“Oh, no you don’t.” He wrapped his arms around me and started walking us forward.
Light footsteps came clacking against the wooden floor and I pushed back against Mike, trying to move us both out the front door. But then there she was, coming toward us. With a smile on her face. It was genuine, if ever a smile was. Instantly, I stopped pushing against him.
“Rowan, what a pleasure. Come in, honey.” She inserted her hand between me and Mike and gently eased me inside. Mike broke away and I reached for him; but she put a hand on his back too and maneuvered both of us down a hallway to the kitchen.
It was a huge room, several times larger than the one at home. The cabinets were a pristine white; the floor’s tiles soft beige. The counter was a shiny black with little specks of color. It was clean. I mean, it smelled clean. It looked clean. There was no clutter anywhere, just necessary cooking items like a few matching white jars, salt and pepper shakers, a huge bowl brimming with fruit.
“Are you hungry?” she asked.
Mike moved about the room with the ease of someone very comfortable with himself, his mom, his home. I followed him because I couldn’t imagine not to. I’d live in that kitchen if I could. He sat at a breakfast table nestled near a huge bay window, and I sat beside him.
Mrs. Anderson had gentle eyes and short, perfectly styled hair. When she smiled, her white teeth, the same that Mike had inherited, shone through her pink lips. There was nothing behind her eyes, or her expression, that was anything other than welcoming. I didn’t pull my hands out of my pockets but I did relax my fingers.
She flitted about the kitchen pulling out more food than I could ever imagine eating. She set down chicken, rice, cheese, crackers, ice cream and a big cup of milk. All right in front of me. It smelled amazing. Especially the chicken. My mouth watered as I forced myself not to dive onto the table. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d eaten and I was suddenly hungrier than I could ever remember being.
She spooned a little of everything onto the plate in front of me, piling the mixture of food high. In a bowl she scooped out the ice cream.
“Eat.” The command was gentle yet firm in a way that I was helpless to resist.
She chatted with Mike about Dr. Anderson, who was away at a dental conference. Mike nibbled on a piece of chicken and both of them politely ignored me as I ate. And ate. And ate.
My stomach ached as it expanded, but still I couldn’t quit. After chowing down a large chicken breast smothered in barbecue sauce, I had two servings of rice. This was more than I’d eaten in a month put together. Somewhere in my subconscious, I was mortified with my lack of control. But I was like a starving animal, intent upon nourishing myself at the risk of everything else.
Finally, I just fell back against the chair. I swiped a napkin over my mouth, hoping it would mask my embarrassment. “Thank you,” I managed. “It was delicious.”
She leaned across the table and patted my hand. “I’m glad you liked it, sweetie. Cooking has become my newest passion.”
Mike chuckled. “You won’t go hungry here.”
She flashed him a look of mock irritation, and then laughed. The sound echoed through the kitchen like the chiming of a bell. “I have four kids, and Mike is the only one left here. So, I needed a hobby. I guess I’ll have to get a new one when he goes to college.”
“Thank goodness she’s a quick learner. In the beginning…” he widened his eyes and frowned deeply. “Yikes,” he mouthed and she swatted him with a dish towel.
“I’ve certainly managed to feed you and your friends for the past several years and I haven’t heard anyone complaining.”
He rubbed his stomach. “Surely not.”
I watched the two of them in their effortless banter and was blindsided with jealousy, awe, and extreme longing to have that kind of relationship with my mom. Now, though, that would never even become an option.
But my eyes were heavy. The food was making me sluggish. I had passed exhausted hours ago and now I was moving into comatose.
It must’ve shown because Mrs. Anderson said, “Are you ready for bed, dear? I have a room ready for you.”
It was only six thirty, but my eyelids were suddenly so heavy, I couldn’t hold them open. There would be no argument from me tonight. I’d sleep right there in that chair if I could. When I felt myself lifted, I barely had the energy to wrap my arms around Mike’s neck and hold on.
I was asleep before he laid me in the bed. I didn’t wake up until noon the next day.
