Stealing Heaven

by Elizabeth Scott

  “Okay,” Allison says, puzzled-sounding. She calls out, “Bye, Sydney!” as I’m heading down the driveway. I don’t turn around. It’s not me she’s calling. It’s just a name, a name belonging to someone she thinks she knows. Someone who doesn’t really exist.

  Mom isn’t back when I get home. I cry in the shower anyway, habit. Mom doesn’t like it when I cry. When I was a kid she’d look at me, bewildered and then impatient if I didn’t stop. Older, and she’d ask me why I was crying, listen to me sob out an explanation, and then say, “But baby, what does crying do? What does it change?”

  “I cried over your father,” she told me two days after I’d woken up from having sex with Roger and heard him and Mom out in the hall. I hadn’t spoken to her since I’d said “Stop,” and when I looked over at her she’d looked nervous. Unsure.

  I’d always known I was a planet orbiting her bright star and that I was lucky she wanted me with her, that she’d kept me by her side. I’d always thought of her in terms of how much I loved her. I’d always been afraid that maybe she didn’t love me.

  But she did. She does. I saw that then. And so I said, “Really?”

  “Yeah,” she said. “I really…I loved him. He was my world and then he was gone and—” Her voice cracked a little and she cleared her throat. “But you know what? No one is everything, baby. Promise me you’ll remember that. I don’t want—” She reached out, ran a hand down my hair. “I don’t want that for you, you understand me? I want you to always remember what you can believe in, remember that it’s what—”

  “What you can hold in your hands,” I said, and watched her nod. When she did, I realized I hadn’t cried over Roger. I realized I wasn’t going to. I realized Mom had done what she did because she thought she was protecting me. She’d seen what I felt for Roger and saw what I couldn’t, saw him for the jerk he was and tried as best she could, in the ways she knew how, to let me see it too and make sure I ended up in one piece. She didn’t want me to be where she’d been, in the place where you cried and meant it.

  What she’d done was awful, but she hadn’t done it to hurt me. I’d hurt myself and she’d let me see that I could, showed me that I always had to be careful. And I have been since then. I have been careful, so careful. Too careful, I know Mom thinks, but she’s wrong.

  I haven’t been careful enough because I stand in the shower and cry for what I’ve never had and never will. A real home. Things I can truly call my own and keep forever. Friends. I am in the place where you cry and mean it.

  It sucks.

  13

  Mom gets back late, very late, and she isn’t alone. I hear footsteps crossing through the house with hers.

  “I don’t usually do this,” Mom says, a giddy note in her voice that, if I didn’t know better, I would think is real. She starts to say something else but then coughs. I wish she’d just go to the doctor already. I’ll get her some cough syrup tomorrow. Maybe that will help.

  Whoever she’s with mumbles something in reply, voice low and drunken-sounding, “…sure your roommate isn’t home?”

  Roommate? Must be someone recently divorced and gun-shy about being with someone who has kids, even one who is eighteen. I’ll have to remember, if he’s still around in the morning, to call Mom—damn, what’s her name again? Miranda, that’s it. Miranda.

  “No, no, she isn’t,” Mom says. “It’s just you and me, Harold.”

  Harold. Of course. He mumbles something else and Mom laughs the way she does when someone says something she’s heard a million times before but is acting like it’s the first time.

  “I can’t thank you enough for everything you’ve done for me,” she says. “You’re…perfect. You’re so perfect.”

  I roll my eyes. How could anyone fall for that?

  Harold does, apparently, because he laughs, pleased-sounding, and then there are other noises. I pull my pillow over my head.

  When I get up the next morning Mom is downstairs fiddling with the coffeemaker and Harold is gone.

  “Hey, Miranda,” I say anyway. “I just wanted to let you know my half of the rent is going to be real late this month. That’s not a problem, right?”

  “Funny,” she says, and grins at me. “His third divorce was finalized a month ago. You would not believe what I had to do to get that man to take me to dinner.”

