by Gayle Roper
“Mom, there’s nothing wrong with you physically.” Andi held her mother’s limp hand and stared in disbelief at this wan creature she’d become. “You’re giving up. Don’t do that! Don’t let them win. Don’t let him win.”
Mom gave a weak smile.
Andi took that for encouragement and leaned close so her words weren’t overheard. “We’ll leave here, you and me, Mom. We’ll go home. We’ll—”
Mom shook her head. “It’s too late for me.”
“Don’t say that.” Suppressed tears made Andi’s throat ache. “Please don’t say that!”
Mom patted her hand. “You were right about this place, Andi. It’s evil here. It’s about domination and control.” She sighed. “But I’m too tired to fight it any longer.” Her eyes fluttered closed as if keeping them open was too demanding a task.
“You have to fight!” How did you reach someone who was quietly but with determination committing suicide? “You have people who love you. Fight for them. For me!”
An expression of great distress contorted Mom’s face. “No one loves me, Andi. I lost your father the day we drove through the gate.”
The veracity of that statement made Andi want to hurt her father and hurt him badly. How dare he! She ran a gentle hand over her mother’s hair.
“I lost you that day too, honey.”
Andi kissed her mother’s pale cheek. “You didn’t lose me. You could never lose me. I love you. I always will.”
Mom kept on as if she hadn’t felt the kiss or heard Andi’s words of affection. “Becca might live in the dorm where I live, but she’s busy with her children and those of the others. I don’t see her very much. I think she avoids me. I embarrass her.”
“Oh, Mom.” Andi’s heart broke for the pain she heard, the pain of shattered dreams, of unexpected and undeserved rejection.
They sat for a few minutes, the only sound Mom’s labored breathing.
“She fits here.” Despair and sorrow limned Mom’s words.
“I don’t,” Andi said fiercely.
Again that weak smile. “You don’t, thank God. And I don’t either. I don’t do well with being alone.”
“With being betrayed, you mean. Being forsaken.”
Mom didn’t disagree.
“Get well, Mom, and we’ll figure out a way to escape. We’ll go back home.”
Mom shook her head. “No money. Your father gave everything we had to Michael—the money from the sale of the house, Becca’s and your college funds, his 401(k). We didn’t have lots, but what we did have is gone.”
Andi listened in horror, not to the recitation of the money issues, which she’d figured out long ago, but to the desperate little gasps her mother made as she spoke, small little panting huffs as though even talking was too much effort.
“You though.” Mom clasped Andi’s hand in both her pale, cold ones. Her nails were cyanotic, as were her lips. “You’re strong, honey. You can do it. You can escape.”
“We,” Andi said, tears now falling. “We can escape.”
Mom shook her head again and turned to the wall. Two days later she was dead.
Now Andi rested against the back of the closet. She’d escaped, and if she hadn’t tried to be so clever and taken what wasn’t hers, no one would care. They’d never miss her, and no one would come looking. They’d be glad to be rid of her.
But she had stolen, and she knew they’d never stop looking.
She tensed. She heard voices, faint, but at a time of day when everyone should be out of the building. She leaned out of the closet door so she could hear better.
Someone bumped against the front door, then spoke. She recognized Greg’s voice. With a feeling of alarm she understood that he was going to enter the apartment. Surely if she just hunkered down here in the closet, she’d be okay. Why would he look in a closet?
But what if he was showing the place to potential renters? They’d want to check out the closet. Alarm bloomed into pure panic.
Under the bed! She could hide there. No one looked under a bed. She stood, ready to charge across the room and dive into the dust and dirty socks Chaz had left there.
She’d taken one step when the door opened and Greg’s clear voice floated down the short hall.
“I know the clothing is all yours, Chaz. Get it and leave.”
“What? You don’t trust me?” Chaz’s whiny voice chilled her.
