Juniper Limits (The Juniper Series Book 2)

by Lora Richardson

  He shrugged, the anger slightly receding from his brow. “I’ve had some money saved for a while.”

  I narrowed my eyes and glared at him. “Abe. The only money you have that I know about is the birthday money you got last year. You better not have spent your birthday money on my birthday.”

  He smiled.

  I shook my head at him and examined the package, and the effort he’d put into wrapping it. “You are truly terrible at wrapping presents.”

  “Aw, who cares about that part? As long as it’s covered up, that’s the point. You’re just going to tear it anyway.”

  I ruffled his hair, and he ducked away. “I’m just messing with you.” I ripped the paper off to reveal a sleek paperback book, titled Pattern Making and Fashion Design.” Tears welled in my eyes, and I pulled him to me in another hug.

  “You’re suffocating me!” he mumbled from somewhere in my neck.

  “It’s your fault for being so thoughtful.”

  The front door crashed open, interrupting our moment. Abe jerked in my arms, startled. I let him go and sat back on the couch, and we watched as our father stumbled into the living room.

  “Dinner ready?” He slouched out of his coat and let it fall to the floor behind him, then walked to the dining room without waiting for us to answer.

  Abe looked at me, stunned. “He forgot.” It took only a second for anger to rest on his face, his eyebrows two furious clouds floating above his stormy eyes.

  I shook my head at him. “Abe, it’s okay. Really. I don’t get all crazy about my birthday—you know that. It’s just another day.”

  He pressed his lips together and glared straight ahead. “That’s not true.”

  “It is true. I don’t even care.”

  “I meant it’s not true that it’s just another day. You’re sixteen, and it’s supposed to be special. Birthdays are the one thing we get right.”

  I swallowed and leaned my shoulder against his. It was true, we were good at birthdays. We always spent them together. Mom made us whatever we wanted for dinner. For Abe’s last birthday, he picked pancakes. Dad hated breakfast for dinner, but he didn’t complain because nothing trumps birthday dinner.

  “Abe, you got it right. You gave me such a great gift. And you’re here, and you care. You got it right and you can’t worry about what anyone else does.”

  Fierce whispering came from the kitchen, getting louder as Mom and Dad moved into the dining room and took seats at the table.

  “Come on, stand up. Cold fried chicken is delicious anyway. We’ll pretend we’re on a picnic.”

  “I’m too old for pretending. And I won’t do it for him anymore.” Abe said, and went to the dining room. I stared at his back as he went, noticing the way it had widened at the shoulders. He really was getting older—too big for disguising something bad as something good.

  If Abe was too old for pretending, I certainly was too. Pretending didn’t make anything better, yet I’d continued to experiment with it off and on. I joined my family at the table, emboldened by Abe’s stand.

  Mom picked up a piece of chicken with the tongs and slammed it down on her plate. She passed the dish to me, forcing a stiff smile. “Was it a nice day at school? I always hated having to go to school on my birthday.”

  My eyes darted toward Dad. Apparently we were just going to ignore the fact that he was three hours late and reeked of alcohol. Was ignoring the same as pretending?

  Abe must have sensed my hesitance. “I like having school on my birthday,” he said. “I get to see my friends that way.”

  Mom nodded, and I hoped she wasn’t thinking about the fact that Abe’s best friend wasn’t allowed to come over here. Mom and Dad had an argument once when Jeremy was over a couple years ago. I remember trying to keep the boys outside, even going so far as to show them my secret space under the hemlock tree and telling them they could only use it for sleepovers. But they wanted to play in Abe’s room, and that meant they heard the yelling and saw Dad throw the lamp. Jeremy told his mom, because he was a normal human ten-year-old. Now he still wasn’t allowed over here, a fact that made me both glad and angry. I hated that Abe had to suffer for it, but it was certainly the right choice for Jeremy.

  “It was as good as any Tuesday at school can be.” That wasn’t true. I’d never had such a fantastic Tuesday in all my life, but I wasn’t about to share it with them. Even though we didn’t have any classes together, somehow Paul found me during each passing period. During one of them, he pulled me into a private alcove and kissed me thoroughly, and when he pulled back, he said, “I love you today, too,” before dashing off to get to his next class. I held tight to that memory—my own private birthday gift.

