by Pamela Crane
“Don’t worry about it. I’m sure Mom whipped up a ten-course meal, which I doubt any of us will have the stomach for anyway.” Cody rubbed my back comfortingly, as if I was the one whose daughter had run away.
“Mind cleaning up while I change?”
“Sure, I got it, hon.” He came off self-congratulatory, as if he was doing me a favor cleaning up the mess that his incompetence caused.
I exhaled my irritation, inhaled patience. “Thanks.”
Cody grabbed a wad of paper towels and scooped up a handful of mush. “Go do what you do best and look beautiful.”
Most women, I guess, would be flattered by daily affirmations of how beautiful and sexy you were. It wasn’t that I didn’t appreciate my husband’s attraction to me, but more often his endearments smacked of the kind of sexist compliments that went out of style with fifties swing dresses and bouffant hairdos, when the Man of the House went to the office, and the Adoring Housewife stayed home cleaning and baking.
I stood in front of my closet, half of my clothing stuffed into four square feet of space dimly lit by a single dangling lightbulb. The other half overflowed into the spare bedroom. Several hangers hung empty where Vera had raided my wardrobe when a growth spurt boosted her up to my size. I didn’t have the heart to take the clothes back, and now I clung to a desperate hope that she’d be wearing them all again soon.
I tried to match together an outfit that showed proper respect for a grieving, stressed-out mother on the verge of losing her mind. No black, because black meant death and that was the last message I wanted my outfit to put in Felicity’s head.
Picking out ripped jeans that showed a dash of thigh here, a sliver of leg there, and a cream turtleneck, I stepped into the only expensive shoes I owned—a pair of $400 genuine leather Freebird boots that I bought myself as a Christmas gift courtesy of my uber-rich boss (I never did tell him just how big a bonus I gave myself) and checked the full-length mirror hanging on the closet door. My father’s Caribbean-soaked skin glistened with coconut butter, while my mother’s hazel eyes popped beneath green eye shadow. It wasn’t too much—I’d managed to channel my inner hoochie mama while retaining the veneer of the supportive sister.
Not that how I looked should have mattered. I wasn’t trying to impress anyone.
Liar.
I slipped into the bathroom, wondering what Cody meant by do what you do best. Did he really think that was all I was good for, looking pretty? I admit I didn’t contribute much financially to our neglected life in our neglected house, but not all of us had the same opportunities for advancement and wealth. There wasn’t much earning power or promotion above “personal assistant.”
At least working for a high-powered attorney was a step up from my last job, because waitressing when my passion was acting was too much of a cliché, even for me. I had settled for community theatre during my early twenties, then pursued the whole Hollywood thing, only to return home weighed down by the baggage of rejection and humiliation. Now that I was pushing thirty, acting seemed like a childish dream. One that I still longed for, but one that I simply couldn’t dedicate every waking moment to anymore. I still auditioned for local theatre gigs, but wiped away the vision of my name in giant letters on the silver screen. After years of almosts, I finally gave up and faced reality—a boring and predictable Groundhog Day existence where the white picket fence was riddled with termites, the plumbing leaked, and the kitchen looked like a Waffle House. Much like my regrettable past, I finally let my future die.
I added a swipe of lip gloss and smacked my lips together. Touched up my mascara, though my lashes didn’t need it. One time I had been offered an acting gig because I reminded the casting director of Rihanna. I possessed that “wow factor,” he explained. I could only assume it was the hazel green eyes that you rarely saw on a Black person. Well, mixed, in every sense of the word. My whole life I hung on the outskirts. Too poor for the cool cliques. Too white for the girls in the hood. Too black for the white-bread suburbanites. I felt like a puzzle piece that never quite fit.
I still did. Until I met the Portman family.
The family that I singlehandedly targeted and unintentionally destroyed.
Slowly making my way down the stairs, I winced with each step as my tailbone pulsed in pain. At the foot of the stairs Cody waited for me.
“You look hot, babe.” He paired it with a devilish grin.
If only all of this was for him.
“You too.” I turned around as my adoring husband held out my cognac vegan leather jacket—fake crap peeling at the elbows. I’d trade every one of Cody’s syrupy compliments for an Armani lambskin coat.
