Several times, I’d have just dozed off when the sound of Chrissy’s footsteps would jerk me awake, as she paced up and down the upstairs hallway. I couldn’t fathom what was keeping her up, so finally, after the fourth or fifth time of being woken up, I went upstairs to check on her. She must have heard me on the stairs, because all I saw was of the trail of her white nightgown as she disappeared into her room. I stood there for a moment, wondering if I should go talk to her, but the stabbing pain in my head drove me back downstairs to the safety of the couch and washcloth. I just couldn’t face another argument then, in the middle of the night.
She must have decided to stay in her room after that, because I finally drifted off, only waking when the sun shone through the dirty living room window, illuminating all the dust motes floating in the air.
Coffee was exactly what I needed. Except … I had no beans to put in the coffeemaker. Not that it mattered, I realized after digging through the third box in frustration. I didn’t have any cream or sugar either.
Well, at least my headache was gone, although what was left was a weird, hollow, slightly-drugged feeling. Still, I’d take that over the headache any day.
I sighed and rubbed my face. The whole move wasn’t starting off very well. In fact, everything seemed to be going from bad to worse, including the fight with Stefan.
“Do you really need to leave?” I asked him again as I followed him to the door. He had just said goodbye to Chrissy, who had immediately disappeared upstairs, leaving us alone. I could see the taxi he had called sitting in the driveway and my heart sank. A part of me had hoped to talk him out of going, but with the taxi already there the possibility seemed even more remote.
He sighed. I could tell he was losing patience. “We’ve been through this. You know I have to.”
“But you just got here! Surely you can take a few days—a week maybe—off to help us unpack and get settled.”
He picked up his briefcase. “You know I can’t. Not now.”
“But when? You promised you would set it up so that you could work from here most of the time. Why can’t you start that now?” I could tell his patience was just about gone, but I couldn’t stop myself.
He opened the door. A fresh, cool breeze rushed in, a sharp contrast to the musty, stale house. “And I will. But it’s too soon. There are still a few things I need to get cleaned up before I can do that. You know that. We talked about this.”
He stepped outside and went to kiss me, but I turned my face away. “Are you going to see her?”
That stopped him. I could see his eyes narrow and his mouth tighten. I hadn’t meant to say it; it just slipped out.
He paused and took a breath. “I know this whole situation has been tough on you, so I’m going to forget you said that. I’ll call you.”
Except he didn’t. Not a single peep in the more than twelve hours since he had walked out the door. And every time I thought of it, I felt sick with shame.
I didn’t really think he was cheating on me. I mean, there was something about Sabrina and her brittle, cool, blonde, perfect elegance that I didn’t trust, but that wasn’t on Stefan. I had no reason not to trust him. Just because my first husband cheated on me didn’t mean Stefan would. And just because Sabrina looked at Stefan like he was a steak dinner, and she was starving, didn’t mean it was reciprocated.
Worse, I knew I was making a bigger mess out of it every time I brought it up. The more I accused him, the more likely he would finally say, “Screw it, if I’m constantly accused of being a cheater, I might as well at least get something out of it.” Even knowing all of that, I somehow couldn’t stop myself.
Deep down, I knew I was driving him away. And I hated that part of myself. But still nothing changed.
To make matters worse, it didn’t take long after Stefan left before things blew up with Chrissy. I asked her to help me start organizing the kitchen, and she responded with an outburst about how much she hated the move. She hated me, too—her life was ruined, and it was all my fault. She stormed off, slammed the door to her room, and that’s how I ended up on the couch, my head pounding, wishing I was just about anywhere else.
Standing in the kitchen with the weak sunlight peeking through the dirty windows, the empty coffee maker taunting me, I gave in to my feelings of overwhelm. How on earth was I ever going to get the house organized? And the yard? And my aunt’s massive garden? All the while researching what it would take to sell the house for top dollar, and dealing with Chrissy? My heart sank at that thought, although I wasn’t completely sure which thought triggered it. Maybe it was all of them.
