A Steadfast Surrender

by Nancy Moser

  Claire went back to the attic and lay down. She closed her eyes, but her thoughts spun.

  Okay, Lord. She’s here. Now what?

  “Get up.”

  Sim moaned.

  Claire nudged her. “Up, kiddo.”

  Sim peeked out from beneath her arm. “What time is it?”

  “Six-thirty”

  She groaned. “No way.”

  “Up.”

  Sim squinted at the light coming through the windows. “Why?”

  “We have things to do.”

  “I’m doing what I want to be doing.”

  “We don’t always get what we want.”

  She groaned. “You think that one up all by yourself?”

  Cocky kid. Claire took Sim’s hand and pulled. Sim rolled off the chairs onto the floor with an oomph. Claire moved to help, but Sim pulled back, and her words came out in what could have passed for a snarl. “Don’t touch me and don’t tell me what to do.”

  Claire retreated, hands raised. What brought that on? “You have to get up. People will be coming.” She nodded toward the restrooms. “The facilities are over there.”

  Sim got to her feet, gathering her backpack. After using the rest room, she joined Claire in the main library and began wandering around in the shadows. “So this is it, huh?”

  Claire took a deep breath, loving the smell of paper and ink. “One of these days I’d love to see this place with the lights on.”

  Sim cruised the nearest shelf, putting her eyes close to the bindings, trying to read them in the dim morning light. “Ah! Here’s my favorite: Atlas Shrugged.” She handed it to Claire.

  “You’ve read Atlas Shrugged?” Claire asked.

  “Haven’t you?”

  Claire had the book on her shelf at home but had never tackled it. It was huge. It weighed every ounce of its thousand pages. Though she knew that not choosing a book simply because of its length was juvenile, it had been a factor.

  Sim turned to the stack on the other side of her aisle. She pointed. “And Tolkien. I’ve read The Lord of the Rings series three times. Don’t you just love it when Frodo realizes that only by leaving the shire—that place he loved the most—would he be able to save it?”

  Claire felt like a pupil being given a quiz when she hadn’t read the material.

  Sim’s eyes widened a fraction. “You have read Tolkien, haven’t you—

  “Actually, I haven’t had much time to read in the past few years. I’ve been—”

  “People can make time. They just don’t.” Sim looked right at her. “Am I right?”

  Claire wanted to argue but feared it would come out whiny and defensive. “Right.”

  Sim’s fingers skittered over the bindings. She pulled out a book and held it out to Claire. “Here’s one even you should have read. Huckleberry Finn?

  Claire felt an absurd surge. “I have read that one. It’s about a kid. A runaway.” She paused, zeroing in on the implications. “How appropriate.”

  Sim shoved the book back in its place. “Who said I was a runaway?”

  “Aren’t you?”

  “If I’m Huckleberry, then you must be Jim.” She leveled Claire with a look. “You a runaway slave?”

  This girl wouldn’t let her mind rest a minute. It was too early to be astute and witty. Claire needed coffee. “Let’s get out of here.”

  “It’s early. The library doesn’t open for hours. We have tons of time.”

  The ignorance of youth. “Nobody has tons of time, Sim.”

  “Oooh, deep thoughts. Now I’m impressed.”

  Claire ran a hand through her hair. “I’m hungry. I’m going to change clothes and grab something to eat. We can either go to the café or pick something up at the grocery—”

  “You go ahead. I’m fine.”

  “Suit yourself.” Claire moved toward the attic, wondering why God had sent her an adolescent. Punishment, no doubt.

  Sim rummaged through the library storeroom. Book junk. Pretty boring.

  Then she saw it. A door. It was blocked by an old photocopy machine. There was something exciting about a blocked door. It made her think they were trying to hide something. Maybe there was something important in there. Something valuable. Treasure.

  She knew her imagination was working overtime, but treasure or no treasure, she still needed to see what was in there. She shoved the machine aside and opened it. She switched on a light. “Hey, lady!”

  The woman appeared at the top of the stairs, buttoning a blue shirt. “The name is Claire.”