  “I can imagine,” I say, and launch into an imitation of her voice last night. “‘You’re…perfect. You’re so perfect.’”

  “I know, I know. But people hear and see what they want to, baby. You know that. And did you hear him afterward? I had to—”

  “Mom, please. I heard more than enough last night.”

  She rolls her eyes and then makes a face at the coffeemaker. “Baby, I can’t get this to work. Will you fix me a cup of coffee? Please?”

  I nod.

  “I got us a house,” she says, grinning. “We can move in this afternoon. And then,” she says, getting up and coming over to me, sliding one arm around my shoulders, “things will finally start to happen.”

  I finish putting water in the coffeemaker and turn it on.

  “Isn’t that good?” she says, squeezing my arm gently, and I look at her. She’s watching me intently. I force a smile.

  “It’s great. You want me to make you some toast or something?”

  We’re settled into the new house by midafternoon. It’s past the public beach and the small houses that dot it, lies at the end of a dirt road by an inlet.

  I love the house. From the moment we see it, I love it. It’s small and low to the ground, brown wood and stone surrounded by rocks and trees. It’s two stories and only five rooms, a living room and kitchen/dining room on the first floor, two bedrooms and a bath on the second. It’s nothing special, but you can tell people live here. Mom doesn’t like that at all, grimaces over the knickknacks the owners have left behind, framed pictures of boats and dogs and yellowing images that must be deceased relatives. She says the furniture, just about all of which is made of the same dark wood as the house, is “a disaster.”

  “Who thinks something like this”—she points at a chair, rough-hewn and angled to look out a bank of windows in the living room—“needs a pillow covered with tiny blue flowers? I’m afraid to even look in the bedrooms.”

  “At least you got a good deal on it,” I say, and she sighs, drops her bag on the floor.

  “At least it won’t be for very long. Just looking around this place makes me want a stiff drink. In fact, I’m going to go get one. You want to come?”

  I shake my head. When she’s gone I pick up one of the pictures and pretend I know it, invent a world where I look out a window and know the view is something I can see for as long as I want, for forever if I choose.

  I wake up really early the next morning because Mom’s coughing yet again. She sounds terrible. I go check on her, see if she’s awake, but of course she’s still asleep. I figure I’ll go ahead and get up, make her coffee. It turns out we’re out of coffee and pretty much everything else, so I get dressed and head into West Hill.

  In the grocery store I grab food for me and coffee for Mom, then head over to the aisle lined with cold remedies. I know she won’t go see a doctor. In fact, I’m not sure Mom has ever been. I don’t remember any visits.

  I’ve only ever been twice—once when I got poison ivy so bad my eyes swelled shut (the woods in parts of Connecticut are a bitch) and once to have my arm stitched up after that stupid poodle bit it. We had to drive a hundred miles before Mom felt it was safe enough to stop, and I’d lost so much blood that all I remember is waking up and seeing a nice even row of stitches wrapping across my wrist and part way up my arm. The scar was hideously obvious for years, a deep bruised red, but it’s faded now, a pale line racing across my skin.

  I didn’t think it would be difficult to buy cough syrup, but then I didn’t realize there were about forty different kinds. Cough suppressant. Cough expectorant. Six-hour, eight-hour, all-day.

  “
Hortense, you sick?”

  I look over, see Greg standing there dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, his cop shirt open over it. His last name is apparently Tollver. I’m happy to see him. Not a good sign.

  “Stop calling me that.”

  “What else am I supposed to call you?”

  I ignore him and pick up another bottle. Bubblegum flavored? I can just imagine what Mom would say to that. I put it back down.

  “Seriously, Hortense, are you sick?”

  I gesture at his “outfit” and pick up another bottle. “They let you go to work dressed like that?”

  “No, they let me leave work dressed like this, Hortense. Trust me, you don’t want that kind.”

  When I look over at him again he’s grinning, and I can tell he’s totally aware of how much I hate the stupid name he’s given me. I look at the bottle I’m holding. It’s “zany grape!” flavored and is actually for children. I put it in my cart. “Shows how much you know.”