I EASED the door open and peaked into the hallway. The other doors, all white, were shut. Sunlight streamed in from the large window nestled at the end of the hall and it looked like it would be a beautiful spring day.
The rug was soft beneath my feet, my toes sinking into its warmth. After staring at the closed doors, wondering which one was the bathroom, I took a step down the hall away from the window. There I found a door slightly ajar. It was the bathroom. I closed the door with a click and turned the lock.
It was strange to be inside of Mike’s home, to have slept here. His mother was so welcoming and warm that it almost made me uncomfortable. Almost. But not quite. He was right–she was pretty cool. I didn’t meet his dad last night. Mrs. Anderson said something about him being away at a dental conference. What would he think about me being here? Well, it wouldn’t matter because I would leave today.
Sitting on the side of the sink was a bath towel, hand towel, and washcloth, all neatly folded. There was also a toothbrush and a tube of toothpaste and a little piece of paper that said, Rowan, on it.
I turned on the warm water and waited for it to heat. Then I washed my face, my hands and brushed my teeth. My reflection showed a tired face with dark circles under my eyes; lips that weren’t cherry red, but pale, just slightly pink. I really did need to start eating again, though my stomach was still distended from all the food last night. But I needed to eat like that regularly. My cheekbones were so prominent, I looked skeletal.
With the sleeves of my hoodie pulled over my hands, I walked back into the hall.
The house was quiet, too quiet. No radio, television, voices. Where was Mike? His mom? Oh, how I wished he’d been waiting for me outside of the room, so I’d know what I was supposed to do.
When I made it to the bottom of the stairs, I decided to grab my keys and sneak out. I crept to the kitchen, careful not to make any noise. I made it all the way to the kitchen table before I realized I wasn’t alone.
Mrs. Anderson was standing by the refrigerator, the phone to her ear as she listened to someone on the other end.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I whispered, and was about to hurry away when she started waving her hand in the air, motioning for me to come forward.
But I really wanted to leave. Badly. Mike wasn’t anywhere to be seen and I didn’t fancy sitting around talking to his mom. She was so nice last night, it was time to thank her for her hospitality and leave.
“Okay,” she said into the phone. “Thank you.”
She hung up the phone. “Good morning, Rowan. Did you sleep well?”
I nodded as I stepped into the kitchen, finding a lump in my throat that I couldn’t swallow away.
“I’ll make you breakfast.” She pulled a plate out of the cabinet. “Mike left a little while ago. He wouldn’t tell me where he was going, but that he’d be back soon. He left me instructions to make sure you were well fed this morning.” She smiled and I forced a small one in return.
“I’m fine, really. I’ll just get my keys and then go.” I shifted on my feet. “Dinner last night was so good. I really appreciate you letting me stay here. I’ll go home today. I need to check in…” My voice trailed off under the scrutiny of her gaze.
“No. You won’t.” She put a hand on her slender hip. “You are welcome to stay here for as long as you need to. And I fully expect you to,” she waved her hand in the air, “stay here. That bedroom is yours. Period.”
My mouth fell open. What did she mean? Did she wa
nt me to stay here? How much had Mike told her?
Ignoring my silence, she continued. “I’ve already talked to Dr. Anderson.” She looked at me, her lips set. “And Mike. In fact, it was his idea and I must admit it’s the best idea I’ve heard all month.” She smiled that warm cinnamon smile again and my defenses faltered, allowing the idea to slip into my brain and form into an actual possibility. But that was crazy. I had a home.
“Besides, it will be so nice to have another young person around the house. All of my other children are away at college. And I know Mike misses having another young person around the house. Then, when he goes to college in August…I need the company. You have one more year of school, right?”
I stared at the plate of eggs she put in front of me and nodded.
She put a finger under my chin and lifted my head. “Rowan, stop those negative thoughts going through your head. I can see it written all over your face. You’re to stay here for as long as you’d like. Period.”
I looked away before the water that filled my eyes spilled over. Then she did something that shocked me as much as anything else. She put her hands on either side of my head and held them there a moment. I could almost feel her energy moving into me. Then she kissed me on top of the head. And once she did that, I couldn’t stop the tears.
