A Real Live Hero

by Kimberly Van Meter

  “I’m sorry about your aunt, but my mother didn’t kill herself,” Delainey said quietly, not quite sure what to think of what Brenda had shared. Ordinarily, her first reaction would’ve been to tell her to mind her own business and leave, but Brenda’s matter-of-fact kindness stopped her. The truth was, she hadn’t known much about her mother, only that she’d always seemed sad. Delainey had attributed her sadness to the fact that she was in a miserable marriage. She didn’t know what to think about the possibility that her mother had been mentally ill.

  Brenda noticed her disquiet and said, “Honey, don’t waste your life thinking about what was when you have an opportunity to create new memories. Do you love this man, Trace?”

  “Yes,” she answered cautiously. “Unfortunately, there are bigger things to consider.”

  “Not true,” Brenda disagreed. “Having been a person who lived without love for too long, I can tell you it’s the only thing that matters. Your daddy showed me how a man is supposed to treat a woman, and he treated me right.” How was she supposed to argue that point? Delainey swallowed a sigh and focused on the salad, but Brenda wasn’t finished. “The first time you walked through that door, you had a chip on your shoulder as big as a boulder. It was written all over your face how unhappy you were to be there. But I don’t think your unhappiness was solely because of your issues with your daddy. I think you have unfinished business with your man.”

  “He’s not really my man,” Delainey corrected Brenda with a flush in her cheeks. “He’s his own man.”

  Brenda chuckled. “Oh, I know it’s not politically correct to call a man yours, but honey, when you’ve lived a life like mine, when you have a man worth holding on to, you take pride in calling him your own. And if you love him, you’d better do what you can to hold on to him before he finds someone smarter than you.” Delainey drew back, hating the idea of Trace moving on to someone else. But wasn’t that the natural order of things? If she was planning to leave, how could she expect him to sit and wait on the shelf like a forgotten toy?

  Brenda chuckled knowingly as she ladled steaming portions onto two plates. “Darlin’, you’ve got to stop listening to that head of yours and just go with your heart. Your head carries all sorts of angry memories, but your heart just holds on to the love.”

  Delainey was tempted to roll her eyes if only to dispel the feeling that Brenda knew what she was talking about, but she reined the impulse before she ended up insulting the kind woman. She wanted to retort that the older woman didn’t understand the rigors of a career in television and film, but she knew Brenda would call her out for making excuses, so she remained silent.

  “Time to eat,” Brenda announced, carrying both plates to the scarred table in the dining room. Delainey dutifully followed, carrying napkins and utensils, but her mind was moving in dizzying circles. Had her father changed so much for Brenda? Had he become a man worth knowing? Did it matter? No matter how he’d changed for Brenda, he hadn’t changed for her, and he’d been a miserable human being to live with.

  “This is good,” she said around a hot bite, but she didn’t actually taste anything. She was too twisted in knots to truly enjoy her stepmother’s Southern cooking. She just hoped Trace came back soon. She’d had just about all she could handle of this episode of This Is Your Life in a Parallel Universe before she completely broke down and lost it.

  If only she could simply change the channel and move on.

  “Your daddy loved my cooking, said I put all the good stuff he wasn’t supposed to have into everything I made. Secret is I cooked everything with butter and plenty of cream. I tried to stop on account of his doctor making stern faces at me when I took him to his appointments, but he said to me, ‘Baby, you and your cooking is about the only thing keeping me going these days. Don’t deny an old man his luxuries.’ And so I just kept on cooking him his favorites because that’s what my man wanted,” Brenda said, choking up for the first time. But with obvious effort she recovered and put up a soft smile. Must’ve been that Southern hospitality ingrained in her to never let a guest feel unwelcome or uncomfortable. Unbidden, Delainey grasped Brenda’s hand and squeezed. She wasn’t a hugger but she could do this. Brenda seemed to sense this and smiled gratefully, a moment of understanding passing between them, and Delainey realized no matter what kind of man her father was to her, he’d been a good husband to Brenda and it wasn’t her place to say otherwise.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  IT WAS DIFFICULT not to think of his own parents as he watched Delainey go through the motions of grief in preparing for her father’s funeral. He knew she was struggling with the realization that her father had changed and also that he hadn’t done so in time for her to reap the benefit. Trace remembered all the times Delainey had cried on his shoulder when they were young and how helpless he’d felt to protect her. Each time she’d come to him with a new bruise, his young heart had beat frantically as his fists had curled. But his own father had cautioned him to keep his distance.

  “We don’t know all the facts,” Zed had warned, rushing to calm a hotheaded seventeen-year-old Trace.

  “What’s there to know, Dad? He beat her! Didn’t you see the bruises on her arms and legs? We have to do something!”

  “No one likes to be told how to parent their kids. Harlan is a rough man, but he’s fair and honest.”

  “In business, but not with his kids,” Trace had shot back. “How am I supposed to just stand by and watch her get abused and do nothing? What kind of man would I be?”

