Miss Behave (The Anderson Family Series Book 1)

by Traci Highland

  “Didn’t happen to visit your friend, the one Gen mentioned, what’s his name, Hunter? Gen here was telling me that he owns a jewelry store.”

  I glare at Gen and she shrugs. “No. So where were you this past weekend?”

  “Oh, here and there.”

  Here and there? Well, that’s helpful. Is this what Mom was trying to warn me about? His flagrant, suspicious vaguery? I am going to have to do some snooping and see if I can figure out where exactly it is that he’s going.

  “Can you pass the Coke, Phil?” Gen asks and shoves a piece of pizza into her mouth.

  Phil? Now Gen and Dad are on a first-name basis? Great.

  I pick the last of the mushrooms off of my pizza and I look at my father. He looks at the mushrooms on my plate. He blinks. He blinks like he's confused, like he can't understand why I'm picking mushrooms off of the pizza. He's only known me since I was what, born? I’ve never liked mushrooms. The fact that he looks so surprised kills whatever might have been left of my already pathetic appetite.

  I push away from the table just as Gen discusses her time in Tashkent with the Peace Corps. Two of the articles she wrote while she was there were picked up by Salon.com when she came back stateside.

  Dad’s attention is entirely on her. Like she is the center of the universe.

  I love Gen. And I hate myself for feeling sick right now. So I say, "It's been a long day, I'm tired, I think I'm going to go to bed."

  Genn says, "But kiddo, it's only 5:30. I was hoping we could catch a movie?"

  I meet my dad's eyes and only see emptiness. I say, "Maybe tomorrow."

  "I'll get the dishes." Gen says.

  "Good night, Babygirl."

  Yeah. Good it is maybe not the word I would use to describe it.

  There have been times when I swear that I know my dad better than anyone else on earth.

  It wasn't always that way, it took me a while to learn, but eventually I understood his need to understand the way things work, the secret things behind the walls, secrets that should he brought out into the light.

  Dad wouldn't come to visit very often but when he did the atmosphere went all-Christmas, the entire house buzzing with excitement.

  Mom would hold her lips together tight and smile, shoulders tense and her eyebrows together, but she’d make the best of it. She’d help us as we rushed to clean our rooms and draw pictures describing our latest exploits.

  Betty would rummage through her closet for the clothes that looked the nicest and Mags would break out as many baseball gloves as she could find, carrying them around with her just in case he showed up at school during practice surprise her.

  He never did.

  I still remember my first grade art project. He showed up the night before and promised me he would come. I sat on his lap in the big armchair by the fire, my six-year-old self giddy with excitement to hold my father's attention so completely.

  He smelled sweet, like smoke from his pipe that would catch in his beard and linger. The very smell seemed to match his smile as I told him about my project.

  I had designed new uniforms for my YMCA football team. Our colors were gold and blue and I had drawn what I felt to be the best gold and blue uniforms of all time. I told him that I had a whole half of a bulletin board at school devoted my designs, featured that night at the elementary school art show.

  On the day of the show, I woke up early and used that silly nail brush that Betty told me scrubbed the dirt out from underneath nails.

  School took forever that day, but at last the bell rang and I raced outside into the hall to stand by my work.

  I knew my sisters had art in the show, too and I saw Mags walking down the first grade hallway with a cookie. She shoved it into her mouth and nodded in my direction and I stood by the painting and waited.

  Mom and Ted came by. Mom fussed with my dress and Ted admired my art. "That's some great stuff." He said and ruffled my hair. “Want a cupcake?”

  I readjusted my headband and listened to him and mom go on and on about how wonderful my work was, but I rolled my eyes. They didn't know real art from the amateurs. They've never climbed Mount Kilimanjaro. Never ridden in a wooden canoe down the Amazon River.

  How do they know what makes a good art project and what doesn't? So I waited for my father.

  And waited.

  And waited until halls cleared out, and the lights grew dark. My heart sinking low in my stomach, I had sick feeling of worry.

  Maybe he was in an accident, or maybe he was spending too much time on Betty and Mag's displays and hadn't made it to mine yet.

  Other kids left with their parents, and I was alone. Eyes straining as they scanned the door at the end of the hall, desperately searching for any sign of my father. He was in town. He said he would come.

  When Mom, Ted, and my sisters rounded the corner, Ted’s hands holding a whole tray with my favorite flavor of cupcakes, I knew that Dad wasn't coming.

  My lips trembled and my chest felt like someone was squeezing it too tight.

  It couldn't be.

  It couldn't be true.

