by Fiona Quinn
Avery leaped forward, slapping a hand across her mother’s mouth. “Don’t you dare open your mouth. Do you hear me? Stop. Don’t you dare sing another note.”
Ginny clawed Avery’s hand away. “Avery Grace Goodyear, how dare you manhandle me?”
Avery released her mother and spun around, looking for a plan, trying to get control of the anxiety and anger pumping through her veins.
Her mom was not responsible; it was a disease. Hate the illness—not her mother, Avery tried to reason with herself.
“Mom, I’m sorry. Right now I need you to tell me why you aren’t sleeping.” Avery moved to the highboy where Ginny kept her medications.
She examined the prescription contraption that separated the pills by date and time. When the time came to take the medication, a bell sounded, and the compartment popped open, that way Ginny wouldn’t forget how many tablets she’d taken and OD. Again.
All of the opened boxes were empty.
“Mom, you took your sleeping pills didn’t you?”
“Yes.” Ginny pulled her sheet in front of her and looked at the floor.
Avery watched her mother carefully. “Mom, did you take your sleeping pill tonight?”
Ginny cast innocent eyes at Avery. “Yes. I took a shower, dressed in this gown, took my pills with a glass of water. Then, I said my rosary.”
Avery expelled an exhausted sigh.
“Mom, why didn’t you take your pills?” Avery tried to modulate her voice to sound as friendly and supportive as possible. She picked up the wastebasket and searched through the debris. She opened the drawer of Ginny’s nightstand. “Mom, we need to find your pills. Where did you put them?”
Ginny slid to the end of the bed and put her hands flat on either side of her. “Avery Grace, don’t you sass me. I told you, I took the pills.”
“Get up.”
“What? No. Leave my room this instant.”
Avery reached for her mother’s wrists, planted a foot on the bed for leverage, and pulled. “Get up!”
With Ginny standing beside her, Avery lifted the corner of the mattress. There lay a dozen or so pills—blue, white, yellow, and two-tone. Avery scraped them onto her hand and held them under Ginny’s nose.
“What is this? What did you do, Mom? No wonder you’ve been off your rocker. You haven’t been taking your medications.”
Ginny shook a defiant finger in Avery’s face. “Who are you to tell me, your mother, what to do?”
“I’ll tell you who I am. I’m the daughter who’s keeping you out of a jail cell tonight.” Avery moved to the bureau where she put down the jumble of drugs. She picked out two of the little white ones and advanced toward her mother. “Here you go, open up.”
Ginny sealed her lips in a tight pucker.
Avery reached for her mom’s jaw, but Ginny twisted her head to the side.
“I swear to God, Mom, you’re going to take these pills and go to sleep if I have to sit on you and force them down your throat.”
“Why?” Ginny’s voice trembled with emotion. Fear and sadness filled her eyes. “Why are you brutalizing me? Why are you helping them?”
“Helping who?”
“Sally and the others. They’re trying to kill me, Avery. They want me dead. Then they won’t report it. They’ll shove my body into the deep freezer downstairs and leave me there, frozen like a human ice cube.”
“What?” Avery scanned her mother’s face and only saw conviction there.
“They want my money, Avery, my social security check. Once I’m dead, they can keep taking it for the next thirty years without anyone knowing the difference. Unless we lose electricity. Then maybe my body would stink, and the neighbors would call the police to figure out what the smell was.”
Avery stood there flabbergasted as she listened to her mother unfold her delusions.
Ginny had laced her fingers and held them in front of her face like a beggar. “But then I saw the delivery man bringing the box, and I asked Sally what was in it. She fessed up and said it was a generator. So now I know they’re prepared to keep my body frozen even if the electricity goes out.”
“Mom, no one wants you dead.” Avery pushed away the whisper that she would feel relief without the burden of her mom’s illness. But being unburdened by the trials of her mother’s illness didn’t mean that Avery wished anything bad for her mom.