  “You’re not a man yet,” Zed had reminded him, placing a hand on his shoulder. “To Harlan, you’re still a boy, and he won’t respect a thing you have to say. I’m not saying I agree with his methods, but Delainey is a tough girl. She’ll come out fine.”

  Trace had fought childish tears, hating that his father wasn’t charging down Harlan’s door with him to rescue Delainey, but what could he do? “She’s hurting, Dad,” he said, his voice breaking. “And I can’t do anything about it.”

  “I’m proud that you want to protect your girl, but this isn’t a fight you can win right now.” Zed held his son’s gaze for a long moment, and Trace saw his father falter in his own advice. Zed didn’t like the bruises he was seeing, either. Finally, Zed said, “If it makes you feel better, I’ll have a word with Harlan. Maybe it’ll help. But maybe it’ll make it worse,” he warned Trace. “Like I said, no man likes when another man oversteps his bounds when it comes down to parenting or running their household.”

  “Yeah, well, maybe if he wasn’t an abusive asshole, no one else would feel compelled to step in,” Trace said, not even caring that he’d just cursed in front of his father. In this case, it was warranted. Zed must’ve agreed because he didn’t say a word.

  Zed had never shared what he’d said to Harlan, but the beatings had stopped, according to Delainey. Shortly after, Delainey had relocated to Anchorage to go to college, and after graduation she had moved in with Trace.

  Trace wasn’t sure why that particular memory had returned to him at this moment, but it’d left behind sadness in its wake. Where was that man who’d quietly championed Trace’s girlfriend—going against his own counsel because his son’s heart was breaking?

  God, things were a mess. His father was no longer that man. And Trace missed that man. He rubbed at his eyes, wiping away the moisture that gathered in the corners. Was there any way to repair the damage from the past? It wasn’t Simone’s fault for dying. But the wreckage caused by the aftermath had really done in the Sinclair family, and it seemed they’d all been guilty of simply watching it happen. Things had to change before it was too late. Miranda had been right about their mom and dad. But the most pressing problem was their mom’s hoarding. There had to be a way to get through to her, or else Trace was sure they were going to lose their mom just as Delainey had lost her dad.

  He could take some of the mone
y given to him for participating in the pilot to pay for a professional organizer to come in and help straighten things out, but according to Miranda, she’d already tried that. What was he supposed to do in this kind of situation? He didn’t know, and worse, he didn’t even know where to start. He needed Wade here. It was time to rally the troops, circle the wagons and whatever other saying that worked, because the situation had just gone critical. He supposed he should’ve called Wade before now, but a part of him wanted to see if he and Miranda could handle this situation on their own. It was time to admit that he needed his older brother, too.

  Wade wasn’t going to be happy. They’d all taken Simone’s death hard, but Wade couldn’t handle staying in Alaska after it was all said and done. He understood the need for distance, but Wade had taken it to a new level. Ironic, that Wade and Delainey had fled to the same state. What was so damn great about California? As if on cue, his phone rang, and it was his sister. The phone call he’d been dreading had finally happened with impeccable timing.

  “Trace, I need you to come out to Mom and Dad’s.... The cops are there and he’s being arrested. Mom called me in a panic. We need to be there to calm her down before she has a stroke. Can you meet me there? I’m on my way.”

  “Yeah,” he answered, knowing this was how it was going to go down. He knew Delainey would understand, but he hated leaving her. “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes. Hold down the fort in the meantime.”

  “Okay,” Miranda said. Even though his sister was strong, Trace knew this was hard on her. Hell, it was hard on him, too. “See you then.”

  Trace clicked off and quickly texted Delainey the situation. She texted back “k” then added “good luck” a second later. A rueful smile followed. Luck was exactly what he’d need.

  * * *

  JENNELLE STARED IN HORROR as Zed was hauled out of the garage in handcuffs, bellowing about his rights and threatening to sue every single one of the officers involved in this humiliation and blatant abuse of authority. What was happening? There were three squad cars with lights blazing and officers combing their property, traipsing over their land as if she and Zed were common criminals, crushing her plants and poking their noses where they didn’t belong. She rushed over to where an officer was trying to stuff Zed into the patrol car, and another officer fended her off with a terse, “Please stay back, ma’am.”

  “What is going on?” she demanded, her gaze darting from one officer to the other. “I want to know what is going on right this instant!”

  “Don’t say a word,” Zed yelled from the back of the squad car, handcuffed and looking like a wild man. “You hear me? Not a damn word!”

  Jennelle nodded, but she wasn’t sure how to handle this invasion. Never in her life had she ever been so shocked, to the point of speechlessness. Another car rolled up and it was Miranda. Relief flooded her. Miranda would sort this out. This had to be some sort of mistake. They obviously had the wrong person. “Miranda! Oh, my God, thank goodness. They’ve arrested your father!”

  But instead of outrage, Miranda looked resigned and Jennelle felt punched in the stomach. “You knew about this?” Jennelle could barely manage the words. The betrayal by her own daughter was too much to absorb at once. “How could you?”

  “I had to,” Miranda answered with a fair amount of sadness in her eyes. “You gave me no choice.”

