The Promise

by River Laurent

  The swing is gone, but my treehouse is still there, the rusty corrugated roof nearly completely hidden by leaves and overgrown ivy. The wind blows and I can hear the shutters squeaking on their hinges. Some of the planks of ladder are broken and it swings forlornly in the wind. I can still remember the smell of cheese in the mouse traps. Dad and I never caught any. They were too clever. Somehow, they had found a way to steal the cheese without triggering the cage door.

  Once it was my secret hideaway.

  A place where no one could see me.

  No one could find me.

  No one, but Cole.

  Taylor

  At six years of age

  “Daddy, what if Mommy wakes up in the box and we’ve buried it?”

  “She won’t wake up, honey.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because she’s gone. She’s left her body and gone to heaven.”

  “Won’t Mommy ever come back?” I ask, confused and worried.

  “No, honey.”

  I look at Daddy curiously. “Why not? Doesn’t she want to be with us?”

  He makes a strange sound in his throat. It sounds like a sob. Then he takes a deep breath and smiles at me. “She does. More than anything in the world she wanted to be with us, but God wanted her back. So she’s an angel now. She lives in heaven.”

  “She does?”

  He presses his lips together and nods.

  I think about it. “Can we go and visit her?”

  His throat moves.

  “Can we, Daddy?”

  “No, honey, we can’t,” he says finally, and hugs me so tight I can’t even breathe.

  “Daddy, you’re choking me,” I gasp.

  He lets go of me instantly. “Sorry, honey.”

  “Daddy?”

  “Yes.” His voice is gentle.

  “But I really, really miss Mommy.”

  “It is okay to miss Mommy, I’ll miss Mommy too, a lot, but we shouldn’t be sad she’s gone, because she’s in a better place. A much, much better place. Remember how much pain she was in?”

  I think of her face, so white it was almost the color of the pillow case. “Yes.”

  “Well, she’s not in pain anymore.”

  I nod slowly. “That’s good. I didn’t like it when Mommy was in pain.”

  “Neither did I,” he says softly.

  “Daddy. Can I write a letter to Mommy?”

  “Yeah, you can write a letter to Mommy,” he says with a heavy sigh. “But let’s go downstairs first. All our friends are waiting for us.”

  When we go downstairs our house is full of people. They stare at me and give me funny looks while muttering and whispering together. I hear snatches of their conversation.

  “She’s just six years old. Poor mite.”

  “Wonderful woman.”

  “It’s for the best. She was suffering, poor woman.”

  “So sad,” the women whisper to Daddy. Men clap his back and tell him how sorry they are. People who I’ve never met try to hug me. I don’t want to be hugged by them so I slip away and run out through the back door. I walk along the side of our house and climb up the magnolia tree. My hands and legs are so strong my father says I’m almost like a monkey.

  Standing against the back wall of my treehouse, I slide down to the floor and extend my legs to their full length. My white tights are clean and smudge free and my knee-length dress with its velvet bow makes me feel like a princess, but my shoes are hot and they squish my feet. Daddy made me wear them because they are Mommy’s favorite, but what’s the point if she’s gone to heaven and will never be coming back.

  Actually, I’ve already started to miss her a lot.

  From the corner of my eyes I can see my Barbie sitting on the floor where I left her two days ago. It’s been many days since I changed her clothes or combed her hair. She won’t like it. We both have the same hair color but hers is long and mine is shorter. I reach for my Princess crown and put it on my head. Now my outfit is complete. I turn my head and look at the mirror on the wall that Daddy hung up for me.

  My face looks white. I don’t know why, but it feels as if something inside me is broken. I think I just want Mommy to come back. I’m very worried about her ever since I saw her sleeping in the box. I don’t understand how she will get to heaven from inside the box. Will she be all alone? I hope Daddy is wrong. I hope she comes back soon. Tears gather in my eyes and roll down my face. I sniff and wipe them away with the backs of my hands. I want to be brave just in case Mommy is watching from heaven.