Avery remembered her dad in his last moments alive. He lay in the hospital, crying, pleading, and pulling from her the promise she would take care of her mom—keep her out of an institution for as long as humanly possible. Avery focused on the pills lying on her palm, and she thought she was getting to the end of her strength. She just wasn’t sure if she had hit the mark yet where her dad would agree she had done her very best. Avery desperately wished her dad had been clearer about her oath’s parameters when he had asked her for this sacrifice.
“I’m not going to prison for the rest of my life for the chance at sixteen hundred a month of social security money split with your caregivers.”
“Not you Avery, Sally and the others. They’re plotting. I know it. And they’re stealing my clothes, too. My things. My things are all disappearing.”
The tension behind Avery’s temples beat a palpable rhythm.
“Okay, Mom. We need to talk about this sometime. But right now it’s too early in the morning. I need to get some sleep.”
“Well, go on ahead, then, you’re the one who barged in here and put the light on.”
“Take your pills, and we’ll both get some rest.”
“No!” Ginny put her fists up as if to punch Avery.
Avery lunged forward, grasped Ginny’s face at the tender spot where the upper and lower jaws came together, and squeezed. It was the same move her mom used on her when Avery was a little girl and refused to have her mouth washed out with soap. It worked like a charm. Ginny’s mouth popped open.
Sweating and shaking, Avery shoved the pills down the back of Ginny’s throat then released her.
Ginny was sobbing when Avery handed her the glass of water.
“Now get in bed, Mom. Don’t you dare open your mouth—not one single note until breakfast, do you hear me?”
Her mother nodded, her childlike eyes filled with hurt.
Shutting off the light, Avery moved down the stairs. She’d need to ask the doctor if she could have a shot for her mother instead of the pills. Something liquid that she could mix into her hot tea. Something easier.
In the kitchen, Avery lifted the lid off the cake plate and considered the last piece of Devil’s Food. If she continued to self-medicate with cake like this, she was going to be an elephant no matter how hard she pushed herself at the gym.
She opened the lid on her laptop, checked her email, nothing in her inbox from Taylor, darn him. She sent him a reminder.
Chapter Outlines
Hello Taylor,
I think that you’re probably very busy working on your manuscript. It’s probably too time consuming to ask you for the information I requested in our last email exchange.
How about a brief chat?
I can come to you immediately, leaving out as soon as I know where you are. I just need to make travel arrangements.
Looking forward to it!
Avery Goodyear
She pressed send, thinking that if Taylor happened to be in Paris, that wouldn’t be a hardship. Maybe she could even get out of going to New York with George. Surely, from all of his angst, he would deem Knapp the more important focus.
Avery flipped to her Facebook feed. Scrolling through the duck faces and delicious looking food photos of people who were out enjoying their lives over this past weekend sapped Avery’s reserves. She worked hard on not feeling bitter.
Her mail pinged.
RE: Chapter Outlines
Avery don’t you need your beauty sleep? Hope my missing your deadline isn’t what’s keeping you up.
I’ve rented a house in Warrenton, Virginia. Off the beaten tra
ck, but near the Rappahannock and awesome horse country. It’s just boring enough to keep my fingers tapping at the computer. Later in the morning, when normal people are awake, my band will be here, checking out the game component of The Uprising project that is featuring their music.
Come on. Why not?
Culver’s Farm off of Old Waterloo.
T.
Avery stared at the screen.
Warrenton was only an hour away. At least she wouldn’t need to fly out of town.
An hour’s drive into the country was manageable.
Nice even.
It occurred to Avery that there were only snippets of her day that were bearable—stuck in bumper to bumper traffic while listening to music, talking to Lolly, and Tweeting with Rowan. She rubbed the heels of her palms into her eyes.
What a pitiful excuse for a life.
Chapter Fourteen
Avery
Monday
Warrenton, Virginia
The old fashioned farmhouse had been beautifully refurbished. The high ceilings and intricate crown moulding, the polished wooden floors, were backdrops for lush modern furnishings and art.