  It couldn’t be happening.

  I slid out of the little chair, my fancy shoes making a flat flapping sound on the cold tile of the hallway and joined my family.

  I knew if I took one of Ted's cupcakes I would cry, and then it would taste salty and not like delicious chocolate. I couldn't look at my mom, I couldn't look at my sisters, could only look at the parking lot that I knew was just out the front door.

  The ride home was spent in silence. Everyone knew there were no words, no amount of anger, no amount of kicking or screaming or whining or crying could change anything. It was a lesson we learned a long time ago.

  Two days later, when my dad came by the house before he set off on his latest adventure, he walked in the door and said, "Hello, baby girl! How is my sweetheart doing today?"

  I ran up to him and kicked him in the shins. He cursed and my mother yelled at him for saying those words in front of me. And then my mother, her tone short said, "You missed the girls’ art show. You must've had something very important going on with work."

  My father swiftly scooped me up in his arms and I cried.

  I wasn’t going to say anything about the art show because I didn’t want him to get mad at me and not come back. Especially since I had just kicked him, but he carried me outside and sat me down on the front stoop to our house.

  The concrete steps pricked at my legs as I sat beside him.

  "Babygirl, I'm sorry I didn't go to your show. Your mom told me all about it, said it was wonderful. And I know that I'm sure your first grade teacher told you that designing new sports uniforms was a great idea."

  I look up at him, memorizing the graying blond of his beard the high cheekbones, steel gray eyes, and part of my chest lifted knowing that he remembered what it is my art project was about. And the part of me was glad that he was out here with me and not out here with my sisters, too, even though I could tell that was a bad kind of feeling to have. A sick, green sort of feeling.

  He took my hand in his and said, "It's just that I know that you're better than school uniforms, Piper. You’re my girl. And out of all your sisters, you’re the only one who has that unquenchable curiosity."

  I didn't know what unquenchable meant and I made a note of it to see if I could find it in that illustrated dictionary later.

  He continued, “I hate to see that spark, that sense of adventure, wasted on something like designing new uniforms. Fashion is one of those are things for the weak-minded. It holds no value and answers no real questions. Do you understand?" He squeezed my hands and I nodded, feeling silly and confused and hurt somehow, like my stomach was sliding out through my toes.

  I knew I would never be able to explain any of this to my sisters. I didn’t even know what he was saying, except that something I had done wasn’t good enough for him, and it felt awful.

  Ann

  Strong. She has to be strong and not l
et him see the fear that swishes around in her stomach and makes her words tight in her throat.

  She grabs Ted’s hand as the machines beep with a maniacal regularity. Little blips that let her know that her husband lives. A heart attack. The doctors say that he’s doing well, that they caught everything in time and that even the damage to his heart will be minimal, but that moment, that moment he sat up in bed and told her not to panic. Told her that his chest hurt and then threw up. Told her to call the hospital. It’s all a blur, a sick, evil, terrifying blur.

  That was what time? One a.m.? Maybe later. She can’t remember. The clock says that it’s five a.m. now. She texted Elise and the girls but she can’t remember how long ago that was now. Sighing, she grabs Ted’s hand and leans back in the chair. At least he’ll be waking up from anesthesia soon.

  A voice cuts through the stillness. “I don’t give a damn what the rules say, I’m immediate family, that’s my brother-in-law.”

  Some poor nurse argues the point before Ann stands, “Elise.”

  The nurse forgotten, arms surround her and squeeze, followed by a flurry of questions. She answers her sister the best that she can, all the while a growing dread mounting in her stomach, words that the doctor had said, words that she just can’t shake.

  Heart disease runs in families.

  Families. Children. Phil’s heart is fine. Ted’s isn’t. She’s sick, sick, sitting here in the arms of her sister, her best friend. “He’s tough, Annie. His color’s good, look! He’ll be up and forcing you to watch Mythbusters reruns before you know it.”

  “The doctor says heart disease runs in families. To tell his children-“

  “He doesn’t have any children, not by blood, Annie, don’t worry about it.”

  Her words hurt, they hurt as they rise and erupt. “Piper.”

  “What? Piper will be here in a second, let’s just sit.”

  “No.” Elise leads her back towards the chair by the bed but she shrugs her off and stares at the floor. “Piper is Ted’s, Elise. His daughter.”

  Ted’s even breathing and the beeping of a myriad of machines mar the malignant silence.

  The silence snakes its way around her gut, around her head and arms and down to the tip of her fingers. It’s coming. The screaming. The shock and horror and-

  “Okay” –Elise’s words are tentative, uncharacteristically soft in tone- “so we tell Piper.”