  Sim closed the door and stood in front of it. “Come see what I found.”

  Claire descended the stairs. When she was close, Sim opened the door with a flourish. “It’s a shower!”

  Claire poked her head inside, taking it all in. She flipped the water on. “It’s old but it works. Oh, I’ve been wanting a shower.”

  “What have you done up until now?”

  She was running back up the stairs. “I’ve only been here two nights and…” Her voice faded as she disappeared into the attic. It picked up again when she reached the landing to come down. “…it’s a real luxury.”

  “You’ve only been here two days? I thought…you acted like you’d been here a long time.”

  “Nope. Newly arrived, just like you.”

  “Why did you come here?”

  Claire paused at the door to the bathroom, a towel and bottle of shampoo in her hand. “I came here for you.”

  “What?”

  She went inside and closed the door. “Give me ten minutes and we’ll talk.”

  You’d better believe it.

  Claire was true to her word. Ten minutes later she came out rubbing her hair. “That felt wonderful. A bit cramped, but wonderful.”

  Sim crossed her arms. “Glad you liked it. Now spill it. What did you mean when you said you came here for me?”

  Claire strapped on her watch and checked the time. “Let’s get out of here before people show up. We need groceries and a cooler. You like chocolate donuts?”

  “Not really.” But she walked toward the door. Sim loved chocolate donuts.

  Claire noticed Merry enter the front door of the grocery store. She pulled Sim toward the line at the checkout lane even though they weren’t through shopping.

  “What the—?”

  Claire leaned close. “It’s the library lady. She’s here.”

  “So?”

  “She might see us.”

  “So?”

  Claire had to think a moment. Maybe it was all right. No one knew about them staying in the attic. She rubbed her eyes. “I’m turning paranoid.”

  Sim leafed through a People magazine. “Get over it.”

  “Claire Adams.” Merry Cavanaugh walked toward them. “The bedding plants are still alive twenty-four hours and counting.”

  “Glad to hear it.”

  Merry glanced at Sim, then away, then back again. “Who’s this?” She didn’t look like she really wanted to know. Claire couldn’t blame her. Sim’s appearance screamed, Leave me alone!

  Claire panicked. “This is…my niece, Sim.” Her heart flipped at the lie. Why did she say that?

  Sim’s mouth dropped open. Claire put a finger under her chin and shut it. “It’s not polite to gawk, kiddo.”

  Merry raised an eyebrow, then held out her hand. “Nice to meet you, Sim. I’m Merry Cavanaugh. Your aunt was quite a help to me yesterday.”

  “Yeah, she’s quite the helper, my aunt.” She shoved the magazine back in its stand and flashed Claire a look. “Good old Auntie Claire.”

  Claire felt herself redden. What had she been thinking, telling Merry that Sim was her niece? She hated liars—and lying. Plus, it wasn’t a comment that could be easily undone.

  Sim’s face lit up. “Hey, Ms. Cavanaugh. Do you need someone to help at the library? I need a job.”

  Merry blinked twice, the crease between her eyebrows telling its story. “Well, I don’t—”

  “I may
not look like your usual nerdy bookworm, but I’ve read tons. The classics. Ask Claire.” Sim nudged her. “Tell her about Atlas Shrugged, and Tolkien, and Twain.”

  It was their turn to check out. Claire put a loaf of bread on the conveyor belt. “It’s true she’s read those books, but I don’t think—”

  “I really want the job. I’ll work hard. Promise.”

  Claire knew there was no legal way Merry could deny Sim a job.

  “You do need help, don’t you?”

  Merry cleared her throat at Sim’s pointed question. “Actually, it’s just me, and summer is our busiest time. And the board did approve a part-time helper, but the boy I hired didn’t work out.”

  “So the position’s open?”

  “Yes, I guess it is.”

  “Good. I’ll take it.”

  Merry’s smile was uncertain, her sigh deep. “Well, then. Who knew I’d come in for a can of coffee and end up with a new employee? What an interesting surprise. Why don’t you come in this morning at nine and I’ll give you a tour.”