  “Hi,” I hear from the entrance of my treehouse.

  I whip my head around half in fear and half in shock, and spring to my feet, my shiny black shoes clanking on the floor. The intruder has popped his head inside my doorway. Nobody ever comes up here, let alone a dark-haired, hazel-eyed boy! “You can’t come in here. Boys aren’t allowed,” I yell.

  “I’m sorry about your mom,” he says calmly.

  “You don’t have to be sorry. My mom is in a better place. She’s an angel now,” I explain. I don’t expect him to understand. His mommy is probably still on earth.

  “Can I come in?” he asks.

  I crinkle my nose and squint my eyes at him. Boys have cooties, but he looks pretty clean…

  “I brought you a flower,” he says softly.

  He brought me a flower, so he might not have cooties. “All right. Just for a minute.”

  He pulls himself into the treehouse, bringing the flower into view. “I saw you come up here. My mom said girls like flowers when they’re sad.”

  “I’m not sad,” I hiss, sitting back on the floor.

  I watch him fill the doorway, then take a few steps forward. “Sometimes you don’t have to cry to be sad,” he says, sitting beside me. He stretches his legs out the same as me. His are much longer than mine.

  I take the daisy from him. The flower is as big as my hand. “What’s your name?”

  “Cole,” he says.

  “I’m Taylor Rose.”

  “I know. Your dad works for my dad,” he explains. “I live in the big house at the top of the hill.”

  Everyone knows about the house at the top of the hill. The most famous family in town lives in the house.

  “Are you famous too?”

  Cole turns his face towards me. He has very long eyelashes for a boy. “I’m not famous. I think we’re just rich. At least, I’ve heard people say that we’re rich.”

  “Oh,” I say, disappointed. I stare into the face of the flower. I don’t know what it means to be rich, but it would be cool if Cole were famous. I want to be famous. I’ve always wanted to be famous. My bedroom is filled with posters of Brittany Spears and other famous celebrities.

  “Do you like the flower?” he asks me with a broad smile. Cole is cute and I want to be his friend.

  “It’s really pretty. Thank you.”

  “How come I don’t see you at school?”

  “I don’t know. I’m in first grade.”

  He grins. “I’m not.”

  “You play with nerf guns?” Cole asks, looking at my stack of nerf guns. “I thought little girls played with dolls and stuff.”

  “I like baby dolls, but Nerf guns are fun. I have a target too, see?” I say, walking to the side of the room and hanging it on the wall.

  I don’t think about mommy as we play with the Nerf guns. I’m good at shooting, so I almost beat Cole, but he’s better. We continue to talk until his parents yell for him. He says goodbye. After he leaves I hold the flower in my hands and smell it. It has no scent. I never had a favorite flower before, but I think daisies are my favorite flower now.

  Taylor

  Present Day

  I shake myself out of my daydream. That was another lifetime. Nothing remains of that world. Suddenly, I am filled with curiosity to know what the inside of my treehouse looks like now. Probably the home of squirrels or something.

  Later I will go and explore it.

  I slip my shoe
s off, take the key from under the flower pot, and open the front door. Inside it is dim and full of still blue shadows.

  I close the door quietly, lean against it and breathe in the air. It smells stale and musty, with a strong chemical odor of medicine underneath it. My step-mother lived here alone for the last eight years. For the final two she was very sick. I let my eyes move around the quiet space. This is now mine. Well, it was always mine, but all I can feel is her deep resentment as if she is still alive, and sitting in behind the closed door of the living room.

  Coming back was a mistake.

  There is nothing here for me.

  For a moment, I have an overwhelming desire to walk out of the house and get Marco to come fetch me, but I can’t bear the thought of all those well-meaning people at the hotel. I don’t want to wear my pop star being gracious to her fans mask. I feel so tired I just need to sleep for a few hours.

