“Who’s here, Daddy?” Caty tugs the door wider and peers outside. She smiles up at James. “Hello, I’m Sarah Catherine. You can call me Caty. Everyone else does.”
James blinks and moves back a step. It isn’t a full step, just enough of a reaction to make it obvious Aimee’s Mini-Me took him by surprise. Caty has her mom’s smile and wild hair. Though Aimee now wears hers shoulder length and does that blow-out thingy to straighten her curls.
“Hi.” James’s throat bobs with a rough swallow. “Hello, Caty. It’s nice to meet you. I’m James a—” He stops, glancing at me, almost daring me to object to what he’s about to say. He returns his attention to Caty. “I’m a friend of your mom.”
I grimace. So much for our “stranger danger” chats. I yank off the tutu Velcroed at my waist and shove the costume at Caty, nudging her behind the door. “Go get ready for your nap.”
Caty clamps the princess outfit to her chest. “I don’t wanna nap,” she whines.
“Pick out a book, then.” I don’t care what she does, so long as she’s deep inside the house. I pat her head and pivot her around. “I’ll be there in a moment.”
Caty thrusts out her lower lip, but she obeys.
Gaze narrowed, I study James. Gone is the longer surfer hair. He’s still tan, and though he wears a shirt and shorts, his attire is a far cry from the board shorts and old TORNEO DE SURF shirt he wore when I met him on the beach, and again a couple of days later when I ran into him outside Casa del sol’s beach bar in Puerto Escondido. Despite the reconstructive surgery to his face, he now looks like a Donato, his posture and attire more aligned with his brother Thomas.
James rubs his forearm, then lets that arm fall by his side, not looking at all at ease under my scrutiny.
“Let me start by saying I’m sorry for—”
“Kissing my wife?” I interject.
His jaw hardens. “For coming here.” He motions at the house. “I knew Aimee wouldn’t be here and the last time she saw you and me together . . .” He braces his hands on his hips. “I understand it was awkward, back when I was Carlos.”
Ah yes, Sunday lunch at the Tierneys’ with two surprise guests: Carlos and Natalya. That was fun. Not. I cross my arms. “Go on.”
James looks beyond me. “May I come in?”
“No.” I step outside, closing the door behind me.
“Fair enough.” James nods once and retreats a step. “How is she today?”
“Aimee? Fine,” I clip, though truthfully, I don’t know. I should have called her this morning.
“Why are you here?” I ask, directing the conversation away from Aimee.
He lifts a shoulder, nonchalant. “Mark me curious. I wanted to meet you.”
“You wanted to know if I was worthy enough of Aimee.”
He purses his lips, but eventually nods. The man has balls.
“Are you back for good?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “My sons and I are in Hawaii. We live there now.”
Thank God for that.
“I’m going to be up front with you.” James braces his legs. “I met Aimee yesterday to apologize for some things that happened between us while we were together. I didn’t want you to assume anything is going on between us.”
“And why would I assume that?”
The corner of James’s mouth quirks. “Because I would if I were in your shoes.”
Truth, I admit.
I absently scratch my cheek. “Aimee told me she’d forgiven you the last time you saw her. What makes this time different?”
“When we met then, we . . .” James stops as though considering his words. He glances at the pavement. “We left a lot unsaid.”
Because his tongue had been down Aimee’s throat.
I want to throttle James, but I can respect the man’s need for closure. Aimee sought the same thing when she went looking for James in Mexico. Still . . .
“You kissed my wife.”
I can’t let it go.
James’s face takes on a red tinge. “At the risk of you planting that fist in my face”—he points at my clenched hand—“Aimee and I will always have history. There’s nothing any of us can do to change that. But it’s you she’s in love with. And me . . . well, I’ve got someone myself.”
“Natalya?”
James flashes a smile. Aimee’s right. He’s in love.
“But that’s not why I’m here.” James reaches into his pocket. “A woman found me on the beach last month. She gave me this.” He flashes a business card and a chill blasts into my chest, spreading outward. Gooseflesh rises on my arms and the back of my neck.