We headed out the door, squinting into the low evening sun. Although I pasted on a smile, wickedness lurked beneath it. Fine clothes couldn’t disguise my darkness; money couldn’t repair what I had done. The evil had already emerged, and there was no stuffing it back inside.
Chapter 5
Marin
The short but scenic drive from Wilkinsburg to Oakmont followed the Allegheny River past trees set ablaze by the sinking sun. Although Wilkinsburg was a decaying town, it was home to me and one of the most architecturally unique train stations on the East Coast—a 1916 masterpiece boasting a massive skylight that floodlit the terrazzo and mosaic floors, and whose clock tower reminded me of the one in Back to the Future. Like most Gen Y’ers, I tended to see real-life things through the prism of pop culture.
Foliage in the hills of Pennsylvania was breathtaking, every turn on the winding roads a brand-new shock of color and beauty. A marbling of pink and burnt orange set the sky afire, in blinding contrast to the gray river with its whitecaps churning against the wind.
As we pulled into the driveway of Oliver and Felicity’s house, I felt the familiar jab of nervous energy and jealousy. Intimidation came with the property. Their driveway wasn’t paved, it was brick. Their landscaping wasn’t nice, it was manicured. Their house wasn’t big, it was a freakin’ Victorian mansion. As in ten-foot-tall double solid oak doors that opened into an atrium. There was a mural of a baby angel on the parlor ceiling, for crying out loud. But the heartbreaking side of it all was that in their huge, safe house, they couldn’t protect their family. We all saw the writing on the wall as their lives figuratively crumbled away. Still, envy held a stranglehold on me.
I didn’t want to feel this way, bitter that I picked the wrong brother to marry. I loved Cody, despite his cloying affection, but sometimes love wasn’t enough. While my house literally crumbled, I scrimped and saved every penny, worked for Scrooge’s evil twin, and watched YouTube DIY videos on how to fix busted plumbing, while Felicity threw money hand over fist at gardeners to turn her bushes into whimsical topiaries. Well, la-di-da. To me, they were just tacky animals.
Cody parked in our usual spot by the rabbit bush, next to the llama bush where my father-in-law parked, and my boots tap-tap-tapped across the brick walkway, past myriad flowers in full bloom. Hell, even their soil was “rich.”
We let ourselves in and found Felicity and Oliver in the living room talking in low tearful tones with my in-laws, Joe and Debra, while Sydney stuffed her mouth full of hors d’oeuvres and Eliot scrutinized each one warily. Several boxes of games were spread out on the carpet. Connect 4. Candyland. Twister—a personal favorite of mine. The children were oblivious to the angst living rent-free inside us all; Debra made sure of that as she spoke in cheery tones with them, filling their fat cheeks with food and their ears with chipper words.
Felicity, on the other hand, looked as war-torn as she must have felt. Her weary blue eyes were streaked with midnight-flight red since the day Vera went missing. Pacing the room with arms tightly folded across her chest, I was pretty sure she was wearing the same clothes she had worn yesterday. In happier days she been the talk of the town, admired for her glamor and elegance. Now her name was on everyone’s lips for an entirely different reason. Tragedy always brings out the crazies with an axe to gr
ind, from the neighborhood gossips to the social media vultures with the whole world at their malicious fingertips. From social butterfly to “terrible mom”—quite a fall from grace.
My eyes drifted to the smorgasbord of food artistically arranged on a period marble-topped coffee table. On a white platter were caprese bites arranged in a smiley face pattern. Eliot bravely tried one but found the medley of mozzarella cheese, basil, and tomatoes not to his liking—I saw him spitting out the half-chewed mush into his napkin and tucking it into his pocket. On another plate were tiny hot dogs wrapped in equally tiny croissants, which were Sydney’s favorite. Another dish contained meatballs stabbed with toothpicks, a recipe I had given Debra back when Cody first introduced me to his parents. Though I’m sure she didn’t make her sauce with grape jelly and chili sauce like my dad had taught me. Debra was way too classy to use jelly in any recipe. Maybe preserves, but never jelly.