  A tour wouldn’t be necessary.

  As soon as Merry left, Sim pounced. “What right do you have to call me your niece?”

  Claire countered, lowering her voice. “What right do you have to get yourself a job?”

  Sim glanced at the checkout lady, who looked in their direction, then away. Sim turned her back to her, speaking to Claire alone. “Hey, it’s my life, lady. No matter what you tell people, we are not in this together. I need some spending money so I got myself a job, which proves I can take care of myself.” She sidled past the cart. “So ’bye, Auntie Claire. See you later.”

  Claire wanted to run after her, but she was stuck. She had food to pay for. She offered the clerk a weak smile. “Kids.”

  The woman nodded.

  Niece? She called me her niece!

  Sim stormed across the street and past the town hall. She plopped on a bench. Claire was weird, and Sim wanted nothing to do with her attic hideaway and her—

  “Donut?”

  A chocolate donut appeared in front of her face from a hand extending over her head. Sim took it and tore into it.

  Claire moved into view. “Hey, I’m sorry. Merry caught me off guard. I didn’t know what to say. But I shouldn’t have lied. I shouldn’t have.”

  “How about saying I’m your friend, an acquaintance? But your niece?

  Claire took a seat at the far end of the bench, putting a Styrofoam cooler full of groceries between them. “I panicked.” She took a bite of her own donut. “And what about you? A job? Where’d that come from?”

  Sim angled to face her. “No one can ever accuse me of being a freeloader. I take care of myself. I pay my way.” She glanced at the cooler and reached into her pocket. “What do I owe you for the donut?”

  “My treat.”

  Sim slapped a crumpled ten-dollar bill on top of the cooler. “I don’t take handouts.”

  “I don’t want your money.”

  The bill skittled in the breeze and blew to the ground. “You’d better take it, ’cause I’m not moving.”

  The ten dollars did a flip across the sidewalk and jumped onto the grass. Sim shoved the rest of the donut in her mouth and licked her fingers noisily, pretending to be oblivious. It was a battle of wills. She needed that ten dollars. She only had forty-six more.

  But as the bill continued its journey across the lawn, Claire gave in first. She went after it, capturing it with her foot. She shook the money at Sim. “You are an exasperating child.”

  “Gee, Auntie. Be careful or you’ll injure my self-esteem.”

  Claire stuffed the bill in her pocket and returned to her seat. “It appears you have plenty of that—and then some.”

  “Got any more of those donuts? I deserve ten dollars’ worth.”

  Claire sighed but took the lid off the cooler. “Help yourself.”

  “Don’t mind if I do.”

  “As soon as we’re done eating, I need to get this cooler back to the attic. Care to be lookout?”

  Sim slanted her a look. “Maybe.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You’ve managed to put off explaining your comment about being brought here for me. I’m not moving until you do.” Sim flicked a donut crumb off her leg. A bird hopped over to peck at it.

  Claire glanced at her, then away. “You have to keep an open mind, Sim. This isn’t your normal explanation.”

  “My real aunt and uncle sent you, didn’t they?”

  “Who?”

  Oops. “Nobody. Go on.”

  “You ran away from an aunt and uncle?”

  Sim shoved her spine against the back of the bench. “We’re not here for my story; we’re here for yours.”

  “How about my story first, your story second?”

  “I’m not promising a thing.” She tossed the bird another crumb. “You going to tell me, or not?”

  The way Claire’s face relaxed gave Sim the feeling she was going to get the truth—no matter what it was.

  “God sent me here.”

  Sim blinked. “That wasn’t in my top ten of expected answers.”

  Claire shrugged. “It’s the truth.”

  Sim stood and gestured toward the library. “You lied.”

  “No, I didn’t. God sent—”

  She faced her. “You lied. You said you weren’t one of those religious fanatics.”

  “I’m not.” Claire sighed deeply and her face battled. “Perhaps I should start from the beginning.” She looked at Sim, her eyes desperate. “Will you listen? Really listen? With an open mind?”

  She sat. “Give me your best shot.”