Greg gave a snort in answer, and a third voice said something. All she caught was the word bed, but it was more than enough. The rental company guy was here to reclaim his furniture. He’d take the bed apart, and if she was beneath it, there she’d be, vulnerable and exposed, as helpless as a beached whale, only skinnier.
The bathtub! No one could take that apart. It was attached to the walls.
She moved as quickly and quietly as she could, pushing the remote on the television to kill the picture as she passed. Greg wouldn’t hurt her, and he wouldn’t let Chaz hurt her, but he’d tell Clooney where she was. He was a straight arrow that way.
And Clooney would try something. She didn’t know what, but she knew he would. She’d seen the guns he had, and it scared her to think of him going after Michael or Harl. He might still see himself as a soldier, but he was old now. Michael would hurt him, maybe kill him. Or Harl would. And then where would she be? Back at the compound under house arrest was where—if she wasn’t dead too.
The shower curtain, an ugly opaque green with black mold growing halfway up it, had just settled in place when Chaz walked into the bedroom.
“Who closed the curtains?” he called. “It’s like nighttime in here.” She heard him pulling the cord that opened them and held her breath, waiting for him to say someone had been or was in the place.
“What?” Greg called from the living room. She heard his footfalls as he approached the bedroom.
“Nothing,” Chaz mumbled, and she wilted with relief.
She could hear the drawers being wrenched open and slammed shut. She heard the hangers rattle as he pulled his few shirts free. Would someone notice that the television was warm from use? It sat on top of the bureau, and maybe Chaz would feel the heat coming off it as he grabbed the few items he had there.
She shivered and tried to think about something besides her full bladder and her overwhelming fear.
“Okay, you’ve got it all,” Greg said. “Let’s go.”
“Don’t rush me,” Chaz answered, all smarmy and snarly. “I’ve gotta get my stuff in the bathroom.”
Andi slapped a hand over her mouth to hold in the cry of distress that struggled to break free. She stood frozen like a monkey-speak-no-evil caricature as Chaz yanked open the medicine cabinet so hard it slammed back against the wall. She heard him slide things across the glass shelves as he pulled them out.
What if he had stuff in the tub? She kept her shampoo and her body soap and scrubber in one of the corners of the tub at Clooney’s. She looked, and there sat a bottle of Pert on the back corner, the acid green bottle a sharp contrast to the dingy white of Chaz’s never-washed tub. She watched, trapped, as his skinny hand with the dirty, ragged nails reached for it. She watched, paralyzed, as he scanned the tub for other stuff and his gaze settled on her. His eyes widened, then narrowed.
“Well, well, well,” he said with soft menace. “Look who we have here.”
She put her finger to her lips and looked at him in despair, not expecting a rotten person like him to do as she wanted but unable to resist asking. Sometimes miracles happened, didn’t they? “Please,” she mouthed. “Don’t tell.”
His nasty grin made her think of a hungry wolf, and she knew she was the helpless lamb.
He surprised her when he backed away and walked out of the bathroom. “I got it all. Can I go now?”
Her knees gave way.
40
I felt trapped behind the register as I looked at my mother and her husband standing just inside the café door. I held my breath and hoped I was up to whatever happened.
>
I’d watched too many movies. There was no “Carrie, I can’t believe I’ve finally found you!” There were no eager hugs, no signs of recognition as Mom’s gaze brushed over me.
She did look at my sling and say, “Oh my, I bet that hurt.”
I managed a nod and the word, “Jetty,” but she was already scanning the room for her new best friend, Mary Prudence.
Luke smiled at me. “Breakfast for two,” he said. I couldn’t get my mind around the idea of his being my stepfather.
Of course he didn’t know me. Why would he? I doubted Mom had a picture of me at any age to show him. Even if she did, I looked different. Back then my hair, an unappealing dishwater blond that I hacked at every so often, was pulled straight back in a ponytail. Now it was a glossy highlighted blond cut shoulder length with feathered bangs that made my eyes pop, or so my beautician told me. I had developed a figure, lost the acne and the slouch, but most important, I’d learned confidence I hadn’t had as the kid everyone pitied.