Avery wandered into the house, back toward the kitchen, following behind the woman who had opened the door with a “Oh, hey, you actually came.” She’d turned and headed toward the back of the house, slinging an “I’m still drinking my first cup of coffee. Want some?” over her shoulder.
“Sure,” Avery called. After her neighbor had phoned, Avery hadn’t been able to fall asleep, the anxiety that sparked her nerves was too bright to allow her to rest.
Another cup of coffee might just help.
Of course, Avery was already nervous and twitchy, so she wasn’t sure about adding caffeine to the mix. What Avery needed was a slice of chocolate cake. She knew she was an addict. She knew that was her mental health crutch. But she’d tried the counselling-pharmaceutical path, and that dampened her creativity to a point that she couldn’t function at work. That was the time she’d given up her own writing and hadn’t picked it back up.
Writing would wait. Hopefully.
She’d just churn stories through her brain and someday she’d have the time and the quiet to write them all down. Uninterrupted.
Avery was perched on a red cushioned stool in the bright yellow kitchen.
The woman placed a mug in front of her on the countertop and pushed a tray with sweetener options and cream over.
Out the window, across the manicured lawn, a horse was munching grass behind a barbed wire fence. Avery dragged her attention from the picturesque scene to glance back down the hall, then over to the woman who was fixing her coffee. “I’m Avery Goodyear from Windsor Shreveport.”
“I know who you are,” the woman said then sipped her coffee.
“I’m sorry. I’m uhm…here to talk to Taylor Knapp?”
“Uh huh,” the woman said.
Avery looked around to the hallway again. “I’m wondering if you could let him know I’m here.”
“He knows,” she said. “Or at least, I know. I go by the pen name Taylor Knapp. You can call me Taylor.”
“Oh!” Avery said.
George had definitely used male pronouns. George must never have met Taylor. Avery wasn’t sure this woman wasn’t pulling her leg. She didn’t look like a gamer. Not that Avery had a specific idea of what a gamer should look like.
“Surprise,” Taylor said.
“I…assumed,” Avery said lamely.
“Oh, I meant for you to. In the gaming industry women are treated like shit. If you think I’m a guy, I’m brilliant. If you knew I was a woman? You’d drag me through the mud and spit on me. Then you’d kick me while I was down. I tried that route, and it sucked,” she said, dumping a spoonful of sweetener into her mug. “Yeah, things have been much easier since I started pretending to be a guy.”
“I’m sorry,” Avery whispered.
They were both quiet.
After another sip of coffee Avery asked, “Is that why you wanted a female editor?”
“I didn’t have any standing to ask for what I wanted with the first book. Now, they’ll do just about anything to drag a sequel out of me.” She chuckled. “I figured, I could use that power to lift another woman up.”
Is that what Taylor was doing by getting Avery involved? Lifting her up?
“Also, Fast Forward, my video production company told me to request you.”
“They told you my name specifically, not just to ask for a woman?” Avery settled her mug on its saucer.
“Yeah, your name specifically. Why?”
Avery lifted her gaze to meet Taylor’s eye. “It’s just that you’re listed as a science fiction author with video game adaptation. I’m a romance editor. I’ll be hard pressed to help you with your content editing. The voice, the rhythm, the tropes, and characters, this project isn’t something I should be working on.”
Taylor shrugged.
“Would you like me to help you find a more appropriate editor?” Avery slid her hands to her lap and crossed her fingers hard.
“Nope. I was told to request you. I’m good.”
“All right,” Avery said, lifting her hands back to the counter, not at all surprised that the finger crossing hadn’t worked. By rule, it never did. But Avery still tried, just in case there was any chance at a change in luck. “I’m wondering if you need a sounding board to bounce some ideas off so the project can move forward.”
“Are you familiar with my work?”
“I read The Unrest. I didn’t enjoy the themes that you presented. I was surprised by the quality of your writing. The writing is actually incredibly good.”
Taylor laughed big loud guffaws.