  Dad lifted his large water glass, the ice long since melted, and guzzled the entire thing in one breath. Then he held out the glass to me. “Fill this up.” His voice was weak and wobbly, struggling to stand.

  I took the glass, staring at it, squeezing it in my hand, before setting it down before him. “Fill your own glass.” My voice had strong legs.

  Dad placed one elbow on his armrest and leaned to the side, examining me with a tilted head, tilted body, tilted mind. “What’s that, now?”

  “I’m not a waitress at home.”

  “It’s her birthday, Dad. Geez,” Abe muttered. He hadn’t touched the food on his plate.

  My head foggy, I felt detached from the scene I inhabited. I watched my father as he sat up straight and crossed his arms over his belly. He licked his lips. The amount of stubble on his chin indicated he hadn’t shaved this morning. His cheeks were pink. I didn’t know if it was because he was embarrassed he forgot my birthday or because of the alcohol.

  Mom stood up and grabbed his glass. “Anyone else need a refill?”

  Abe and I shook our heads. When we heard the water turn on, Dad leaned in close to Abe and hissed, “You don’t take that tone with me, young man.”

  “Then you don’t ruin Celia’s birthday,” Abe snapped. His eyes went wide, as though he couldn’t believe the things coming from his mouth, as if he had no control over them.

  Maybe he didn’t. That had happened to me before. “Abe, just let it go. I told you earlier, it doesn’t matter to me.”

  “It matters to me and I don’t want to let it go.”

  Mom came back in with the water, and I sighed in relief. She wasn’t always the best at handling things, but when she was around, at least it didn’t fall to me.

  “Abe, eat your dinner,” she said.

  Abe stood up. “I won’t. I won’t eat it because it’s cold and disgusting and it’s his fault!” He jabbed his finger toward Dad.

  Dad stood quickly, his chair falling to the floor with a crash behind him. Mom stood too, rushing to pick up the chair. Everyone else towered over me, and all I wanted to do was sink as low as I could get. Under the table, under the floor, under the earth.

  Mom grabbed Abe by the shoulders and spun him toward the hall. “Go to your room,” she whispered.

  He jerked his shoulders out of her grasp. He faced our father, anguish mixed with anger on his face. “Why do you do this? Why do you wreck everything? This was supposed to be a good night. Then you go and wreck her birthday and—”

  Abe’s shouting was cut off when Dad grabbed him by the elbow and lifted him off the floor.

  That got me to my feet. “Everybody stop grabbing him!” My hands curled into fists at my sides, digging into my thighs.

  Dad glared at me, his eyes burning holes in mine. I saw fury there, but fear was stirred up in it. He didn’t take his eyes off mine while he reached out his greasy, fried-chicken fingers and slapped Abe across the face.

  Mom gasped, and her hands flew to her mouth in horror. She began to cough, choking on her own spit.

  A small trickle of blood leaked out the corner of Abe’s lips. Abe glared at Dad, and slowly a bloody-toothed, insolent grin spread over his face. Dad let go of him, the shock at what he’d done plain on his face.

  “Abe,�
� I said, my voice only breath now, all strength gone.

  Abe turned and disappeared down the hall. His bedroom door clicked shut quietly. Mom’s coughs turned to sobs, and she went to her room. Left standing there with my father, I sank back down into my chair. The phone rang. I counted ten rings before it stopped.

  27

  Paul slouched in the recliner in Fay’s living room. “Maybe I should go over and see what’s keeping them. He looked at the clock on the wall. “She’s an hour late now.”

  “Don’t worry. I’m sure she’ll be here any minute,” Fay said.

  “That worried look on your face isn’t doing much to keep me from worrying,” he said.

  She rubbed her hands over her face, as if erasing her expression would erase her feelings. “Try calling again.”

  “Every time I call, nobody answers, and then I have to wonder whether she didn’t answer because they’re on their way, or because something’s wrong.”

  “It’s her birthday.”

