by E. M. Moore
I tried to hold a picture in my mind of what would happen when I finally met her. Imagine the different scenarios that could play out. I’d had two days of driving to prepare for this after all and yet, I still had no idea what I was going to say.
As of right now, the best I had was, “Hi. I’m your niece, Sarah.” It wasn’t much, but it would have to do.
Now that I was so close, I could let myself believe that this was actually going to happen. My hands shook. Insane thought after insane thought swirled around inside as if I sailed the deep, dark waters of the Atlantic in a rowboat minus the motion sickness pills.
Finally, the GPS’s tinny, indifferent voice announced, “You have reached your destination.” I managed to turn into the short, circular driveway, grip stumbling along the wheel.
The house rose up like a statue in front of me. Big, foreign, a secluded shadow in a clump of old maples. The roofs peaked at different heights and different angles, and the windows, some oval, some rectangular, were adorned with intricate woodwork. The house may have been beautiful a hundred, maybe even fifty years ago, but even in the dark, I could see cracked white paint and broken molding.
One of the first floor windows held the only sign of life. Streams of different colors played out on the paned glass, deep blues and subdued reds. While I watched, a bright white flashed erratically before dimming to black. I crouched over the wheel to get a better look. An old TV set, the kind framed in wood, sat along the far wall of the room.
“Well, we’re here,” I said. We. If I wasn’t so tired and nervous, I might’ve laughed. It wasn’t as if someone else had cared enough to make the journey with me.
It didn’t matter all that much, though. I was used to being on my own.
The clock in the dash read 10:30. I cringed. I didn’t know a lot about old people, but 10:30 seemed a little late on a regular day. It was most definitely late on a meet-your-great-niece-for-the-first-time day.
Time had gone by like warp speed this afternoon. Being on the road was like being in another dimension. There were never enough minutes for the miles I put in between here and home and definitely not enough miles between Mom and me.
My skin pricked. I wouldn’t enjoy what I had to do next. Well, maybe a little. A smile crept onto my face, but it quickly vanished.
I thrummed my fingers against my thigh trying to think of an out. Then, after taking a long look over at the passenger seat and the brown leather book—my father’s brown leather book——lying there, I groaned. “Don’t. Wimp. Out. Now.”
Finally, I reached out and hit the call button on the steering wheel. It beeped, waiting for direction. “Call Mom.”
The car’s Bluetooth dialed and then rang. Loud music and the cackle of Mom’s exaggerated laughter belted from the speakers. From experience, I knew the higher her laugh, the more she wanted to impress. And what, she had been single for almost two weeks now? So yeah, it was time.
“Hel-lo,” Mom shouted, voice dripping with alcohol. “What’s up girlfriend?”
Nine-hundred miles between us and I was still embarrassed. Who called their daughter girlfriend? “I asked you not to call me that.”
“What-ever,” she crooned.
A male’s husky laugh erupted over the speaker and mingled with hers.
I couldn’t resist an eye roll, though it always got a better reaction when I was actually in the same vicinity as my mother. Of course, I did get pleasure out of knowing I got away with one without hearing, ‘You’d better roll those eyes right back to the beginning.’
“You realize it’s Tuesday, right?” I asked.
“Of course I know it’s Tuesday. Fat Tuesday! We’re at the Clamshell!”
The speaker bounced the shrill voice around the interior of the car before giggles once again took over. I careened my head. There was no getting away. Three states in between us and I was still trapped.
Two nights ago, the same ensnared feeling had choked me. Mom came home after a late night out, not caring I already lay in bed asleep. Could have been the same guy she flirted with tonight, but my educated guess—and I was usually right—she’d come home with a totally different guy that evening. They probably dressed the same, had the same gelled hair and roughly the same amount of money in savings, but they were different. Different color hair. Different color eyes. Different name. Different opinions on Cici having a grown, teenage daughter.
Unrestrained laughter—and a male’s to match—strangled me through the floorboards at two in the morning. I freaking lost it. I threw the sheets back, marched across the hall to my mother’s room, and started tearing at things.
The dresser first. When finished, I smiled down at a rainbow of undergarments littering the four-poster bed. Then, I moved to the closet. By the time I was done, every single one of her outfits was strewn over the floor. Or the bed. Or her dresser.
On the way back to my room, an old shoebox I’d flung to the opposite side of the room lay in my way. It was open, some of the contents spilling out among camis and blouses. The corner of a brown leather book caught my attention. I picked it up, expecting it to be Cici’s.
It wasn’t.
I was disappointed at first; thinking posting her diary all over Facebook would be more than a little awesome, but what I found meant more than that. I decided then that I’d had enough.
Done. Finito. The end.
Even now, with all this physical distance between us, she still played the same old games. Except I held all the ammunition this time.