And if that wasn’t difficult enough, I also had to deal with being in my aunt’s home. Her presence was everywhere. I felt like an intruder. How could I do all of this, feeling her around me? How could I be in her home, when she wasn’t? It wasn’t my house. It was Aunt Charlie’s. And I wasn’t even sure I WANTED it to feel like my home.
Because if it did, then I would probably remember everything.
Including what happened that night.
The night I almost died.
God, I felt sick.
I needed coffee. And food.
Maybe I should take Chrissy out for breakfast as a peace offering. We could get out of the house, which would be good for me at least, and then go grocery shopping before coming home to tackle the cleaning and organizing.
I wanted to start in the kitchen. It was Aunt Charlie’s favorite room in the house, and I knew it would have broken her heart to see how neglected and dingy it had become. When my aunt was alive, it was the center of the home—a light, cheery place with a bright-red tea kettle constantly simmering away on low heat on the stove. Oh, how Aunt Charlie loved her tea—that’s why the kettle always had hot water in it—she’d say you just never knew when a cup would be needed. She was a strong believer that tea cured just about everything, just so long as you had the right blend. And, surprise, surprise, you could pretty much always find the right blend outside in her massive garden, which I had no doubt was completely overgrown now. I didn’t have the heart to go look.
I could almost see her, standing in that very kitchen, preparing me a cup. “Headache again, Becca?” she would murmur as she measured and poured and steeped. The warm fragrance would fill the homey kitchen as she pushed the hot cup in front of me, the taste strong, flavorful, and sweet, with just a hint of bitterness. And, lo and behold, not too long after drinking it, I would find my headache draining away.
I wondered if I would still find her tea blends in the kitchen. Maybe I could find that headache tea. And maybe, if I was even luckier, I would find a blend that would cure everything that ailed me that morning.
With some surprise, I realized just how much love encompassed that memory. Nothing scary. Nothing that could possibly foretell the horror of what happened that dreadful night.
Could my aunt actually be the monster?
My mother certainly thought so. She forbade any contact, any mentioning of my aunt even, refusing to allow her to see me once I woke up in intensive care following the stomach pump. She refused her again when I was transferred to a psych unit, after becoming hysterical when I was asked what had happened that night.
My mother blamed my aunt.
And, I, in my weakened, anxious, panicked state, was relieved to follow her lead. Actually, I was more than relieved; I was happy, too.
But sitting in that kitchen right then, I felt only love and comfort, and I began to question my choices.
My mother had been completely against us moving back here, even temporarily. At the time, listening to her arguments, I had chalked it up to her being overly protective. Now, I wondered. Was that it? Or was something deeper going on?
Chrissy chose that moment to stroll into the kitchen, her hair sticking up on one side. She was wearing her blue and red plaid sleep shorts and red tee shirt—the blue plaid alm
ost an exact match to the blue highlight in her hair. Staring at her, something stirred deep inside me—a distinct feeling of wrongness … of something being off—but when I reached for it, I came up empty.
She leaned against the counter and started checking her iPhone. “How sweet, you’re being domestic.”
I shook my head—that off feeling still nagged at me, but I just couldn’t place it. I really needed coffee. Coffee would make everything better.
She tapped at her iPhone, not looking up. “Anything to eat in this God-awful place?”
I sighed. Maybe I should be looking for a tea that would cure Chrissy.
Chapter 3
Chrissy wrinkled her nose. “What a dump.”
She said it under her breath, so neither the bustling waitresses nor the other customers could hear. But I could. I gave her a sharp look, which she ignored.
We were in what I thought was a cute little diner called Aunt May’s. It felt friendly and familiar and had a respectable number of customers in it for a Monday morning. In fact, on the drive over, I had been amazed at how bright and cheery the town was—it was almost like I had expected to see dark, grimy, stains tainting the buildings, the streets, even the deep green grass. Instead, the sun shone down on clean, well-kept houses and cute stores complete with maintained lawns and pots of colorful flowers.