Only now did Sydney take a break from her food coma to notice me. “Auntie Marin!” she squealed, rushing me with open arms. Swooping her up in the air, I planted kisses all over her sticky face. We had been explicitly told by Debra to keep the mood light for the sake of the kids.
“You taste delicious! How’s my little Syd Squid?” I exclaimed, setting her down.
“Nana made teeny tiny hotdogs. O-M-G, try one!” Sydney had recently started talking in text. OMG this. BTdubbs that. I imagined she had picked it up from Vera.
“I bet they taste almost as yummy as your face.”
A moment later Eliot slammed into my legs, wrapping his arms around me like a mini left tackle.
“Hey, bud!” I knelt down to speak to him at eye level. “You practicing your football moves, huh?”
His cheeks were inflated like a chipmunk’s. He flashed a picket fence smile flecked with chunks of meatball.
“Don’t answer until you swallow, okay?” I grinned.
“Okay, Auntie Marin,” he said, spraying bits of beef all over my face.
After the kids wandered back to the sofa closest to the food, I felt the heat of tension rising up my neck and face. I didn’t know how to act, what to say. Every word could be a bomb; every gesture a grenade. Felicity shuffled in front of the long line of windows, checking her phone every couple minutes as if it might ring at any moment with the news that Vera had been found safe and sound. Oliver seemed to have lost the energy to follow her as he hung back, standing awkwardly in the middle of the room. Debra distracted the kids with a game of Connect 4, while Cody approached Joe, who grabbed him in a greedy hug.
Joe’s shoe-polish black hair always had a soft gloss to it, and while Cody had inherited the rich dark color, the thickness gene had skipped over him and went straight to Oliver. Cody’s receding hairline took a hard whack at his self-esteem, but I actually liked it. It kept him humble.
“Hey, Dad. Everything okay?” Cody said.
“Nothing new, slugger. Where’s that pretty wife of yours?” Then Joe turned to me. “There you are, Mare!”
Joe opened his arms for a hug, and I let his six-foot-three frame envelop me. He smelled like what a good dad was supposed to smell like—cedar chips (in retirement he’d become a master gardener) and aftershave, not cigarettes and hard liquor. His glasses sat crookedly on his nose, but he didn’t seem to notice until Debra pointed it out. Joe was a wheat stalk of a man, easily swayed by his wife’s breezy opinions.
Since day one my father-in-law had been an over-greeter. Always ready with a hearty hello and a hug. Cody and I had been dating for about a month when he asked if he could introduce me to his parents. I was a mixed girl from the inner city dating their good old boy. The thought petrified me, especially if they were anything like my own parents. I could only imagine what my parents would have thought about Cody, had they ever had the chance to meet him. Probably that he was an entitled man-child with something to prove. Dad said that about every guy I dated.
When Dad wasn’t insulting my boyfriends, he was telling my friends enough terrible dad jokes to embarrass me for a lifetime. And my mother—God rest her soul—wanted so badly to be friends with my friends that she forgot to be my mom. But that first dinner with Joe and Debra sealed the deal for me as Joe recounted stories of run-ins with the police back in the early 1960s during his drag racing days along The Ardmore, a miles-long stretch of road with endless stoplights, perfect for attracting hot-rodders, along with the Steel City’s most hard-ass cops—or the fuzz, as Joe called them. Joe was proud that his black ’57 Chevy Bel Air had routinely blown the competition off the road, and he wore his jail time like a badge of honor.
I desperately wanted their approval ever since that day. It didn’t take much. They liked me for me—the version of me that I showed them, at least.
“You look beautiful, Marin,” Debra whispered in my ear, taking her turn for a hug. It was one of my favorite things about my in-laws, their natural paternal charm that I missed so much. When you’re parentless, you notice such things and appreciate them. Cody, on the other hand, stiffened as his mother hugged him against his will. Cody was clearly spoiled on affection. He didn’t know how lucky he was.
“Thanks. You too, Mom.” I kept my voice low in respect of the strain tightening the air.