  The doorbell rings and the sound startles me. I look through the peephole and see Mrs. Tucker from next door standing outside. She is in her Sunday best. Suppressing a sigh, I school my features into one of polite enquiry and open the door.

  “Hello, Taylor,” she beams. “I’ve brought you some casserole. I thought we could have lunch together.”

  I don’t know where she got the idea of having lunch with me. I can’t remember an occasion when we had lunch together. I hang onto the doorknob and plaster a smile on my face. “Thank you, Mrs. Tucker. That is so kind of you, but honestly, I’m just not in the mood to eat anything right now.”

  Her face falls which kinda makes me feel guilty, but I just can’t face having to make small talk with anyone right now. She holds the container out to me. “Well then, honey, you eat it when you feel hungry. I’ll be next door if you need me.”

  Reluctantly, I take the casserole I know I will never eat. “Thank you.”

  She turns to go then pauses, before spinning back with remarkable agility. “I’ve followed your career, you know. You’ve done our little town proud, my girl. Both Mr. Tucker and I are very proud of you.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Tucker,” I say politely.

  “Well, I just thought you should know.”

  “It’s very kind of you to say that. Thank you.” I smile again.

  “Well, all right. I’ll be going, then.”

  “Good bye, Mrs. Tucker.”

  I put the casserole on the kitchen table, and the doorbell goes again. With a frown, I go to answer it. It’ll probably be another neighbor bearing more food I can’t eat. I don’t even bother to look through the peephole this time. I open the door to Betty Crankshaw. She is wearing a blue hat and carrying a cake tin.

  “There you are, dear. I knew you must be feeling terrible so I’ve brought some blueberry muffins for you. I know how much you love my muffins.”

  Muffins are off the menu for me, but I smile broadly at her. “That’s very kind of you, Mrs. Crankshaw. Thank you.”

  Cole

  I speed through a red traffic light and turn into Mullholland drive. I’ve not been here since she left. I park the car outside her mother’s house and get out, my heart thudding so hard I can hear it. Betty Crankshaw is turning out of her gate.

  She stops and nods at me.

  “Mrs. Crankshaw,” I greet with a nod.

  “That girl is as skinny as a rake, Cole,” she mutters, tutting disapprovingly.

  She obviously wants to stand there and talk to me, but I make a gesture with my hand to indicate that I’m in a hurry, and hurry past her. I stride up to the door and ring the bell. It goes unanswered for such a long time and I’m about to ring it again when she opens the door.

  The moment I see her face I regret ever letting her go. My heart aches with need. God, how stupid I was. What a fucking kid I must have been to let her go.

  And for what?

  Look at her.

  She’s not happy.

  She used to glow with happiness. I should have chained her to me instead of letting her go to carve her name in lights. It was a mistake. I have to make her fall back in love with me again.

  Her full lips part. “Cole,” she breathes, and for a second it is as if no time has passed. The other kids are singing Cole and Taylor K-i-s-s-i-n-g in the Tree to us. She’s my girl and I’ve come around to take her to the movies. I stare at her mouth. I’m dying for a taste. She used to taste of honey.

  Then the past disappears like smoke, and her eyes become hard. “What do you want, Finley?”

  “You,” the word flies out of my mouth.

  Something flashes in her eyes. “You’re a bastard, you know?”

  “I should never have let you go, Taylor.”

  “Get out of my house,” she growls, her eyes stormy.

  “I’m not leaving without you.”

  “What? she sneers. “Has alcohol addled your brain? Because we were finished eight years ago.”

  Inwardly, I wince at the jibe, but I look her straight in the eye. “We’re not finished until I say so.”

  She moves suddenly to slam the door, but I put my palm out, completely arresting its movement.

  “Do I need to call the police?” she huffs.

  “All I want to do is talk to you.”

  “There’s nothing to talk about.” Her voice is bitter.

  “Then it’ll be a very short conversation, won’t it?”

  For a few seconds our gazes clash, then she sighs, an oddly defeated sound, and moves away from the door.

