It was late or she’d call Debbie. She wouldn’t mind the call, but her friend had a family of her own to care for.
This wasn’t the kind of thing she could share with anyone at church. There was also Jon . . . She hadn’t seen him, talked with him, since she’d kicked him out on Easter.
And she missed him. That was a feeling she did identify.
So, he’d gone with Corey to collect his art supplies from Lilith’s. What else had he known about? And if Jon was so unhappy with Corey, why did he abandon her when Corey asked for—demanded the divorce?
Nothing made sense.
She pounded her pillow. Someday she’d get up the nerve to invite Jon over so she could ask him point-black why he left her, too. Tonight, though, she was too angry to have a decent conversation.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Erin flung her briefcase into her car, got in, and aimed for home an hour earlier than planned. The meeting with a prospective client had gone worse than anticipated, and she had ice cream at home to medicate her wounds, even though her waistline was beginning to reveal her stress eating. So far, the list of prospects she’d received from Jon had resulted in one lousy client. One. And she was nearly done with the list.
On top of that, she didn’t want to think about what she was heading home to. The Caldwells had dropped off Clara shortly after Mik got home from school this afternoon, so Mik had been babysitting for three hours already. Not that she wasn’t capable, but was she reliable? Two days ago, she’d been amazingly nurturing when Clara was sick, but that was two emotions ago. Last night she’d been sullen. This morning, backtalking.
Not what Erin needed after reading Corey’s journal last night. It still rankled her, and that no doubt played a role in her failed attempt to sway another client. Mik’s attitude tasted of arsenic on top of Corey’s secret confession.
Erin didn’t like not trusting her daughter, but since Corey died, and especially since Easter, Mik’s emotions had been all over the place. One day happy. The next, weepy. Then angry. Nurturing. Defiant. Childlike. And sad again. Like she was experiencing every stage of grief in one week. Erin couldn’t remember telling her daughter “no” to so many requests. Rather, demands. Erin prayed that today was another happy day.
She flipped on her blinker and watched the stream of cars heading toward the lakes for a restful and fun weekend. What would that be like? Restful and fun were no longer on Erin’s calendar.
Stop with the pity party, would you? This was why she hated emotions. They took over her life and stole all rational thinking.
A half hour later, she turned onto her street and the low-gas warning went off. Shoot! In her hurry to get home, she’d forgotten all about needing gas and zoomed right past every station. She looked ahead toward her little house calling her home. Tomorrow, she’d fill.
Chalk drawings covered her crumbling, patchwork driveway that had needed to be replaced when she and Corey purchased the house ten years ago. She hit the remote control, and her garage door cranked upward. Art supplies were strewn throughout the garage. That she’d deal with by closing the door. Tomorrow was her day off, so she and Clara would make a game of cleaning again. Hopefully, she’d soon learn to clean without being reminded.
Like Mik had? Yeah, right.
She got out of her car and locked it, then walked across the sidewalk that was pieced together as well as the driveway. Someday she’d have a little extra to fix everything. Maybe even add another story onto the house. Dreaming was healthy, so she’d been told.
She unlocked the side door leading into the walkway between the kitchen and living room, and a noise like giant mice scattering, followed by a thump, put her on alert. She glanced to the left. Nothing was amiss in the living room. To her right, the galley kitchen was messy, but empty of people.
She set down her briefcase on a dinette chair, then walked through the living room to the hallway leading to the three small bedrooms and one bath. She pressed her ear to the nursery door. All was silent. The bathroom door was open, as was the master bedroom door. Both rooms were empty.
Mik’s door was closed, so she pressed her ear to that. Too quiet. At seven in the evening, Clara might be asleep, but Mik was just waking up.
Erin knocked on the door. “I’m home. Got a moment?”
“Uh, yeah, one second.” Shuffling could be heard, followed by Mik opening the door an inch, if that. “What do you need?”
Erin pushed the door open further.