Avery studied the young woman in front of her. Maybe ten years her junior, but light years ahead in the infamy and fortune categories. Avery reached her fingers up under her glasses and rubbed her eyes. She hated wearing glasses, but this morning her eyes were too tired to wear her contacts. She was exhausted and really, truly, deeply didn’t want to be having this conversation.
Avery spun her mug in her hands, feeling the radiant warmth through the ceramic. “Your work made me think of the phrase, wild Abyss.”
Taylor’s eyes shifted up and her lips moved as she mouthed the words to herself. “That’s from Milton’s Paradise Lost.”
“Right.” Avery nodded. She pulled out her phone and scrolled to the page she’d pasted into a memo. “The whole quote goes—”
“Into this wild Abyss/ The womb of Nature,” Taylor recited. “and perhaps her grave—/ Of neither sea, nor shore, nor air, nor fire,/ But all these in their pregnant causes mixed/ Confusedly, and which thus must ever fight,/ Unless the Almighty Maker them ordain/ His dark materials to create more worlds, --/ Into this wild Abyss the wary Fiend/ Stood on the brink of Hell and looked a while,/ Pondering his voyage…” Taylor took a sip of coffee. “You’re right. That’s exactly what I wrote—pregnant pauses, personal confusion, standing on the brink of hell, and a fight that will never be solved. It’s the human condition. Really astute of you.” Her gaze was far away, and she nodded her head, then focused again on Avery. “I hadn’t put that together before. But that quote there pretty much embodies my work.”
Avery stared at Taylor then slid her phone back into her pocket.
“Wild Abyss,” Taylor repeated. “Not everyone’s mind would jump to Milton.”
“Do you have a lot of poetry at the tip of your tongue like that?” Avery asked.
“That? Yes. My mother thought I had a gift with words at an early age. Ever since I was five years old, I had to memorize a poem a week. And then she’d put the name on an index card. On Sundays she would have me recite the poem I had just learned plus those she selected at random from the pile so I could keep them fresh. Or as she would explain it, move the poems from my prefrontal lobe through my hippocampus and encode them into the various places in my cortex.”
“Ah,” Avery said. “Well that helps me to unde
rstand the language you chose.”
“Epic, don’t you think?” She wiggled her brows.
“That seems like a lot of work to keep that many poems so easily accessible.”
Taylor shrugged. “I didn’t think it was such a big deal. Once I’ve seen words written down, they go right in.” She tapped her forehead. “Sort of like a cloth cleaning up a spill.”
“Do you remember your very first poem?”
“Sure, it was ‘Wynken, Blyken and Nod’ by Eugene Field. We worked on it all week. Mom made it into a game.” Taylor shrugged. “I thought it was fun.”
“Your mom had you do fifty odd poems a year, and by the time you had been doing this for a decade, you could easily pull five hundred poems forward as you wished?”
“Pretty much. Though at some point in middle school, I refused to do it anymore, so I didn’t memorize five hundred poems. By that time, I preferred Lego robots and coding. But I think the poetry made a permanent impression. Codes can be a kind of poetry. Math done right is elegant. When I think about my games. I think about heroic works and try to capture the expanse and humanity of it all.”
“Video games and coding is not part of my world. I’m sorry. I don’t have any frame of reference. I’m only managing this project because you requested me.”
An explosion of voices burst from a room down the hall.
“That’s the band that does the music for my games. Come on, I’ll introduce you and you can watch them play The Unrest. Then I’ll show you something that I think you’ll find very interesting.
***
Avery didn’t think she could stand this much longer.
The smell of sweat and testosterone filled the air.
The men were intense as they moved through the scenes. Spurting blood, shoot ‘em ups, and anger. The photoreal men that looked like poster boys for the Aryan race were in the streets hunting for stereotypes of those in marginalized communities. If they were discovered, they were chased, there was a brutal fight. The winner, when he emerged from the dust, was rewarded with enthusiastic sex in an alleyway from an overly stylized woman in barely-there clothing.