  “Say what you need to say and get out,” she throws over her shoulder as she leads the way into her mother’s sitting room.

  I go into the house and close the door.

  “Talk,” she says, turning to face me and folding her arms in front of her stiff body.

  “Did you achieve everything you wanted? Was it worth it?”

  “Yes,” she snarls, her voice trembling defiantly.

  I start walking towards her.

  Her eyes fill with panic, and she takes an instinctive step backwards. “I’m glad I grabbed the opportunity when it presented itself and left this god-forsaken town.”

  I stare down at her glittering eyes. “No regrets?”

  “None.” The word is smooth and hard, penetrating like a bullet.

  I look at her face and know I cannot go another day, hour, or minute without making her mine. “Well, I have. I should have done it differently. I want you, Taylor. I’ve been wanting you for the last eight years. I’ve waited all this time, but no more. I won’t be denied for another second. I’m going to have you right now.”

  Her eyes widen. She shakes her head. “No,” she gasps, but I notice she doesn’t move away. I move in for the kill. Wrapping my hands around her too thin body, I let my mouth descend down on hers, crushing, hungry, fierce.

  She whimpers with the force of my kiss.

  I lean in and lift her up into my arms. Her hands go around my neck. Her round eyes stare up at me, helpless, vulnerable … mine. I lift her into my arms. Fuck, it’s like picking up a child. Doesn’t she ever eat anything in LA?

  I carry her up those old stairs. We are not in our twenties. We are teenagers again. Her stepmother has gone to play bridge and I have slipped in through the window. She has abandoned the bowl of ice cream she was eating. I am taking her upstairs again.

  She burrows her face in my chest, but I can feel her trembling like a frightened bird in my arms. I hear her shallow breaths. The stairs creak under our weight. I kick the door open to her old room. Her stepmother has kept it almost exactly how it was when she was living there.

  I lay her on the single bed and look down at her. The bedspread is covered in blue roses. A long time ago I made her mine on this bed.

  She is about to find out nothing has changed. She belongs to me and only me.

  Cole

  10 Years Old

  I don’t know how to approach the situation, but I know she needs me. I make my way up the old, weathered treehouse ladder. When I reach the entrance, Taylor is sitting in a corner
, face hidden between her knees.

  Her long blonde hair flows over her arms and brushes the floor. It envelopes her entire body and makes her look smaller than usual, and she’s already a petite girl. The sight of her makes my chest ache. If I could I would take her pain.

  “Taylor,” I whisper.

  She looks up, and when we make eye contact, I am shocked.

  I’ve never seen her cry. When her mother died, she didn’t cry. When she finally realized that her mother was really never coming back, she was heartbroken, but she didn’t cry. When her dad remarried within a year, she didn’t cry. Taylor has never allowed herself to cry in front of me.

  Until now.

  Her eyes are red and raw and her shoulders shake as great sobs are torn out of her mouth.

  “Go away,” she cries. Even her voice is tearful and raw.

  I stay frozen, still shocked by her appearance. We’ve been best friends for four years, but I’ve never seen her this way.

  “Please, Cole. I don’t want you to see me cry,” she begs hoarsely.

  “Why not?” I whisper.

  Her lower lip trembles and she presses her hand on her mouth. “You don’t need to see me crying.”

  “Taylor, I don’t care if you cry. If my dad died, I would cry too,” I say gently, taking a hesitant step in her direction. At the mention of father, her tears flow more freely and her shoulders heave even more rapidly.

  Not knowing what to say, I kneel silently in front of her. I felt sorry for her when her mom died and she was left with only one parent, but now her father is gone as well. She has nobody left. She is an orphan. I can’t even imagine how she must be feeling.

  “Just go away and I’ll be fine tomorrow,” she pleads.

  I frown. “I’m your friend and friends see each other cry. They help each other when the going gets rough.”

  She sniffs. “But Cassie said she heard from the other boys that the only reason you are friends with me is because I’m tough and I don’t act like a girl.”