Allie to move in with him,” she said.
Faye snapped to attention, her body rigid with anger. “Why the hell are you bringing up my father? That topic is off limits. Besides, you should be counseling Allie, not me. She's the one with the nightmares. She's the one who's lost her powers."
All at once Faye realized what she'd said. She gasped and clapped a hand over her mouth.
"Hours,” I said. “She meant to say I've lost hours. Oh my God, the hours of sleep I've lost from those stupid nightmares."
Miss Yeager's eyes reminded me of pictures I've seen of raptors spotting their prey. Her gaze darted back and forth between Faye and me like she was deciding which one of us to nail with her razor-like talons.
She picked me. “It sounded like your mother said powers ... not hours."
"It's that damn cold medicine,” Faye said. “Gets my tongue all tangled up."
I nodded my head vigorously, afraid if I opened my mouth it would make things worse.
Miss Yeager glanced at her watch. “Our time is about up. I believe I have enough information to compile a report for your case worker."
I grabbed Faye's arm and pulled her out of her chair. Before we stepped through the door to blessed freedom, I said, “What do you plan to say in this report?"
"Nice try, Allie,” Miss Yeager said. “You'll just have to wait."
Now I was scared. “Be sure to say Faye was on cold medicine."
She gave me a smug smile. “Oh, yes. I'll be sure to mention that."
I didn't like her tone, but I'd done the best I could do, considering the circumstances.
"Okay then,” I said. “See you tomorrow."
Faye was silent on the trip home. When I pulled into the driveway and turned the truck off, Faye grabbed my hand. Her eyes were bright with tears.
"I can't lose you."
I kissed her cheek. “Lose me? Are you nuts? It will be fine. I promise."
Please God, I prayed, help me keep that promise.
* * * *
The next day I was sitting in my keyboarding class when I was called to Mr. Hostetler's office. I knew why. I'd tried to see him earlier but, according to Alice, his secretary, he was in a parent conference. I wanted to tell him there had been another ass-pinching incident. I'd been stuffing my coat inside my locker when the assault on my buttocks occurred. After my shriek of pain, I'd spun around to see who was walking by and wrote down the names of everyone I saw. Ten in all.
List in hand, I presented myself to Alice, who gave me a strange look.
"Did you tell him I have suspects?"
Alice shook her head. “I don't think this is about the ass pincher, honey."
She picked up the phone and punched a button. “Allie Emerson is here, Mr. Hostetler."
Startled, I tried to think if I'd broken any important rules. Mr. Hostetler came out of his office and pulled the door shut. He took my arm and guided me a few steps away from Alice's desk. This was getting stranger by the minute.
When he spoke, his voice was low. “Allie, there's someone here who wants to meet you, but in order for that to happen, I need permission from your mother."
I heaved a sigh of relief. Ruth Wheeler had arrived. Finally.
"Well, sure,” I said. “I'd love to see her again."
Mr. Hostetler's brows shot up and, like two fuzzy caterpillars, crawled together to meet over the bridge of his nose.
"Her who?” he said.
"It's not a ‘her?'” I asked, still clinging to my dream of back-up.
"No, Allie,” he said. “It's your grandfather, Claude Emerson."
The breath whooshed out of my lungs. I must have looked like a deer caught in the headlights because Mr. Hostetler said, “Your choice entirely."
My grandfather! The very person I'd been whining about when I accused Faye of keeping secrets. It must run in the family, because good old Grandpa Claude had pulled the ultimate fast one. He'd sidestepped Faye so he could meet me at school.
Mr. Hostetler was still peering at me anxiously. “Do you want me to call your mother?"
Oh, geez. Visions of Faye on a rampage, appeared in my mind like lead stories from the evening news, complete with soundtrack ... “Stay tuned,” said the anchor man in my head, “for the tragic story of a bloodbath at John J. Peacock High School..."
"Allie?” Mr. Hostetler spoke again.
"Absolutely not."
* * * *
After French class, I spent a few minutes talking to Mrs. Burke, which meant I had to run like a maniac to catch the bus before it took off. Patti was just about to pull away when I ran up. It was then I spotted the black Suburban parked behind the bus. A man stepped out of the car and called, “Allie Emerson?"
He was dressed in a dark suit, pale blue dress shirt and tie. I stopped, dead still and watched him walk toward me.
"I'm Claude Emerson, your grandfather. I'd like to talk to you."
All my life, Faye had refused to talk about this man. I was caught in the jaws of a dilemma. I wanted to know more about my mother's family, but what if Faye was justified in protecting me from her father?
The doors of the school bus whooshed open. Patti yelled, “Get your butt in here, girl!"
My grandfather said, “I'll see that you get home."
No way was I getting into that Suburban. “That's okay,” I said. “I should get on the bus."
"There's a taxi parked behind my car. When we're done talking, you hop in the taxi and catch a ride home."
I took a step back and peered around his car. Sure enough, a yellow cab was parked next to the curb.
"Allie!” Patti's voice had risen to a screech.
I had to make a decision. What if this was my only chance to learn more about mother's family?
"It's okay, Patti,” I said. “I've got a ride home."
Patti peered out the door, her eyes narrowed in suspicion. “You sure?"
I nodded.
"Okay then, but I'll look for you on my second run. If you need a ride, you wait right here. Got it?"
"Got it,” I said.
When the bus pulled away, I checked out my grandfather. He had an ax blade of a nose and eyes as black as coal. His clothes hung on him like he'd recently lost weight. I saw nothing of Faye in him. We studied each other silently.
"Is there someplace we can talk?” he asked.