Chrissy clearly wasn’t impressed by any of it.
She poked at her menu. “Do you think anything here is gluten-free?”
I sighed, flipping over my coffee cup. “You’ll have to ask.”
Chrissy made a face and stared darkly out the window.
Despite the inauspicious start, she seemed to be in a better mood. Well, maybe “better” wasn’t quite the right word—“subdued” was probably more accurate. It was almost like our fight had drained vital energy from her, leaving a shell of her former self.
The waitress appeared, coffee pot in hand. “Are you two visiting for the summer?” she asked as she filled my cup. I shot her a grateful look. She looked familiar with her dark, straight hair cut in a chin-length bob and Asian features. Japanese maybe. But I couldn’t really place her. Maybe I had run into her years ago, while visiting my aunt.
“No, we just moved here,” I said, pulling my coffee toward me, doctoring it with cream and sugar.
The waitress raised her eyebrow at me. “Really? Where?”
“Charlie, I mean Charlotte Kingsley’s house.”
The waitress set the coffee pot down. “Becca? Is that you?”
Something inside me seemed to twist in on itself, hearing that name out loud. I’m not Becca, I wanted to say. Becca’s gone. It’s Rebecca now.
At the same time, I found my brain frantically searching for a wisp of something, anything, to give me a hint as to who this waitress was. “Uh …”
“It’s Mia—Mia Moto. We used to hang out, remember?”
I blinked at her and suddenly, it was like the dam opened—memories crashed down into me. I sucked in my breath, feeling physically jolted by the impact. “Mia! Oh my God, I hardly recognized you!”
She laughed in delight and held out her arms. Somehow, I found myself on my feet, swept up in a giant bear hug—impressive, considering how tiny she was. She smelled spicy, like cinnamon and coffee.
“It’s so great to see you,” Mia said, when we finally separated. “I mean, after that night, we were all so worried, but the hospital wouldn’t let any of us visit you.”
“Yeah, well, my mom …” I fumbled around, not really sure what to say. The truth was, I hadn’t wanted to see them. I had become hysterical again, when one of the nurses said I had visitors. And, until that very moment, I had never even considered how it must have looked from their point of view. They were my friends; they cared about me, and I had almost died. Of course they would want to see me. I felt sick with shame.
“I can’t believe it’s you,” I said, changing the subject. “Who else is still here? Is …”
“Daphne’s still here,” Mia interjected. “In fact, she’s still living in the same house, right by you. She moved in after her mom got sick to help her out. I know she’d love to see you.”
“And I’d love to see her too,” I said, jolted again by how much I really did miss hanging out with Mia and Daphne.
“And Daniel is still here, too.” Mia continued. “He’s engaged now.”
A rush of conflicting feelings started swirling through me at the sound of his name, anger being the most prevalent. “I’m married,” I said shortly, smiling at the last second to soften my tone.
Daniel. God, I had totally forgotten him, too. For good reason, considering he had not only stood me up, all those years ago, but he also had then ignored me completely .... like I didn’t even exist. Talk about painful. Snapping back to reality, I turned my attention back to Mia. “In fact, this is my stepdaughter, Chrissy.”
Mia turned her 40-thousand-watt, infectious smile on Chrissy. “Great to meet you, Chrissy. Make sure you ask your stepmom where all the hot places are to hang out.” Chrissy’s lips twitched upward in a semblance of a smile, and her “nicetomeetyoutoo” almost sounded friendly.
I elbowed Mia. “I don’t know if that’s such a good idea.”
Someone near the kitchen yelled Mia’s name, but she waved him off. “We definitely need to catch up.”
“Yes,” I agreed, sliding back into my seat. “I’m really surprised you’re here. I thought you would be long gone—California, right? Stanford? Law school?” I had vague memories of Mia going on and on about being the next Erin Brockovich. She had nearly memorized that movie, she had seen it so often.