Electricity burned through me—a mash of excitement and anger. “Well, I’m here, Mom.”
“Here? The Clamshell? Where are you? We’ll come say hey.”
Yeah. Right. Sometimes my mother forgot I was only seventeen. “No. Mom, I’m in Adams.” I paused, waiting for the name to resonate. Waiting for a tiny, little light bulb to go off in her head. Apparently, the alcohol numbed her memories along with her speaking ability because she didn’t say anything. So I said, “Virginia. Adams, Virginia.”
“You’re where? You’re breaking up.” Other than the throbbing of the house music behind Mom’s slurring, the sound was like crystal. Clear enough to hear her whisper, “One sec,” to Mr. Husky Voice.
I sighed, realizing this conversation headed nowhere. As usual. I didn’t know why I expected any different. Boredom had already moved into Cici’s brain and set up shop. I pictured her cozying up next to this guy on one of the brown leather couches at The Clamshell, covering up the speaker on her cell and promising to get rid of her annoying daughter as soon as possible. She wanted to get back to her guy friend, as she always called them. Glad to know I was missed.
“I’m at Rose McCallister’s house,” I said, speaking slow, deliberate.
“Who’s that? Are you okay? Do you need a ride?”
I lost her already. She wasn’t even listening anymore. “Not unless you want to come nine-hundred miles to pick me up. Besides, you already know who Rose is.”
Cici’s voice sobered in an instant. “Huh? Where are you again?”
“I found Dad’s journal.”
She made the annoyed guttural sound she always did when she had to “deal” with me. “Can this wait until we get home?”
“It’ll be pretty hard to do that since I’m not coming home.”
“Huh? Sarah, you’re not making any sense. I’ll be home in a little while.” She sighed. “Listen, I’ll stop by the Bucks, get you a mocha-chino, and then we’ll sit out on the patio and have a nice chat.”
There it was. The mom-of-the-year voice.
I shook my head. “It’s too late for that. You lied to me. You’ve been lying to me.”
The phone muffled. It sounded like Cici said, “Teenagers…” to her guy friend. Teenagers, like the word stank of garbage. Like that one word encapsulated our entire relationship.
The thump, thump of the bass quieted and an echo of a pair of heels bouncing off walls sounded in my ear. I took a deep breath and started in again. “O
ut of all those times I asked you about Dad, you lied. You lied to me, Mom.” I blinked away the heat from behind my eyes and pushed a level breath from my lungs. “I found his journal in your closet.”
“Here we go again.” Mom giggled. “You’re something else, you know that? You barely even knew him and you like him better than me.”
My hands curled to fists. “Give me a reason not to. But besides, this isn’t about you. It’s not always about you.” I sucked in air. Why did it always have to be so hard with her? “Have you even noticed I’ve been gone for two days? Or have you and Romeo been pretty tied up with each other?”
“You watch your mouth,” Cici snapped. A faucet turned on and I heard the splash of the water hit the sink. After a few moments, it was silent again. “Let’s just both calm down. I will talk to you about this when I get home.”
Again, I spoke slow, making it easy for her to understand in case she really was intoxicated. “I’m not home now and I’m not coming home later either.”
“Then I’ll pick you up at Jaime’s.” Cici’s voice tinged in amusement. “I’ll drag you out of there kicking and screaming if I have to.”
“I’m not at Jaime’s. Aren’t you listening? I’m not even in Florida anymore.”
“Where are you?”
I already told you. I’m at Dad’s aunt’s house.”
I smacked the End button with my palm. The Bluetooth beeped…beeped…beeped. Silence.
Rose had answered the door in a bathrobe and wire curlers. Pink needle-like toothpicks stuck out from her hair in all directions and her eyes were practically crossed with sleep.
She wore the same thing now, sitting across from me at a dining room table, except her dark eyes stood out, more lucid, clear. My art teacher in tenth grade said eyes were reflections of the soul. She made our class draw eyes over and over. According to her, a face was never completely finished without the perfect pair of eyes. First, we drew in pencil, then in coal, and last in watercolor. Eyes were always hard for me. I lost points for drawing them with the corners turned down. For some reason, I could never convey happiness in them.
Ever so slightly, Aunt Rose’s eyes had turned from cloudy to mirrors. I tried not to talk as the shock wore off. She hadn’t known I existed either.
I suspected as much.
Steam from two cups of coffee curled up between us, carrying the smell of ripe, bitter coffee beans. I’d barely touched mine, choosing instead to peek around the house from where I sat. The inside of the house was in better shape than the outside. It was still old, but it was more like antique old and not rundown old.
Finally, my great aunt speared the silence. “Well, I need to call your mother.”
“What? Why? I am who I say I am.” I motioned toward my bags still sitting in the foyer. “I brought my birth certificate. You can see it."