He must have realized I wasn't about to jump in a stranger's car. I pointed to the little pocket park across the street from the school. “There's a bench over there."
We walked in silence to the bench. Dark clouds driven by a brisk wind scudded overhead. I shivered and zipped up my coat.
We sat on a cold concrete bench with two feet of space between us. He checked me out again, then shook his head in wonder. “Alfrieda Carlotta Emerson, I can't believe how much you look like her."
Since I'd been named for his mother, I assumed he was talking about her. Of course, my curly hair and green eyes were from my dad.
"Oh?” I said politely. “Well, maybe it's because we have the same name."
He looked puzzled for a minute. “No, I'm not talking about my mother. I'm talking about her. Faye's mother, Melia."
"Melia,” I repeated, rolling the name around on my tongue. It tasted good, like sweet, dark chocolate. “I didn't know I had a grandmother named Melia."
Grandpa Claude continued to study me. His eyes were like pools of ink, so dark they didn't even reflect the light. The silence grew and I started to squirm, trying desperately to think of something to say.
I started babbling. “Uh, Faye told me her mother died when she was ten and that she doesn't remember her. I don't believe her, though ‘cause I can remember all kinds of stuff from when I was ten."
He smiled, and the smile grew into a burst of choking laughter, painful to hear.
"You're a smart girl,” he said. “Faye lies a lot. She's probably lied about me."
He waited to see if I'd respond. I didn't.
"Melia didn't die. She left,” he said.
"She didn't die?” I repeated. “But why would Faye lie about it?"
"Have you ever wondered why your mother is so unhappy?” Claude Emerson said. “She drinks too much. Her relationships fail. She is unable to become an adult."
I'd never thought about it in those terms, but, in a sense, he was right. I was the functioning adult in the family.
I shrugged like it didn't matter. “It's just how it is. The way it's always been."
"What do you know about your mother's history?'
"Nothing!” burst from me before I could stop it. I lowered my voice. “Faye doesn't like to talk about it. I don't know why. Does our family have some horrible genetic disease?"
That really struck him funny. He started to laugh, but it turned into a spasm of uncontrollable coughing that scared the hell out of me. I clapped a hand over my mouth in horror. When he stopped coughing, I said, “Are you all right?"
He pulled a snowy white handkerchief from his pocket and held it to his mouth. When he could speak, he said, “To answer one of your questions, no, I'm not all right. That's why I'm here. I wanted to see my only grandchild before I die."
I must have looked as shocked as I felt, because he said, “It's okay. I know I'm dying. I've had time to get used to it, and I won't be kicking off for a year or so."
I didn't know what to say, so I stared at my feet.
"Your other question? The one about the horrible genetic disease?” he said, “I have cancer, plain and simple. The family history I was talking about involves your grandmother. Your mother needs to tell you about Melia."
She never will, I thought. “Would you tell me, please?"
"No,” he said flatly. “It's up to her. But, until Faye accepts who she is, she will continue to be unhappy."
I was puzzled by his choice of words. “What do you mean?"
He didn't answer my question. Instead, he stared at me for a full minute with those opaque, black eyes. Finally, he stood. “We'll meet again, Alfrieda."
"Almost everybody calls me Allie."
"Everybody but me,” he said.
[Back to Table of Contents]
Chapter Seventeen
Confession time. I'm not above using emotional blackmail. Probably says something about my character. When dealing with Faye, I had to use all the weapons in my arsenal and pick my battles carefully. That's why I chose not to pester her with questions about the Grandpa Claude/Grandmother Melia mystery. No way would I be able to guilt Faye into spilling it.
Inst
ead, I'd use my leverage to let Faye in on the Beck/moonstone/healing scenario. The stars were in the proper alignment for Faye and Beck to meet, because my mother was feeling bad about screwing up our session with Miss Yeager. With Faye, timing was important.
On Wednesday, Faye worked the early shift. I knew she'd be home after school so I asked Beck if he wanted to take a look at the moonstone. His eyes lit up with a flare of amber that told me he was intensely interested. He insisted on driving me home. I wasn't real happy about Beck seeing how we lived, but sometimes you have to separate the big stuff from the little stuff. How I lived wasn't a big deal. Getting my powers back ... that was important. Especially now, when I wasn't sure if Ruth Wheeler was still in the picture.
Thank God for small favors! Faye was outside, bundled up in jeans and a heavy sweater, raking up leaves under the apple tree. Blaster the bull was grazing over the other side of the fence. She leaned on the rake and watched us get out of the Ranger, her gaze fixed on Beck. As we approached, Blaster lifted his tail and let loose with a thunderous fart. Faye and I were so used to it, we hardly noticed, but Beck stopped dead in his tracks. “Was that the bull?'
I took Beck's hand, pulled him over to Faye and made the introductions. It went something like this:
"Hi, Faye. This is my friend, Beck Bradford. He's a healer. We need to dig up the moonstone so he can figure out why it's not working."
Faye's eyes widened in surprise.
"Hi, Ms. Emerson.” Beck stuck out his hand for her to shake.
She waited a few ticks before wiping her hand on her jeans and placing it in his. I hid a smile as I watched Beck do his thing. He clasped her hand in both of his and looked down at her. “It's nice to meet you."
Faye stood motionless, gazing into Beck's eyes. After a few moments, I could tell the large dose of dazer was working its magic. Her lips curled in a smile.
"The mystery boyfriend.” She freed her hand. “I wondered when I would get to meet you."
"Not my boyfriend,” I mumbled.
Faye and Beck both looked at me like they were humoring a cranky child.
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