I slid off my stool and picked up two menus. As I walked from behind the register counter, I had a chance to study Mom.
Her curls, a permanent I knew, were an artful chestnut, flipped back and up with the visual effect of a facelift. The puffiness that had been her chronic look courtesy of the booze was gone, replaced by a healthy glow. Her makeup was subtle and expertly applied, a far cry from the runny mascara and heavy eyeliner that used to cake and bleed under her eyes and run down her cheeks. She wore a collared red shirt under a textured royal blue sweater flecked with the red of her blouse. She wore a loose denim jacket over the sweater. Her black jeans looked comfortable, as did her white walking shoes.
In spite of myself I wondered about her story. How had she gone from my drunk and unfit mother to this sleek, sophisticated woman I resented with an antipathy that shook me? What right did she have to this man and his money and position after what she’d put Lindsay and me through?
God, I’ve got to tell You, seeing her all put together and happy stinks. What would our lives have been like if she’d been this way when we were little? You should have changed her back when we needed her!
Mom was busy waving at Mary P, who was behind the counter. Mary P smiled and waved back, then glanced at me with one eyebrow raised in that you-know-what-you-must-do look.
I ignored her as I led the way to an empty booth.
“Lou will be your server,” I told Luke, unable to look at my mother. I gave a little head bob and ran. I slid onto my stool behind the register, nervous sweat wrapping me like a damp beach towel.
Thankfully I didn’t have much free time to worry over them. I had customers to seat, customers to take money from, and customers who wanted to know what had happened to my arm. Then Luke was in front of me with their bill.
I forced a smile, took his platinum card, and ran it. Mom walked to Mary P while Luke waited for the machine to do its work. The women talked for a brief moment; then Mom wandered back to the register.
“I’ll wait outside,” she said to Luke. She gave me a little nod and stepped out into the gusting wind. She lifted her face and let it sweep over her.
I breathed a huge sigh. Safe once more.
“Your baked goods are exceptionally good.” Luke slipped his receipt into his wallet.
I smiled for the first time since they’d walked into the café. “My sister’s the baker. She is great, isn’t she?”
At that moment Lindsay walked out of the kitchen. “We’re going to have to drop the minestrone and the blueberry crumb from the lunch menu, Carrie. What with serving breakfast for Andi, I didn’t get a chance to make them.”
I stared at Lindsay. I hadn’t realized it before, but she was the image of a younger Mom, or rather Mom as she would have been if she’d been clean and sober. I didn’t look much like Mom. I’d always assumed I looked like my father, whoever he was. I might have thought I was a cuckoo in the nest if I hadn’t known Mom’d never have bothered to keep me if she didn’t have to. However there was no doubt about parentage with Linds.
Thinking about the uncanny resemblance and not thinking about what I said, I nodded. “Thanks for letting me know, Lindsay. I’ll take care of the menus.”
She nodded and headed back to her domain. “Oh, by the way, Greg is at the motel with Chaz, the sheriff, and the furniture rental guys. Thought you’d like to know instead of wondering where he was.” She grinned. “It’s SweetCilla on Twitter. She must spend all day glued to her window, reporting every little thing she sees. She tweets that Chaz looks evil.” With a ladylike hoot she disappeared through the kitchen door.
I turned and saw Luke staring after her.
“Lindsay?” he said.
With a sinking feeling, I wanted to deny it, but he’d heard me. I nodded.
He settled his gaze on me, and I thought I never wanted to be a hostile witness at any trial he was participating in. He skewered me with intense brown eyes. “And Carrie. Carrie and Lindsay Carter?”
I stared at him dumbly. With desperate hindsight I thought I should have changed our names when we came to Seaside, but Atlanta had seemed so far away. What were the odds we’d ever be found out?
“She looks just like her mother.” Luke jerked his head toward the kitchen. “Does she know?”