“I recognized the name from the journals I kept as Carlos. She told me someone I knew was looking for her so I did some checking around. I believe she was talking about you.”
I stare at the card pinched in James’s fingers, not at all surprised to see the name printed in bold, black lettering. LACY SAUNDERS PSYCHIC COUNSELOR. A “specialist” in finding missing persons and the “answers you seek,” as described in neat print underneath her name. Lacy, who I remember telling me her name was Laney, had found me in a ditch when I was nine and had gone missing. She also led Aimee to Mexico to find James, which made me think she could do the same for me and help find my mom.
But Sarah Collins hadn’t gone missing. She’d left.
I take the card with the New Mexico phone number, and I’m hurled back to the roadside where an ethereal angel found my dirty and starved nine-year-old self.
James nods at the card. “Random for her of all people to be at the same beach at the same time, like she knew I’d be there. But that’s impossible, right?”
Impossible? No.
Improbable? Yes.
But who am I to question Fate? She has no problem being a bitch when she wants to. Everyone ends up somewhere and with someone, hopefully under improved circumstances.
James steps off the porch, catching my attention.
“I hope you find what you’re looking for, Ian.” He gives me a short, two-fingered abbreviated wave, then turns and walks away. I presume back to his rental car and then on to Hawaii.
CHAPTER 6
IAN, AGE NINE
“What about this shirt?” his mom asked.
Ian scrunched his face at the navy-blue polo. Preppy clothes. No way, Jose. He’d been shopping for school clothes with his mom for thirty minutes, twenty-nine minutes longer than he cared to be at the downtown clothing corral. He gazed longingly out the big, square front window onto Main Street. Three kids he recognized from school pedaled by on their bikes. One rode a skateboard. He popped off the curb. Saturdays were meant for pegging girls with popcorn at the matinee or wrestling his best friend, Marshall, as they balanced on slick rocks in the creek to see who drenched whom first.
Spending the day running errands with his mom was not Ian’s idea of a fun Saturday, especially since she’d been shifting a lot.
Last night she flirted with Doug, the cashier at the market. They lived in a small town. Everyone knew everyone, and Doug knew Ian’s mom was married. He also knew, as many of the townsfolk did, that she wasn’t quite right in the head. But that didn’t stop her from asking Doug if he liked her new blouse. Did it look better on her with the bodice buttoned or unbuttoned? Untucked or tucked into the waist of her skirt? Then she demonstrated. Doug wasn’t the only one looking uncomfortable as he awkwardly answered her questions and bagged her groceries. Ian was mortified. His face flamed a hundred degrees. He prayed for Doug to bag faster so they could get out of the store before one of his friends saw that his mom was acting like a high school senior looking for a hookup. The last thing Ian wanted was for her to embarrass him again while they shopped for clothes. He silently pleaded that none of his friends would show up at the store.
“What’s wrong with this shirt?” His mom admired it and Ian flicked the collar. She made a noise of impatience. “It’s the style. All the actors in Hollywood are wearing them.”
His mom religi
ously read her rag mags, as his dad called them, cover to cover.
“I don’t like it.”
“We’re not leaving until you find something.”
Ian groaned a complaint and wandered to a rack of graphic Ts. He flipped through the hangers, stopping at a black shirt with an illustrated camera and yellow star for the camera flash. The shirt was ugly. He wouldn’t be caught dead wearing it any more than the polo his mom wanted to buy. But the shirt reminded him of an idea he had on the drive home from the market last night.
He showed his mom the shirt. “What if I took pictures of you?”
She returned the polo to the rack. “Me? What for?”
“Remember when you asked me last night why I was upset?”
“Here’s a shirt.” She showed him a green T.
“Mom,” he complained, “you were acting funny at the grocery store and you didn’t believe me.”
“I still don’t.”