She fell to her knees in front of me and had me wrapped in her arms before a protest formed on my lips. I leaned into her spicy warmth and cried.
“Shhh,” she crooned, though she wasn’t telling me to be quiet. She was soothing me the same way I used to soothe Aidan, and even Trina, when she was little. With gentle rocking, pats on my back, and the endless, “Shhh, shhh, shhh,” I melted into her.
My tears turned into sobs that made my stomach clench and spasm. I hiccupped several times, but she didn’t let go. She stroked my hair. She rocked me back and forth. She shhh’ed.
The minutes flowed by as the past ripped long shreds through me. My insides were opening under the weight of those sobs, exposing everything in my life that had ever hurt. I could feel myself unraveling, coming undone cell by cell. The pain, the past, was too great. It would destroy me. I slumped against Mrs. Anderson, all the strength that had gotten me through the past several years gone.
How could my mother do that? How could she murder her child? Her beautiful little angel? Where, in her brain, did it exist–the ability to hold something over his little face and sever his breath?
How could a mother let her daughter take the blame? Wasn’t I worth saving? Worth a future? She’d taken it away with the guilt and accusation. My own mother had abandoned me. My own father had never wanted me. My sister hated me. And my Gran knew all of this but did nothing to stop it.
But the pain, just at the point of breaking me, became slightly more bearable; like Mrs. Anderson was absorbing it into herself. My sobs eased a little, became a fraction less violent. Finally I pulled back and wiped my eyes with the back of my hand.
Mike stood inside the door of the kitchen watching us. He blinked several times, then shoved his hands in his pockets.
Mrs. Anderson turned, but did not release me. “Hi, son.”
“Hi.” He looked at me. “I just came from your house.” There was a large suitcase by his feet. A blush spread across his handsome face.
Mrs. Anderson turned to me. “Rowan, I meant it when I said you could stay here as long as you need. Even if that’s until the day you graduate and leave for college. And then you have a place to come back to. I just ask that you attend church services with us on Sundays. We live a Christian life here, but we can talk about that later.”
Tears started fresh and I nodded. Go to church? Like a family? Did I have anywhere else to go? Did I want anywhere else to go? My mind was attacked with questions, shooting at me like darts. What did this mean for me and Mike? Were we a couple? Were we to act like brother and sister?
But for right here, right now, I didn’t let those unanswered questions take root.
“I’ll take this upstairs.” Mrs. Anderson kissed my head again then grabbed my suitcase, her delicate flats slapping against the tiled floor.
After she passed out of sight, Mike shuffled between his feet, hands still in his pockets. “I, ah, hope it was okay I went and got your things.” He stole a glance at me.
I stood. On wobbly feet, I fell forward, right into him, into his strong arms. They wrapped around me, making me feel safer, more taken care of, and more worthy than I’d ever felt in my entire life.
“IT DOESN’T look like me.” I scrutinized the reflection in the full-length mirror. I was in a dressing room, trying on Prom dresses.
“Show me.” Mrs. Anderson’s feet, in a pair of strappy sandals, appeared under the door. I knew she was dying to see me in these dresses, but I hadn’t shown her a single one. She had patiently passed alternate styles, sizes and options over the top of the changing room door, all while getting no visual in return. I just couldn’t. Not with my arms so exposed.
When I didn’t answer, she asked, “Does it fit?”
I studied the girl in the mirror. The dress color was labeled as mint green but it wasn’t what I would consider mint. It wasn’t a rich, bold color, but rather, a very light green, almost a whisper woven within the fabric. It had tiny, delicate straps that went over my still thin, yet fuller shoulders. The neckline was straight across, a few inches below my collarbone. The strapless bra that Mrs. Anderson had sent me into the changing room with gave me more curves than I’d ever had in my life.
Under Mrs. Anderson’s care, though, I’d gained about eight pounds, and had filled out a little. My hair was glossier, healthier. She’d taken me for a haircut last week and now I had layers that fell in soft, silky brown waves.