Again I wanted to deny understanding what he was talking about, but someone like him would just laugh and start investigating us. In no time he’d discover what he was already convinced of. “Lindsay doesn’t know.”
“You have to tell her.”
I nodded miserably. “I know.”
“And you have to tell Sue.”
I glanced at Mom through the picture window, her face still raised to the wind. I loved to do the same thing, to feel the power, to be invigorated.
I turned back to Luke. I had no idea what my expression revealed though I suspected panic. “You don’t understand,” I blurted. “You didn’t know her back then.”
His expression softened. “Ah, but I did.” He stretched out his right hand. “Hi. I’m Luke, and I’m an alcoholic.”
He knew her from AA? What was I supposed to say to that? Hi, I’m Carrie, and I’m bitter? Hi, I’m Carrie, and I’m having a hard time forgiving? Or, Hi, I’m Carrie, and I resent that she looks so good?
What I said was, “Don’t tell her. Please.”
“It’s not my place. That honor is yours.”
Honor. Now there was a laugh.
“Honor your father and your mother.”
The trouble with memorizing Scripture was that the verses came back to bite you at the most inopportune times.
“You have no idea how she mourns for you two.” Luke piled on the guilt. “I can’t tell you the number of nights I’ve held her as she’s cried over the mess she made of her time with you.”
What about the nights I quaked with fear and held Lindsay while my little sister cried herself to sleep? What about the nights I was sure some man was going to break through the feeble barricades to my bedroom and I’d have to use my knife? What about the horror of the night I’d actually knifed Bob?
Luke laughed without mirth. “I understand her grief because I lost my family before I sobered up. At least I get to see my kids every so often and can try to make them forget the father who made their lives a living hell for so many years.”
I had stepsiblings. What a strange thought. How many? Male? Female? And would they like to share horror stories?
He skewered me with another look, making me itch all over. “You know what you need to do.”
And he left.
41
Harl pulled open the door to Carrie’s Café. Carrie was behind the register.
“Hello,” she said with a smile. “Counter or booth?”
“A booth.” He glanced at the glass bakery shelves. “And I’ll have two eggs over easy and one of those sticky buns grilled.”
“Lou will be your server.” Carrie indicated her right arm in its cast. “I’m not doing much today.”
<
br /> “Whoa. What happened?”
“A jetty tripped me, and I broke my wrist.”
He shook his head, trying to look as if he cared. “Hope it’s better soon.”
He slid into the booth and, sure enough, some woman named Lou came to take his order. Where was the kid? She had worked the booths the other times he’d been in. He’d enjoyed seeing her panic when she spotted him.
“Where’s the girl who usually works here?” he asked Lou. “Is it her day off or something?”
“You mean Andi?” Lou gave him a tired smile. “She didn’t come in today.”
He nodded as Lou left to turn in his order. He had expected to find the kid here. It was time to stop tormenting her and get down to business, to corner her or follow her or do whatever was necessary to get her to tell him what he wanted to know.
She was so different from her sister. Becca was compliance personified. She bought Mike’s line completely, believed in him absolutely.
Harl laughed to himself. If she only knew.
Not that he’d ever enlighten her. He liked her fine just the way she was. She accepted that her job in life was to make him happy, and so she did everything she could to be the perfect little wife. Sometimes her attentions were a bit much, but with his three other wives to temper her time with him, it wasn’t all that bad.
But Andi. She was a chronic headache. She fought the system with everything in her, stirring up constant trouble in the girls’ dorm with her questions and complaints. Even her sessions with Marty, Mike’s first wife, didn’t stop her. If anything they agitated her further. The one place she didn’t cause trouble was the infirmary, where she proved herself a more-than-competent nurse.
If she weren’t such a thorn in his side, he might appreciate her grit. As it was, he’d be happy to send her to perdition. He and Mike used to laugh at the plight of whoever ended up being her husband. Some poor guy had escaped a fate worse than death when the kid ran away.