  “I gotta hand it to you, Claire. That’s a good story. Bizarre, but good.”

  Claire sighed deeply. “Thank you.”

  “But I also think it’s stupid, giving all your money away. I’ve got tons of money and I don’t plan to give it away.”

  Claire’s eyes grew wide. “You… have tons of money?”

  Sim slammed the palm of her hand to her forehead. “Why do I keep doing that? Letting things slip?”

  “You’re only thirteen.”

  “Fourteen.”

  “You’re just a kid. Perhaps an honest kid who isn’t used to lying?”

  Not hardly. “You don’t know anything about me.”

  “Then tell me. It’s your turn. Tell me your story. Tell me how you came to be here.”

  She sat up. “I’m a mass murderer on the run.”

  Sim…

  “Fine. I’m a child star going undercover for a part.”

  Claire took a deep breath. “We made a deal. I told you my story, now what’s yours? I’ll keep your secret if you’ll keep mine.”

  Sim did a double take. “Nobody here knows what you just told me?

  “Nobody.”

  “So you’re going to keep hiding in the attic?”

  “I don’t have a lot of funds. Until I get further direction, this is where I have to stay.”

  Sim laughed. “Direction from God?”

  “He’s the boss.”

  “You’re a stitch, Claire. If you get any extra messages from heaven, let me know, okay?”

  Claire shuffled her shoulders. She tossed a big chunk of donut on the ground and the birds converged. “Now, out with it.”

  Sim looked her in the eye. “You promise you won’t tell?”

  Claire raised a hand. “Cross my heart.”

  I’d like to believe you. Sim looked down at her hands. The blue nail polish was chipped and worn. Just like she felt. She glanced at Claire’s hands. Fake nails, but one was broken off Somehow that one imperfection…

  Maybe Claire was telling the truth. Maybe she had given it all up. And if she had, maybe she’d understand why Sim had given up her old life. In a way, they were the same. Runaways. Outcasts. Besides, Sim was beginning to like her. The woman listened as if what Sim said mattered. An adult who listened. A new experience. And Claire didn’t talk down t
o her like some adults did.

  Sim turned her fingernails under and made a decision. “You guessed right. I’m a runaway. I’m an only child. A real only child. My parents are gone. Dead.” She spit out the last word.

  Claire blinked twice. “Oh my. I’m so sorry. You must be terribly sad.”

  It was too small a word for what Sim felt. She shrugged, then stood again, unable to sit with an audience so close. “They died in a car crash.” She used her hands to illustrate her words. “One semi hits one BMW and the semi wins. Splat. Bang. Boom. They’re gone and I’m alone.”

  “But not alone.”

  She shoved her hands in the pockets of her jeans. “Alone.”

  “But you mentioned an aunt and uncle. They took you in?”

  Her chest tightened. She paced one step right, then back, over and over. Leave. Run. Don’t look back.

  “Sim…” Claire stood.

  She raised her hands like a shield and took a step back. “Don’t.”

  Claire sat.

  “I won’t go back.”

  “You don’t have to.”

  “I don’t—?”

  “You don’t. But I would like to understand why you ran away.”

  Sim looked at Claire, gauging her motives. Her eyes seemed sincere. The way she sat, the way she moved and talked…she seemed at peace with herself and the world. Peace. Peace was not allowed on Sim’s side of the wall. If only it were.

  She was suddenly tired. Everything was mixed up. She sank to the bench, leaned her forearms on her knees, and stared at the ground. “My parents died on December 22. They were coming back from a corporate Christmas party. No one was supposed to tell me Dad was drunk, but he was. He caused the accident. They both died. Cook was the one who woke me up, said they were dead.” She looked over at Claire. “Funny how fresh that moment stays. I’ll never forget the pink roses on Cook’s bathrobe that night. They’re in my head so clear I could draw them. She sat on the side of my bed and talked with that Polish accent of hers, going on and on. I don’t remember the words, other than dead and accident. But I remember the roses on her robe.” She shivered. “My aunt and uncle wanted to put roses on the coffins, but I wouldn’t let them. No roses. No pink roses.”