  “That doesn’t mean something isn’t wrong. I’m going.” Fay bit her lip and sank back into her seat, but she didn’t try and stop him again. He was halfway to Celia’s house before he heard footsteps scuttling behind him.

  He looked back without slowing, to see Fay trying to catch up. “Wait for me, you racehorse!” she called.

  He stopped, though he was panicky and anxious to keep moving. She caught up with him, breathing hard, and handed him his jacket. “You forgot this. I thought you might be cold.”

  He wasn’t cold at all, but he reached out and took the jacket.

  “And I wanted to come, too.”

  He nodded, and her obvious concern doubled his own. “Let’s go.” They moved quickly, but his heart beat a little slower, calmed to have a companion in his worry.

  Darkness came early in October, and Fay looked up at the stars sprinkling the sky. “Thanks, Paul.”

  “For what?”

  “For caring about Celia. For understanding her and not judging her.”

  “I’m not sure how much I understand her.”

  Fay laughed. “That’s fair. I feel the same most of the time.”

  When they arrived, Paul jumped up on her porch and knocked on the door. When no one answered after half a second, he put his hand on the knob, but stopped when he felt Fay’s hand on his arm. “Wait,” she whispered. He stood there, gripping the knob, for a count of ten. Celia answered on nine.

  He scanned her body from head to toe. She was okay. His eyes doubled back to her face. No, she wasn’t okay. Something was wrong. With the door open wide, Paul had a clear view into her house. Mr. Young stood in the dining room, his hands on his hips and his head hanging low. The table was laden with food. Before he could even say hello, and after Fay had uttered a single, “Um…” Mrs. Young whipped around the corner, a small gift bag in her hand.

  A low moan came from Mr. Young. “Donna.” It was a plea, a cry.

  “No,” she said, seething. “Don’t you dare talk to me.”

  Celia immediately closed the door so that it was only open a crack. Paul stared at the tips of her fingers squeezing the edge of the door. Her nails were shiny ovals, painted peach.

  “Mom! Fay and Paul are here,” Celia said, her voice tipping toward hysteria.

  He furrowed his brow, alarm prickling his skin and standing his hair on end. He glanced at Fay, who pulled her phone out of her pocket and held it tightly to her chest.

  Paul gently pushed against the door, and the peach fingernails disappeared from view as it gave way. Celia stood wide-eyed in the living room. He reached out for her, but she backed away before he could touch her. Paul recognized the shame etched into every curve and feature on her face. He’d felt it more times than he cared to remember.

  Mrs. Young looked over at them, her chest heaving as she breathed. Time and space were frozen, as though no one could move and nothing would ever change.

  Paul knew all about the secrets houses kept. People thought they knew what went on inside, but they didn’t. They couldn’t. Even after what he was seeing right this minute, he knew he still had no idea. It didn’t matter anyway. Nothing he could do would change anything in the long run. There was no long run. There was only each day, and getting through it. He knew that better than anyone, and he intended to help Celia get through this one.

  He stepped into the room, encouraged by Fay, right at his heels. Fay went to Celia and as the cousins exchanged a look, a cry eased out of Celia’s throat.

  “We’re leaving,” Mrs. Young said to her husband, her voice soft and lethal. She shoved him in the chest, and he tipped backward onto a chair, crumpling into it like a piece of tissue paper.

  Paul walked to Mrs. Young, stepping around Mr. Young and ignoring him outright, and put his hand behind her shoulder. “Let’s go.”

  He nudged her toward the living room, but she whispered, “Abe,” and refused to move.

  A second after that, Celia choked out, “Paul, can you get Abe? Fay was moving her to the porch. “He’s in his room.”

  Paul had never been in Abe’s room, but there was only one hallway in this house, so he followed it. A light glow came from under a doorway. He knocked, and Abe said, “Come in.” When Paul opened the door and looked inside, Abe sat on the bed, his hands tucked beneath his legs. Paul took a shaky breath when he saw the blood at the corner of Abe’s lips.

  There was nothing to say, so he didn’t say anything. He pulled Abe to standing and kept his arm around his shoulder as he steered him out the door, through the house, and onto the porch where the others waited, their glass faces revealing everything they felt about what had transpired. Paul closed the door on the remains of the scene inside.