  “Me?” Jennelle blinked back bewildered tears. “How did I do this?”

  “You have a problem, Mom. We’re trying to help.”

  “By having your father arrested? By having strangers violate our privacy? Have you lost your mind?” Her voice had become shrill, but she didn’t care. She was screaming mad and humiliated at the same time. Then she noticed two more vehicles pulling up, Trace’s and a township car. She looked to Miranda with withering anger. “Your brother was in on this, too? Of all the rotten moves, Miranda...this has to be the top.”

  “Mom—”

  “No. This is unforgivable,” Jennelle whispered harshly, too angry to see straight. She turned on her heel, determined to lock them all away from her, but as she approached the house, an officer stepped forward and prevented her from entering. “Sorry, ma’am. Not until we’ve determined if the dwelling is safe to enter.”

  She gaped. “Safe?” Jennelle returned her stare to Miranda, and the true ramifications of the day became clear. She pressed her hands to her heart in utter despair. Oh, Simone...if only you were here. You would’ve been on my side. You and Wade would never betray me like this....

  The township worker stepped forward with a business card and a perfunctory smile. “Hello, Mrs. Sinclair. My name is Stella Rogers and I’m with Social Services. We’re here to help you,” she said, speaking slowly as if Jennelle were a child. “We need you to stay out here with your daughter while we assess the home, okay?”

  “No, it’s not okay,” she snapped, causing the woman to pull back in alarm. “My privacy has been violated and I will not tolerate any more. Do you hear me? I will sue and take every single one of you to court for committing this abomination—and that includes you two Judases!” She stabbed a finger toward Trace and Miranda.

  Miranda looked ready to cry, but Jennelle didn’t believe her tears, not for one second. The girl had always hated her, and this was simply a new and creative way to hurt her. Trace’s mouth firmed in a disapproving line but he said nothing to Jennelle, instead motioning for the officer and the horrid Social Services woman to go ahead.

  Embarrassment heated Jennelle’s cheeks as she watched strangers push their way into her home, armed with masks and clipboards and a camera. Rigid with anger, she turned to her children and said, “I hope you’re happy.”

  “Mom—” Miranda started, but Jennelle put her hand up to silence her. There was nothing her daughter could say to fix what she’d done. Nothing.

  Several minutes later, the group emerged from Jennelle’s home, some coughing and gasping for air as if they’d just emerged from the sewers. Jennelle glared at what she believed were theatrics. “Are you finished?” she asked stridently.

  “Yes, Mrs. Sinclair,” Ms. Rogers answered, pulling her mask free and drawing deep breaths of air. She seemed relieved to be outside again, and it was a long moment before she’d gathered herself to speak again. “Your daughter was absolutely correct—that home is no longer habitable.” She ripped a notice free from her clipboard and handed one copy to Jennelle and one to the awaiting officer, who then tacked it to the front door. The word “Condemned” stood out in angry red letters. “Until this home is inspected and cleared, no one is to return. Am I clear, Mrs. Sinclair?”

  “This is my home. Bought and paid for. You can’t tell me where to live.”

  “She can if your safety is at risk,” Trace said firmly. “And she has just told you that this house is a safety risk.”

  “And where, pray tell, am I supposed to live?” she asked.

  “You can stay with me and Talen,” Miranda offered, and Jennelle was astounded she would even suggest such a thing after the stunt she’d pulled.

  “I would rather sleep outside,” she answered.

  “You brought this on yourself! How many times did I try to help you get things cleaned up and you refused? If you had taken control of your own situation, we wouldn’t have had to step in. Do you think we like being the bad guys? You’re our parents, for crying out loud! Try acting like it! Do you have any idea what it’s like to have parents who are acting so shamefully? It’s embarrassing!”

  “Don’t you talk to me about embarrassment when you’ve spent the last few years whoring around like a common floozy!”

  The social worker and police officer shifted in discomfort at the private conversation, but Jennelle didn’t care. She was beyond caring what others thought of her and her life, but if Miranda wanted to throw stones, Jennelle could throw them right back.

 
“Well, it seems you have a lot to talk about,” Ms. Rogers said, pulling a hasty exit and taking the officer with her.

  “If Simone were here—”

  “She’d never step foot in that house,” Miranda cut in with exasperation.

  “This isn’t helping,” Trace said sternly. “What’s done is done. Stop being stubborn and let Miranda take you in temporarily. You need a place to sleep at night, and you’re not staying here.”

  “I’d rather stay in a hotel.”

  “Everything is booked because of moose season,” Trace said.

  “Then I’ll stay with a friend,” Jennelle said.

  “Who?” Miranda asked caustically. “I don’t believe you have friends anymore.”

  “Miranda,” Trace warned, shooting her a look. “That’s not helpful.” To Jennelle, he asked, “Who will you be staying with?”

  “None of your business.”

  “Mom, here’s what I think is going to happen. We’ll leave and you’ll go right back into that house, not caring that you’re prohibited from doing so.”

  That’s exactly what she was going to do. “I’ve been living in that house for longer than you’ve been alive. It’s my house and I won’t be ousted from it!”