My skin was clearer, too, rosier. Even my posture was better, though I wasn’t sure why. But for some reason, I stood straighter, which helped me look taller than I was. The image staring back at me was beautiful; more beautiful than I could have ever expected.
Except for one thing: the scars that ran along my arm. Though faded, the ‘A’ I’d carved into my skin was as visible as any scar could be. It was deeper than the other cuts, bolder; a blaring reminder of the path I’d traveled.
There was no way I’d wear this dress; not with the scars. And when I went to the Prom with Mike, I wanted to look beautiful. Not like a hacked-up piece of wood.
“It doesn’t fit.” I stared at my arm in the store’s overly bright lights, seeing the scars reflected back at me in the mirror. Suddenly, they were all I could see.
I hadn’t cut myself since that day at the hospital and I hoped I never would again. But the scars would stay engraved in my skin, a constant reminder of the girl who had thought she’d killed her brother; the girl whose mother let her take the blame; the girl who came out of an awful experience and managed to try and remake who she was.
“Should I get something else?” There was no end to her patience.
The dress was elegant in its simplicity. It fell just above my knees and with knees not quite as bony as they used to be, the dress put my more shapely legs on perfect display. It was drawn in at the waist with a satin belt, two shades lighter than the dress.
If it weren’t for the scars, it would have been perfect.
I stepped closer to the mirror, inches from the smooth glass. The changes in my life that came with living with Mike and his family shone back at me from my gray eyes. Before they were dull and lifeless, now they were bright. The white was whiter; the gray richer. I had never seen it before, never noticed, but there was a blue undertone to the color, as if they really were like a stormy sea–stormy gray on the surface, deep blue underneath.
Mrs. Anderson had shown me the right way to apply mascara and it really made my eyes pop. I also had on a light swipe of blush and colorless lip gloss.
I’d been with the Andersons for a month. I hadn’t returned home for any reason. Mike had not only retrieved my clothes, but he and his dad had retrieved Scout and Levi, welcoming them in
to their home. Mike’s bulldog, Delilah, had shown a few moments of jealousy but quickly got over it when she realized Scout and Levi weren’t out to take over her queen bee status. Levi was even allowed to stay in the house in my room. He slept at the foot of my bed. Scout slept on the pillow by my head.
There were still many things going on with my family. Trina. Mom. Dad. I tried to keep away from them all. I wasn’t ready to go back there. In any sense. Not yet.
I was in phone contact with Gran, who, when she tried to give me updates on my family, I shut down with a curt no. The pain was too real and my wounds too raw.
But for today that life seemed almost part of an alternate universe, a separate plane of existence. The only reminder being the scars that covered my skin; the constant reminder that life was cruel and we all did the best we could to handle what we’d been given.
I didn’t need to know what happened to my mother. Mike knew. His parents knew. Of course Gran knew what was going on. But anytime someone tried to talk to me about it, I shut them down with a swipe of my hand: Don’t go there. It was not the time to know. I knew more than enough already and it had nearly pushed me over the edge. I deserved a little bit of time simply not knowing.
Besides, this was never Mom’s story. It wasn’t Trina’s. Dad’s. Or even Aidan’s. It was my story and it always had been.
“Rowan?”
I stepped back from the mirror and studied my reflection one more time.
“Mrs. A., do you think there is a shawl or sweater than can go over this? I think I’ll get, um, cold without one. But,” I nodded to my reflection, “I change my mind. I love this dress.”
Without missing a beat, Mrs. Anderson threw a new garment over the door. I caught it and hung it up by the hangar. It was a sweater made of the softest, most luxurious fabric that had ever been between my fingers. It was pale ivory, almost white but not quite, and it shimmered, ever so slightly, under the overhead lights.
I pulled it on. The sleeves didn’t reach my wrists, but they weren’t supposed to. They came halfway between the crook of my elbow and my wrist bone; long enough to cover my scars but not so long as to be bulky over such a whimsical dress.
My Name Is Rowan: The Complete Rowan Slone Trilogy Page 17