  “Hortense,” he says, and I can actually hear my teeth grinding together, “while you seem like a zany grape kind of girl, I doubt even you want a bottle that’s leaking.” He reaches over and takes it out of the cart. Purple goo is everywhere.

  “Damn.”

  “How about this, Hortense?” He holds up a bottle of ordinary enough looking cough syrup. “It’s even on sale this week, Hortense.”

  That’s it. I can’t stand that stupid name. “Danielle,” I say, and yank the bottle out of his hand. “And it isn’t on sale, you jackass. The one next to it is.”

  “Really?” he says, and looks closer at the shelf. “You’re right. Sorry about that. So…Danielle, huh? You know, you kind of look like a Danielle.”

  Crap. Crap, crap, crap. My name isn’t supposed to be shared with anyone, ever. And especially not with a cop. Now what do I do? Say it’s not my real name? No, that would be stupid. And suspicious. Better to act like it’s not a big deal. “You also thought I look like a Hortense.”

  “Nah. Nobody looks like a Hortense. Well, maybe she does.” He points at a woman in a lime green jogging suit. “But you look like a Danielle. Or—” He tilts his head a little to one side. “A Dani.”

  I stare at him, forgetting about the cough syrup and my monumental screwup for a moment. I have always thought of myself as a Dani. Or, well, I’ve wanted to be. If I ever became the kind of person who could run around using my real name. Danielle seems so not me, is someone who lives in a house with a white ruffled bed and a cat named Fluffy.

  But Dani, that seems like someone I could be. Dani would have an apartment with a comfy sofa. She’d have a dog and a job and all that normal life stuff.

  “I knew I’d figure it out eventually,” he says, and smiles. I almost—almost—start to smile back because it’s nice to know I’m not the only person who thinks I could be a Dani, and because his smile makes me want to smile too, but then I catch a glimpse of a patch on his sleeve, one that spells out p-o-l-i-c-e.

  “You haven’t figured out anything except how to be annoying.”

  “See, I’m ignoring that because I know you don’t really mean it.”

  “You definitely haven’t figured out mind reading.”

  He laughs. “That’s probably true. So, how’s your mom doing?”

  “What?” I’m stunned for a second and then remember that I mentioned her the other day. First Mom, now my name. This keeps getting worse and worse.

  “Well, you seem fine. Annoyed, but fine. So I figure…” He gestures at the cough syrup.

  “Yeah, it’s for her.” I try and think of something else to say, something that will change the subject and last just long enough for me to leave without looking like I’m trying to leave. “What are you doing here?”

  “I love hanging out in grocery stores with paranoid women.”

  I stare at him. He laughs again and says, “I’m just following up on something. We got a call from someone at a party—the one you were at, actually—claiming one of the catering crew was taking purses out of the coat-check room. The guy works here, so I stopped by to see when he’s working again.”

  “Taking purses? Really?” Mom always likes to know if anyone else is working the area.

  He looks at me, eyebrows raised, and I clear my throat. “I mean, I didn’t realize that crime was a…thing around here.”

  “Once in a while.” He runs a hand through his hair, making it stick up even more than it already is. “I don’t suppose you saw anything at the party.”

  “Like what?”

  He grins. “Like what we were just talking about. The coat-check room, remember?”

  “Why would I be hanging around there?” I say. “It was a party. I was having fun. Besides, if someone was taking purses, all they’d get would be lipsticks and maybe a couple of compacts—nothing worth the time. If anyone was working the coatroom, chances are they were looking for keys.”

  “Keys? But…oh shit. Keys! Of course.”

  “Exactly,” I say. “And if they were dumb enough to be seen, it’s probably house keys and they were probably stupid enough to have them copied nearby. If they were smart, they’d have just taken car keys from the valet stand, copied them, and then put them back, because if you snatched the keys for say, five cars, and then spread stealing them out over a couple of weeks to avoid paperwork for the same kind of crime crossing anyone’s desk—well, given the kind of cars around Heaven, you could make a lot of…”

  I trail off because he’s staring wide-eyed at me. Why did I just say everything I did? Why? What is it about him that makes me so…well, stupid? “I mean, I’m just saying. It’s a theory.”