“Mom!” Mik, dressed in those cheek-revealing shorts Erin hated and a midriff-baring top, tried to close it, but not before Erin saw the evidence. Whoever was hiding beneath the disheveled bed forgot to tuck their stockinged foot under all the way.
Erin easily recognized the emotion building inside: anger. This time, it was justified.
“Come on out,” she said in her best scary-mom voice. This type of situation was exactly where Mik needed a father influence, someone who would frighten adolescent boys into obedience.
That never would have been Corey.
The foot slid out, pulling with it jeaned legs, a ratty, skull-covered T-shirt, and finally a pimple-faced head coated with shoulder-length, dust-bunny covered hair.
Erin jabbed her hand toward the front door while glaring at the unfamiliar teen. “Get out. Now.”
“Mom!” Mik stomped her foot.
Erin would deal with her next.
The young man. No. Not a man, by any definition. The boy, his eyes wide as the doorknob she gripped in her hand, pushed past her, mumbling something about “mom not supposed to be home.”
The kid hustled out the front door, then closed it hard enough to make pictures shake on the wall.
This was it. She’d had it. Life needed to get back to normal, now. She didn’t say a word to Mik, afraid of the venom that might spew from her. Instead, she pieced herself together temporarily and dialed Belinda Caldwell’s cell.
She answered after one ring. “Hello, Erin.”
“I have an emergency, Belinda. Can I drop off Clara for the evening?”
“Oh, I hope everything’s all right.”
Erin glared at her daughter, who returned the look. “Oh, it will be. I’ll come by in about twenty. No, make that thirty.” She had to stop for gas first. “See you soon. And thank you.” She punched the End Call button then opened her daughter’s door. “Change into something decent. You’re coming with me.”
“I don’t want to.”
“This isn’t about what you want. Go.” No way was she leaving her daughter at home alone tonight. It might be a long time before she trusted Mik again.
Filthy words spurted from Mik’s mouth as she entered her room and slammed the door.
Every muscle in Erin’s body tensed as she held back a similar retort. She glared upward. “Can’t life be easy, just for once?” Call Debbie flitted through her mind. Erin let it keep on flitting. Right now, she didn’t want to be counseled. If she were on speaking terms with Jon, she’d give him a call, maybe he could talk some sense into Mik.
Stuff your pride, Erin. Didn’t matter if she was talking to Jon or not. Her daughter needed a male influence, so Erin would wave the white flag. She dialed his number, and naturally his voice mail picked up. She left a message, hoping he’d listen soon. “Jon, I need your help. Please.”
Now to wake Clara. She went into the child’s room, put together an overnight bag, then knelt beside the bed. “Lolli, honey.” She touched her warm cheek. “We have to go to Gramama Belinda’s house.”
Clara rolled over and tucked herself in a ball. Well, then, Erin would just carry her. She picked up the child and the overnight bag and walked to Mik’s room. She knocked, waited, then tried the door.
Locked. Of course.
She knocked again.
“Time to go.”
“I’m staying home.”
Oh, no you’re not. Keeping the sleeping Clara at her shoulder, she hurried to her office and found an old keycard. She knocked on Mik�
��s door one more time.
“Go away.”
Not happening, sweetheart. Erin set down the diaper bag then, with one hand, she jiggled the keycard in between the door latch and the door frame, pushing in the lock. She hip-shoved the door open as Mik leaped into bed and covered herself with her blankets.
“I’ll behave. I promise.”
One. Two. Three. Four. “Doesn’t matter, right now. You’re riding with me. It’s not up for a vote.” Clara stirred in Erin’s arms and started whimpering.
“You’re a witch!”
“Yeah, I know.” At this point, insults washed over her. “Get ready for a ride on my broom.”
Mik growled, but got out of bed. “You do realize that Clara is an innocent victim in all this mess.”
“Say what?” Erin held the child tighter, wanting to cover her ears.
“You heard me. She’s just an innocent kid caught up in everyone’s drama. Yours, Jon’s, the Caldwell’s.” She snickered. “Mine.”