“No need. I’m not doubting you’re David’s. Anyone who knew him can tell you’re his daughter.” She patted the rollers on her head. “You have the same color brown in your hair. And your hazel eyes. Do they——?” Rose paused and cleared her throat. “Do they change—?”
“—change to amber in the sunlight? Yes.” I smiled. “My mom let that slip once.”
Rose frowned. “I’m going to have to call her, Sarah.” She stumbled over my name, testing it on her tongue and then smiled somewhat sheepishly.
She was nice. Straightforward, but nice. I was a fan of people who told the truth.
“Could you not do that?” I winced. “She’s kinda melodramatic."
Rose’s eyebrow peaked. “Seems like you take right after her, showing up here late at night without even a phone call.”
Though she didn’t ask a question, the need to answer her, to prove I was nothing like my mom, pushed forward. “It was a last-minute decision. I was just so mad she didn’t tell me I had any other family. Besides,” I said, putting on my most trusting face. “I called her when I got here.”
Rose sipped her coffee, face immeasurable. “I have a few things to say to her myself so I’m calling her. I haven’t spoken to her in seventeen years. I think it's about time.” She handed over a napkin and pen that lay on the table. “Here. Write down the number.”
Rose tapped the side of her coffee cup with her fingertip. I thought about writing down the wrong number briefly. Very briefly.
“You can stay here for tonight. Upstairs, to the right, first door on the left. You look like you could sleep for days. I’ll call your mom tonight and we’ll talk about it in the morning.”
I started to get up, then sat back down again. I hadn’t given much thought to what would happen after I showed up, but there was one thing I desperately wanted to know. “Why do you think they never told you about me?”
Rose took a deep, steady breath before answering. “With your mother…” She paused, looking into my eyes. I wasn’t sure what she saw, but she shook her head. "Never mind. I said we’d talk about it in the morning, we’ll talk about it in the morning.” She raised her hand and shooed me away, hurrying me toward my bags.
Not about to test her hospitality, I left the mug there, praying she’d never offer me her bitter coffee again and practically ran back to the foyer to grab my luggage and haul it up the stairs. I couldn’t believe I was actually at my father's aunt’s house. On the way up to the room, I envisioned long, dizzying chats about my dad and hours spent poring over pictures. Trips to his high school, favorite hangouts, the grocery store. Anywhere my father went, I wanted to go too. If she wanted to call my mom and sleep on it first, then I guess I'd have to be okay with that.
The room to the right, first door on the left was large and girly with lace everywhere. It was as if a princess vomited in every corner. So different from the dark blues and harsh steel colors Mom decorated our house with back home. But that didn’t matter at the moment. I had to get down to business.
I eyed the door and then shut it with a bang on purpose, positive my aunt could hear it from downstairs. Unless she was deaf of course.
The clock on the nightstand read 11:33. I busied myself for a few minutes, taking out pajamas and laying them on the bed. One of the doors in the room led to a bathroom so I checked myself in the mirror. It wasn’t pretty. I rubbed off some of the smeared eye makeup and ran a brush through my hair.
No wonder why Rose wanted to talk to my mom. I must’ve looked like a complete lunatic showing up at her house so late at night. She probably wanted to make sure I wasn’t on any crazy meds before she officially let me stay.
The clock now read 11:35. Satisfied, I went back to the hallway door and eased it open, listening. My aunt’s voice drifted up the stairs, but not quite clear enough for me to hear what she said. I tiptoed to the staircase and started down.
About halfway, I could finally make out Rose’s side of the conversation. The older woman spoke in the same commanding tone she’d took with me, “You don't think I should have known about a niece? My only family. After David died, I didn’t have anybody.”
A long pause ensued where only the sounds of creaking footsteps and sighs made their way up the staircase. At least I wasn’t the only one who found my mother annoying. Maybe Rose rolled her eyes, too. Maybe it was just something about my mom that made people want to roll their eyes at her.
“I’m not sure I will send her home. She wants to stay.” Another pause. “She’s old enough to make her own decisions.”
I smiled. This. Was. Awesome. I liked the way this woman thought.
“No. She’s not going home tonight. I already sent her up to a room and I’m going back to bed now, too. Sarah will call you in the morning."
The phone clicked off and Rose’s shadow moved into the foyer. I turned, drowning a surprised cry threatening to squeak out, and ran back up the rest of the stairs trying to make as little noise as possible.
Once behind the bedroom door, I flung myself onto the rose-flowered quilt. Aunt Rose hung up on my mother. She actually hung up on my mother.
A huge smil
e took over my face.
That was my idea of family. A no-nonsense bad ass.
You can purchase Book 1 here: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B01HOC4X72
Table of Contents
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