Mia’s smile slipped. “Well, yeah. It’s complicated. After that night … you … Jessica …” her voice trailed off and she pulled out her order pad. “I better get your order.”
Jessica.
It felt like all the air had been sucked out of the room. I could hear Chrissy asking about gluten-free options, and not getting the answer she wanted, but it seemed like the conversation was taking place outside of the bubble I was trapped in, as I could barely hear anything but a warbling echo.
Jessica. How could I have forgotten about Jessica?
Mia, Daphne, Jessica, and me. We were the four amigos that summer. The four Musketeers. Hanging out at the beach, the mall, at my aunt’s house (because she was by the far the coolest of all the adults we had to choose from).
Until that night, when Jessica disappeared ... and I ended up in the hospital, broken, mentally and physically.
I rubbed my eyes, the faint wisp of a headache brushing my temples like a soft kiss. I realized that while my memories from that summer were finally returning, that night was still a total blank. Actually, the entire day was a black hole. I didn’t even remember taking the first drink, one of many that would put me in the hospital, having to get my stomach pumped, followed by a complete and utter nervous breakdown.
“Becca?” Mia asked, pen poised on her pad. “You okay?”
I reached for my coffee cup, glad to see my hands weren’t shaking, and tried on a smile that felt way too small. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just still recovering from moving.”
Mia didn’t look like she completely believed me, but I could tell she needed to get back to work. I ordered the American breakfast—eggs, bacon, fried potatoes with onions and peppers, and rye toast—even though I was no longer hungry. I knew I had to eat. I had barely eaten anything the day before, and if I didn’t start eating, I would probably trigger another headache. I figured chances were decent I’d get one anyway, but at least eating something would give me a fighting chance.
Along with the lack of gluten-free options, Chrissy also voiced her displeasure around the coffee choices, wanting a mocha, or latte, or something, made with some other type of milk than, well, milk from a cow, so she ended up with a Coke. I restrained myself from pointing out that sod
a was probably a lot less healthy choice than something with gluten or dairy in it. Ah, kids.
She blew the paper off the straw and plopped the straw in her soda, then pulled out her iPhone. “Who’s Daniel?”
I didn’t look at her as I added a little more sugar to my cup, and carefully stirred. “Just a guy I knew from back when I would visit during the summer.”
“Hmmm,” Chrissy said, lifting her head from her iPhone to narrow her eyes at me. “Sounded like more than that.”
“Well, it wasn’t,” I snapped. Chrissy looked up at me in surprise, one eyebrow raised. I took a deep breath and reminded myself that I was the grown-up.
“Sorry, I didn’t sleep well last night. All your pacing kept me awake.” Oh, great, Rebecca. Fabulous apology right there. Maybe I just should have just cut to the chase and said “Sorry, not sorry.” I tried smiling to soften my words and turn it into a joke.
But, Chrissy was frowning at me. “Pacing? What are you talking about? I slept like the dead.”
I stared at her, that sense of “wrongness” I felt in the kitchen that morning rushing through me again. “But, I mean, I saw you …” my voice trailed off as images flashed through my mind.
The white nightgown disappearing into Chrissy’s room.
Chrissy standing in the kitchen wearing her red and blue sleep outfit.
I rubbed my temples, the coffee turning into a sick, greasy lump in my stomach. Oh God, I hoped I wasn’t going to throw up.
Chrissy was looking at me with something that resembled concern. Or maybe it was alarm. After all, I was the only adult she knew within 1,000 miles. “Are you okay, Rebecca?”
I reached for my water glass. “Yeah, I’m fine. It’s an old house. Old houses make all sorts of noises. I’m sure that’s what kept me awake.”
Chrissy didn’t look terribly convinced, but she went back to her iPhone. She was probably texting her friends about how I was losing it. Or worse … texting her father.
It Began With a Lie: A gripping psychological thriller (Secrets of Redemption Book 1) Page 2