She never did when he told her. He’d show her the empty vodka bottles and she’d accuse him of pouring them out. Then she’d ground him. Since she couldn’t remember drinking the alcohol, it didn’t happen.
“Do you remember paying for the groceries?”
Her hand hesitated over the rack.
“Do you remember unbuttoning your shirt in front of Doug?” His neck heated just thinking about it.
She gasped. “Ian Collins, watch your mouth. I’d never do such a thing.”
“But I saw you. So did Doug.” He muttered the last bit.
She forcibly shoved aside a group of shirts. “I do remember shopping and driving home.”
But not those moments in the checkout line.
“What if I take pictures of you when you act differently? You know, those times you make Dad and me call you Jackie.”
His mom paused in her shirt hunt. She tugged away a few strands of hair stuck in the corner of her mouth and looked down and away. Ian saw her neck quiver and knew he’d hit a nerve. His mom didn’t like hearing that name spoken out loud. Ian first remembered hearing her say the name when he was five, but Jackie had been around since before he was born. His dad always begged her to stop. But how could she when she didn’t remember those hours, or days, she insisted her name was Jackie?
His mom fiddled with a hanger hook. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea, Ian.”
“Maybe the pictures will show you and Dad why Jackie needs money. She’s always looking for your wallet and I know you hide it whenever we’re home. I can find out why she needs it.”
His mom pierced Ian with her gaze over the rack. “How do you know this?”
“I heard you and Dad talking.”
“You shouldn’t be eavesdropping.”
“I know, I’m sorry. But I can show you what Jackie does and where she goes. Don’t you want to know what happens?”
“Ian—”
“I can follow Jackie and take pictures.”
“It’s too dangerous.”
Ian put on his brave face. He stood taller. “Jackie’s never hurt me. She’s just mean and I’m getting stronger.” And bigger. He’d be ten soon.
“No.”
“But you always ask me what happened even when you say you don’t believe me.”
His mom yanked the graphic T from him and tossed it over the rack. “I said no.” She gripped his wrist. “We’re done here.”
Ian jerked his arm from his mom’s grasp. It was bad enough that she was upset with him in public, but he wouldn’t let her drag him from the store like a toddler throwing a temper tantrum. He followed her out the doors, sulking.
“I’ll be careful,” he insisted when they reached the car, not ready to give up. She might not realize it, but his mom needed him. Baseball season had his dad on the road with the Padres. His long absences made her irritable and anxious.
“You’ll do no such thing,” his mom said when Ian sank into the station wagon’s backseat.
“But I want to help.”
“Not in that way. No pictures, Ian. End of discussion.” She started the car. “Your dad’s due home in a few hours and I have to start dinner. I can’t be worrying about you galloping off and playing superhero.”
“I don’t gallop.” Ian pouted. He picked up his camera from the floor and clicked the lens cap on and off. Click-clack.
He wasn’t trying to play superhero either. But he did see Jackie as the villain.
“Stop that noise. It’s annoying.”
Ian scowled. He clicked the cap on and off again, faster. Click-clack. Click-clack.
His mom braked hard, coming to a full stop. Ian’s forehead slammed into the front passenger seat.
“Knock it off.”
Ian rubbed his head. His parents barely saw each other during baseball season. Dad had to wonder what his mom was up to when she shifted to Jackie. “I’m going to ask Dad. He might want to see the pictures.”
“I don’t give a shit what you ask him.”
The fine hairs on Ian’s neck lifted. His skin prickled as though ants were racing across his shoulders and down his arms.
His mom stomped on the accelerator. The car lurched forward rather than turning toward home. Ian watched the road they were supposed to go on disappear from view. He swung his head around and was about to tell his mom she forgot to turn. But it wasn’t his mom in the driver’s seat, not anymore. He could tell by her posture, the determined set of her jaw, and the way she gripped the steering wheel. It was all wrong.
Sweat dampened Ian’s palms. Suddenly, the idea of documenting Jackie seemed stupid.
“Where are we going?” he dared to ask.