  Mrs. Young must have grabbed her purse before leaving, and she reached inside to get her keys. “Get in the car,” she said.

  Fay opened the door and motioned for Abe to get in. After he did, she held her arm out to Celia. “Hop in.”

  Celia crossed her arms around her middle and shook her head. “I need a minute. I’m going to walk. I’ll meet you there.” She took off at a slow pace down the sidewalk.

  Fay looked at Paul, and he nodded. She climbed in the car and it pulled away, and Paul caught up with Celia. When he reached her side, they walked in silence and he waited for her to be the first to break it.

  “I wanted to be alone.”

  “Maybe, but that’s not what you needed.”

  “Don’t tell me what I need.” Her voice lacked the force necessary to back up her statement.

  “Then it’s what I need, so I won’t worry about you. You don’t have to talk, but I can’t leave you.”

  She didn’t respond for a block. “It’s never been like that,” she finally said, so soft it was almost a whisper. “I hate my dad, Paul. I hate him, and I love him, but I hate him.”

  “Yes.” He had plenty of dark thoughts about his own father, too.

  Then, as if the admission had opened a floodgate, the words poured out of her in a rush. “And sometimes I hate my mom more, because she isn’t doing anything about it. Or at least she hadn’t done anything until tonight. She left! I can’t believe she walked away from him. She never does that.” She stopped walking and looked at him, her eyes wide and afraid.

  He tucked his hands in his pockets so he wouldn’t reach out for her. She didn’t want to be touched as badly as he wanted to touch her.

  She started walking again. “But I feel bad for putting it all on her. Why do I blame her when he’s the drunk? When he’s the one messing everything up? Why can’t they just fix things? Is it like that for you? Where you know it won’t ever be fixed but you can’t stop thinking that’s what will happen, because that’s what makes sense?”

  “Yes, it’s like that for me.”

  She looked up at him with her big, brown eyes, and he took a deep breath. “Sometimes I hate my mom because she sedates herself on purpose, and because she’s depressed, and for whatever reason she can’t get better. Everything I sugges
t, she refuses to try. Even her doctor is fooled by her. I know it’s not her fault, but sometimes I think that. And then I hate my dad for leaving me to deal with it. Every so often I think about leaving too, just like my dad. Always I feel guilty. It’s the guilt that never goes away.”

  Her small cool hand found his and latched on. They had reached Fay’s house, but he wasn’t done. He led her off the sidewalk and over to the side of the house, where they sunk down on the ground. “What happened at your house tonight, Celia?”

  She slumped against the house, her hands resting limply in her lap. “I can’t tell you.”

  “You can.” She searched his face. He tried to look like he could handle it. If she could live it, he would figure out how to handle it.

  “It was my fault,” she said, tears pooling in her lower lashes.

  “It wasn’t your fault.”

  “How would you know? You weren’t there.”

  “Unless you were the one who made Abe bleed, it wasn’t your fault.”

  She sighed, utterly defeated. “He asked me to get him more water and I told him no.” She barked out a sob. “Why didn’t I just fill the glass?”

  Paul put his arm around her and pulled her to his chest. He kissed her on top of her hair, and she shivered against him.

  “He was stinking drunk, and he was three hours late, and Abe’s feelings were hurt, and I was so angry because I hate when Dad ruins things for Abe. Dad didn’t know what he was doing. He just knew I was pissing him off.”

  “What did he do?” Paul had a pretty good idea what happened, but he needed to hear it and he thought she should say it out loud so she wouldn’t be able to push it to the back of her memories and pretend it hadn’t happened.

  It was a moment before she answered. She tilted her head down so her hair fell forward and he couldn’t see her face as she talked. “He hit Abe across the face. But he did it to punish me. He knew that would hurt worse than if he hit me.”

  She looked up at him again, fear in her eyes. “You can’t tell anyone this, Paul. It has never happened before, and it won’t happen again. He meant it to teach me a lesson, and it did. From now on, what Dad wants, he gets.”