  “It’s actually a really good one.”

  “Um. Thanks.” The only thing I am actually thankful for right now—and believe me, it’s a small thing—is that Mom isn’t here because if she was…I don’t even want to think about how mad she’d be. I might as well have just taped a sign to my head that says, “Hi! I’m a criminal! Ask me how you can be one too!”

  “So, what are you doing today?”

  “What?” Why does he want to know that?

  “Today,” he says. “What are you doing?”

  “Well, I’m, uh, going home and”—I point at the cart—“I’ll put the groceries away, make Mom take some cough syrup. Probably make a peanut butter sandwich and…um. Well, eat it.”

  He grins at me. “Have you ever been to Edge Island?”

  “Edge Island?” Why is he asking me about an island?

  “Yeah. It’s not that far away—just an hour or so on the ferry. I was thinking that maybe, since you’ve only got the sandwich-making plans and all, you might want to go.”

  I look at him. He looks…kind of nervous. I don’t get it. “You want me to go to an island with you?”

  “Is this going to turn into a big extended question thing? I mean, if I say, ‘Yeah, with me,’ will you say, ‘What do you mean by “with me”?’”

  “Why would it turn into a question thing?”

  He grins at me. “I don’t know. Why would it?”

  That grin again. I wish…

  Wait a minute. “Are you trying to ask me out?”

  “At any point during any conversation we’ll have is there a chance that you won’t reply to everything I say with questions?”

  “So you weren’t trying to ask me out?”

  “I want you to know you’re doing wonders for my self-esteem here. Which means, before you ask another question, yes, I was. I mean, I am.”

  “Really?” No one’s ever asked me out before. Hit on me, sure. Groped me, absolutely. But asked me for a date? Never.

  “What else would I be doing? See, now you’ve got me doing it too.”

  “What would you have done if I said yes?” I shouldn’t be doing this, I know, but I really want to hear his answer.

  “Probably asked you to repeat yourself in the form of a question since it’d be the only way I could be sure of your answer. And look, I really am sorry. I didn’t mean to
make you uncomfortable or anything.”

  “So you don’t want to go?”

  “Are you saying you do?”

  “What if I am?”

  “You know, I don’t have a question to reply with here, so I guess if you’re saying ‘yes’ in your own special way, we could meet back here—well, not here, in the middle of the store where people are walking by and looking at us but not saying hello—yes, I’m talking about you, Mrs. Reynolds, how are you?—but in the parking lot. In like an hour?”

  “An hour.” He wants to go out with me!

  “Yeah. So you can drive home and put your”—he looks into the cart—“genuine artificial cheddar flavor soy protein snack crackers away. And pass out cough syrup.”

  “It doesn’t really say genuine artificial cheddar flavor.”

  “It does.” He points at the bag. “So I’ll see you? In like an hour?”

  “So we can take a ferry ride to an island?”

  “Well, yeah,” he says. “But we could also, I don’t know, talk or something.”

  “Sure, I’ll meet you in an hour,” I tell him, heart pounding because I shouldn’t do this but I want to.

  And because I’m going to.

  14

  I go home and put everything away. Mom comes downstairs, stops in the living room, and stands staring at me, one hand resting on the sofa.

  “What’s up?” I ask.

  “You look a little flushed. Are you feeling okay?”

  “Yeah. I’m going out for a while, but I’ll take a cab, leave the car here.”

  “No, take the car. I’m going to stay in today. This stupid cold…” She shakes her head. “It’s disgusting. I can hear stuff sloshing around when I breathe.”

  “When you breathe?”

  “Yes. You want me to describe my phlegm to you or something?”

  “Oh yes, please. Look, if you’ve got stuff in there, maybe it’s the kind of thing that a doctor—”