Even amid crisis Debra looked put together. Hair coiffed to perfection. Crispy ironed pantsuit matching the rosy shade she wore on her cheeks. She was one of the classiest women I’d ever met, though I’d been told she didn’t come from money. She only looked it. I didn’t know much about my in-laws’ past, only that Debra worked for every penny she had. Her work ethic was what Joe first noticed about her…and the reason he fell so hard for her. He knew with Debra at his side, they could accomplish anything together.
“How’s Felicity hanging in there?” I asked, afraid to ask Felicity myself. There was something terrifying about approaching a mother consumed by anticipatory grief.
Debra shook her head sadly. “She’s going through a difficult time.” There was that phrase again. I loved Debra, but sometimes she resorted to useless clichés. She rested her hand on my arm, adding, “Go talk to her—sister to sister. She needs support right now.”
If only Felicity viewed me as a sister and not the villain. Suspicion darkened her blue eyes as I inched my way over to her and silently hugged her. An embrace of solidarity. And a total sham. Glancing away, I felt like my lies flashed across my forehead in neon:
Liar! Traitor! Killer!
“It’s going to be okay.” My words were empty and I knew it. “Vera will come home. I just know it.” But I knew nothing, really, other than I was the reason she disappeared.
“That’s what the police tell me, that it’s common for teens to run away. And most return home…” Felicity’s voice trailed off hopelessly.
“It’s true,” Oliver added matter-of-factly. “We have to trust the statistics.”
“Trust the statistics? Our daughter is not a number, Oliver.”
“I’m not saying she is, but in today’s day and age, kids run off all the time. She could be holing up at a friend’s house for all we know.”
“What friend? We’ve spoken to all her friends. The police have too. I can’t imagine that she had friends we didn’t know about.”
“It’s possible. Teens keep all kinds of stuff a secret.” All eyes pivoted to me. I should have kept my mouth shut.
“Then tell me, what was Vera running from?” Felicity’s sharp glare cut into me, and suddenly I wondered if she knew what I had done. Sweat trickled down my armpit, soaking into the fabric of my sweater.
“How about a nice, calming glass of wine?” Debra offered, placing one in Felicity’s hand for her, nudging her to sip.
A gulp later, Felicity resumed. “Answer me, Marin. What was so awful that Vera was running from?”
“Maybe it’s not what she was running from but what she was running to,” Debra suggested. “Maybe a boy?”
“You think she had a secret boyfriend?” Felicity asked.
Another gulp. “Why wouldn’t she tell us?”
“Maybe she knew you wouldn’t approve. Look, Vera is a smart, sweet girl, but every girl is hiding something. And for good reason. I would hate to know the details of what Ollie and Cody were doing as teenagers.” Debra glanced at her boys. “Secrets are part of life.”
“Not for a fifteen-year-old child, Debra,” Felicity snapped. Mom had become Debra, which meant Debra had crossed a line.
“Especially a fifteen-year-old child. Teenagers are the biggest secret-keepers of all.”
I couldn’t correct Debra that it wasn’t necessarily true. Nothing compared to the depth of my secrets.
Felicity ran her hand over her walnut brown hair, noticeably grayer than when I last saw her, and tightened her drooping ponytail. A sole gray strand here and there had become sprinklings of silver. Stress was taking its toll. As her bony wrist dropped back to her side, it flashed against the lamplight. I couldn’t help but be awestruck by the diamond bracelet with a striking inset turquoise stone that matched the one she had given Vera for her fifteenth birthday. Turquoise—Vera’s favorite color. Vera had paraded around the house showing it off for days afterward. At the time I had wondered how many cars they could have bought for the same price. Now I only wondered if Vera would ever wear hers again.
I glanced at Cody standing alone in the corner of the room, watching me. He looked sad. I ambled over to him.
“I saw you eyeing Felicity’s bracelet,” he said. He noticed everything and yet nothing. He caught me ogling a shiny bracelet but was clueless to the deep guilt that kept me up at night.
“So what?”
He didn’t say anything for a long moment.
“I know you wish I could afford to buy you stuff like that. I’m sorry I’m not a better provider for you, Mare.”
I shook my head. “Are you for real with that? You’re everything I want, Cody.” Almost.