Jackie didn’t answer. She popped open the glove compartment and funneled her hand through tire-pressure sticks, paper napkins, and old sunglasses until she found a hair band. Using her knee to steer, she tied her hair into a high ponytail and then rolled down the windows. Pungent air, sour with the odor of fertilizer, clung to the inside of the car like smoke from his mom’s burned dinners. It hovered below the ceiling, filling every corner.
“Mom?” Ian asked, not quite stomaching he should be calling her Jackie. Maybe if he kept saying Mom she might shift back. “Mom? Mom . . . Mom . . . Mom!”
“Mom. Mom. Mom. Mommeeee! Stop calling me that. I’m not your mother. I’m Jackie. Say it.”
Ian held his mouth closed tight and shook his head.
“Say it,” she ordered.
He shook his head harder and Jackie slammed the brakes. His head rolled forward, straining his neck. “Ow.”
She gunned the engine and braked again. “Say it!”
Ian rubbed the back of his neck and scowled at her.
“I’ll keep doing this.”
His neck and forehead hurt. “Jackie,” he whispered.
“What? I didn’t hear you.”
“Jackie.” Bitch, he thought to himself and then felt guilty for thinking it in the first place.
“Much better.” She grinned. It wasn’t his mom’s smile.
Jackie accelerated. The car sped along the two-lane road, taking them farther from town.
Ian took a deep breath and slowly, as quietly as he could, removed the lens cap. He called up his bravery and lifted the camera to his face. He brought Jackie into focus and snapped a photo. The flash went off.
Jackie’s head swiveled. She glared at him.
Ian snapped another photo, capturing her twisted expression, her skin blotchy from anger and the wind. She flipped him off.
He pressed the shutter button. The bulb flashed again.
Jackie braked, swerving to the side of the road. Ian swayed violently in the backseat. She thrust the gear stick into Park and dumped the contents of Sarah’s purse on the front seat. She opened the wallet and swore. “There’s barely any cash.” She pocketed a five and flashed Ian the ATM card. “Did you get the PIN?”
He shook his head.
“You promised you’d get the PIN.”
He’d also promised himself he’d protect his mom when his da
d couldn’t. He had no intention of breaking that promise.
“She wouldn’t tell me.” Because he hadn’t asked her.
“Of course she won’t tell you, you moron.” She cuffed his ear. Ian winced. “You’re supposed to watch her withdraw the cash and memorize the numbers.”
“You make me wait in the car.”
Ian realized his slip as soon as he spoke.
“I don’t make you. Sarah does. I’m not Sarah!” she shrieked. “Sarah’s weak. She has no guts. That’s why I have to do everything for her.”
“What do you have to do for her?”
Jackie glowered at him. He squared his shoulders. He had to show her she couldn’t intimidate him even though he quaked in his worn Vans.
She looked at him in disgust, then shoveled the contents back into his mom’s purse.
“No PIN, no ride. Get out of the car.”
“What?” Ian scanned the area around them. They were in the middle of nowhere. Open fields sprawled outward in all directions.
Jackie leaned over the seat and snapped the latch on Ian’s door. “I said get the fuck out.”
Something about the timbre of her voice kept Ian’s rear glued to the vinyl. He didn’t move. He couldn’t move, his legs were shaking so badly.
Jackie grabbed a pen and pressed the end deep into her neck where it threatened to pierce her skin. “Get out or I stab myself. You’ll never see your mom again.”
“You wouldn’t,” Ian dared.
“Don’t test me.” She pressed harder. A pin drop of blood pooled.
Ian’s belief Jackie would never harm him, let alone herself, blew out the car with a gust of wind. He scrambled from the station wagon.
“Close the damn door,” Jackie shouted when Ian just stood there.
He slammed the door.
“Walk home, loser,” she yelled through the open passenger window. “Don’t hitch a ride and don’t let anyone see you. You do and I’ll make sure you never see your mom again.”
The station wagon sped away, engine groaning, tires spitting gravel and dirt.
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