Erin tried to shake off Mik’s words that had too much truth to them. Her nerves were stretched so taut, she swore they were going to snap. Clenching her teeth together, she jutted her hand toward the door and said, “Get. Dressed.”
A full five minutes later, with Clara now fully awake and as grouchy as her sister, Mik shuffled out of her room wearing yoga pants and a T-shirt that said, “I’m with stupid.” At least it was better than that midriff-baring shirt and too-short shorts. Not by much, though.
Erin scooted both girls outside and to her car. Clara fought going into the car seat, begging for her art apron and art box. Erin checked the back and front seats and the trunk, but nothing. Maybe in the house? Belinda had brought Mik home yesterday, so hopefully she dropped off the apron and kit as well.
No such luck. With Clara outside with Mik, Erin scoured her little house, but they were nowhere to be found. How had Belinda brought home the child without either item? Didn’t matter right now. Rather, she needed to find an alternative. Perhaps something of Corey’s? She retrieved a box from the nursery closet, one that had Corey’s old art supplies and found an adult-sized apron. This had better work.
She hurried back to the car, forced a smile, and showed the apron to Clara. “Look what I found! It was your daddy’s. It protects even better!”
Clara’s eyes widened as she reached for the apron. “I wuv Daddy.”
Thank You, Jesus, for small favors. Erin helped Clara put it on, then buckled her into her seat. The entire time, Mik sat quiet as a stone. At least she wasn’t talking back or using language Erin didn’t allow.
Finally, Erin sat in the driver’s seat and started the car. She’d told Belinda they’d be there in thirty minutes. Well, that had passed about five minutes ago, so she called her again and said it would be another thirty.
“Take your time, dear. I know what it’s like dealing with strong-willed children.”
Yeah, I suppose you would.
Erin stopped at a gas station and added just five gallons to her car. That would get her through the day. Tomorrow she’d fill the tank. Then she started the car and aimed for the highway.
“Lady, stop!” A muffled voice yelled as Erin turned on her blinker.
“Mom, someone’s chasing you.”
“What?” Erin checked her rearview mirror and saw a craggy-bearded man running toward her. She stopped and rolled down her window.
He huffed up to her and gestured sharply toward the tank. “You didn’t pay for gas.”
“Yes, I did. I paid at the pump.” Her heartbeat suddenly raced faster than the gas had filled her tank.
“No, you didn’t.” He pulled a phone from his pocket. “Want to talk it out with the police?”
“No. I . . . ” She looked back at the pump, and replayed her steps. She’d hit Pay Inside, as she usually did, but had been thinking pay at the pump to get on the road quicker. Oh, no, he was right. “I’m sorry, really. I had a brain toot and—”
Flinging words she forbade Mik from using, the man told her to get back to the store and pay before he called the cops.
“I’m coming. It was a mistake. Honest.”
“That’s what they all say.” The man finally hustled back to the store.
And Erin backed up into a parking space.
“Good job, Mom. Now you’re a thief. Way to set a good example.”
“Just watch your sister.” Clenching and unclenching her fists, and trying to ignore other gas station patrons staring at her, Erin got out of the car, locked it, and strode to the store. She paid with cash, then—keeping her head down—hurried back to the car, rubbing a sudden pain in her left shoulder. Her breath came out erratic.
Not now. She couldn’t have a panic attack right now. She got in the car, locked the doors, then clasped her hands together and begged God to pull her together.
Call the Beldens . . .
Yeah, good idea. She took out her phone and, after a couple of fumbled attempts, dialed Joyce and asked her if they could watch Mik overnight. Mik even liked that idea, as opposed to living in a home occupied by a witch.
Now to drop off the kids and make it home before she went completely insane.
Like her mom had.
Fighting off the panic, she somehow managed to drop off both girls and then headed for home. She turned onto her street, barely remembering how she got there. She had to get into her home now, before she became a danger to other drivers.
Only ten houses down. Eight. Seven . . .
Was that someone on her front steps?
Jon.
She almost cried at the sight, both relieved and upset. Did he assume he could show up anytime? She pulled into her driveway, got out of the car, and marched toward him, still trying to suppress her body shakes. She started to wag a finger at him, but her hand trembled too much to be effective. Instead, she hugged herself.
“What are you doing here?” She said in the calmest voice she could summon, which wasn’t calm in the least.
He splayed his hands. “You called, said you needed help.”
Oh. She’d forgotten that, too.
“Hey.” He leaped up and drew close to her, but didn’t hug, though right now she really wanted one. “What’s going on?”
She opened her mouth then slammed it shut. If she said anything, the dam she’d built up inside herself would burst and she might never stop crying. Instead, she brushed past him to the front door. She unlocked it, hurried inside, and contemplated closing it on him.
Yes, she’d wanted him earlier, but now she needed to be alone. She couldn’t let him see her like this, so out of control.
And Mik’s wise words, that Clara was an innocent victim in all their drama, filled her with shame that deepened the crack in her self-control.
She managed to stuff away the shakes, momentarily at least, and gestured to the door. “I’m good now.” She stepped inside the house. “You can go.”
But he pushed past her and closed the door behind him.
The shakes returned with a vengeance. “What part of ‘you can go’ don’t you understand?”
“I’m not leaving you like this.” Jon closed the space between them, took her arm, and led her to the sofa. She had no strength remaining to fight him. He kept a good two feet between them. “What happened, Pearl?”
She opened her mouth, and a sob hiccupped out. No. Not now. She couldn’t break down in front of him.
“Hey.” He inched closer to Erin. This time he touched her arm. “It’s me. You can tell me anything.”
She inched away and kept her arms tight against her chest. “I . . . ” She clenched her teeth together, hoping to seal in her emotions, but the dam inside her burst open.
Words and tears flooded out of her. Reading Corey’s journal. Clara’s missing art kit. Mik’s behavior. The gas station debacle.
Clara being an innocent.
He puffed out a breath with that confession and shook his head. “Mik is right. So right.” He opened his arms. “Will you l
et me hold you? Please.”
She hesitated, then fell into his open arms, and more tears flooded out. They were never going to stop, and someone would put her in a loony bin where she really belonged. She was more like her mom than she wanted to admit.
She closed her eyes, but tears still snuck out, soaking into Jon’s shirt. Yet he held her. And it felt . . . it felt good. Relaxing. Caring. Loving. And sleep slowly overcame her.
A knock on her front door startled her. She blinked, adjusting to the sunlight streaming through her windows. Sunlight? When had she fallen asleep? And in Jon’s arms?
Horrified, she pushed away, waking him as well, and hurried to the door. They couldn’t be bringing home Clara now. She wasn’t ready. Would never be ready.
She looked through the peephole and melted with relief as she opened the door. Seeing Debbie made her want to cry all over again. How was that even possible? Could women start menopause in their early thirties?
Debbie came inside and looked over Erin’s shoulder. Some silent conversation happened between her and Jon that Erin couldn’t comprehend.
Then Jon sidestepped them both, displaying his phone. “Gotta take this call.”
Right. Now she understood what Debbie had communicated with Jon. “Beat it.”
“Come here.” Debbie took Erin’s arm and led her back to the sofa. “What’s going on?”
The shakes from last night were gone, but Erin still barricaded herself with arms over her chest. “It started when I read Corey’s journal.”
Debbie’s eyes grew wide. “His journal?”
Erin nodded. “Mik found it at his house, said her daddy didn’t love her, then I had to read it for myself, see if that was true. And, honestly, I think the only person he loved was himself.” Again, she recounted what she’d read in the journal and the mess from the night before, this time without out-of-control sobbing clouding her story. “I couldn’t stop the tears last night. Now I’m as dry as a desert. There’s nothing.”
A Beautiful Mess Page 19