  The shaking begins in her legs and stretches up to her arms, eyes wet and checks cold, her body ill at giving up a secret like its carried as a piece of its own for over twenty six years. “I can’t, Elise, I can’t tell anyone-“

  “I’ve noticed.” Elise’s face hard, she sits in the chair beside the hospital bed, glancing between Ted and Ann. “Jesus, why the hell didn’t you tell me?”

  “I couldn’t-“

  “Did you tell Ted?”

  “He knows.”

  “But did you tell him?”

  “No, but he’s figured it out years ago.”

  “And what? I’m supposed to do the same thing? Going around figuring out the pieces of your life that you don’t feel like telling me?”

  “No, it’s not like that-“

  “What is it like? Twenty six years, Annie! What else have you kept from me?”

  “I didn’t want to keep anything from you-“

  “You did, though. Why?”

  “I don’t know-“

  “I’m not worthy? You don’t trust me? What? What is it, Annie? What-“

  “I didn’t want you to be ashamed of me.”

  Her words barely rise above a whisper but land between them like a bomb.

  Elise, her hands trembling, stands up, kisses Ted on the forehead, and turns to walk out, opening the door as Piper and Mags walk in the door. She doesn’t return.

  The girls bum-rush Ted’s bedside, squeezing hands and whispering encouraging things until Mags looks up and asks, “You okay?”

  Ann looks at her Piper, heart pounding, head light, and opens her mouth.

  Piper falls into her arms, wrapping her up tight, asking, “Let it out, mom, it’s alright.”

  It’s not alright. How can she do this to Piper? Tell her now when she’s so worried about Ted? About getting a new job? It would crush her, ruin everything for her.

  Try as she might, she can’t let it out.

  So she stands there, legs shaking, and cries in the arms of her daughter.

  Chapter 10

  A Firm Lack of Resolve

  Dear Miss Behave,

  I hate my job. I realize that I’m lucky to have a job, but I’m miserable. My boss yells at me constantly and once he told me that I was possessed by the devil.

  Every time I get in the car to go to work I hate myself. What should I do?

  Sincerely,

  Trapped in the Workplace That Time Forgot

  Dear Trapped,

  Get ready to burn your bra, cupcake, because we’re busting out! You need to give that boss of yours two things, darling. One, a resignation letter, and two, a copy of Exorcisms 101, because it sounds like he needs it.

  You need to chase your happy and no one should ever hate themselves under any circumstances. You deserve better. So light a match and burn up those inhibitions! Oh, and flip your former co-workers the bird once you hit the freeway, darling, it may make you feel better.

  Sincerely,

  Miss Behave

  I roll over in bed and grab my laptop from where it’s charging on my nightstand. Last night at the hospital was awful. Seeing Ted beneath all those wires, looking so weak, so mortal, makes me feel like a child for the way I acted with Hunter the other night. I am a grown woman, I should start acting like one.

  Texting Hunter, I apologize for running out of the car the other night. It was a silly, immature thing to do, and I am done being silly and immature. I kissed him, I liked it, we are both adults and both acknowledge that it meant nothing. It was just a kiss, and I should own up to my less-than-mature behavior afterwards.

  Today is the start of a new day, the day of a grown, more-mature Piper. A woman who takes responsibility and-

  Oh my gosh is that cat vomit? I lift up my sock and see that the stupid cat got sick on the floor. Again.

  Get it off, get it off! Peeling the wet, slimy sock away from my foot, I hop into the hall bathroom on the clean foot. It’s so gross and warm and eew, eew, eww!

  I stretch up to the sink and rinse off my soiled foot in the sink. So nasty. I toss the sock in the garbage and grab a towel off of the top of the shower rod to dry my foot.

  The shower curtain swishes and as I pat off the nasty foot and remove the other sock, I hear a low, angry growl coming from the pink porcelain tub.

  “No,” I say, gesturing with the towel. “You have no right to be angry. I’m the one stuck cleaning up your mess.”

  She hisses and arches her back. Feline devil-beast that she is, she takes a swat at my arm.

  “Don’t you hiss at me, young lady!” I grab the roll of paper towels and the spot bot out from underneath the sink.

  I walk into the hall to clean up her mess and grumble as I set the spot bot into action over the spot on the carpet. Oh no. It can’t be. It smells like- yuk!

  “Seriously, cat, you have a litter box! No need to pee on the carpet, too.” I blot up the mess but, ewww, it smells terrible. I grab the cat stain spray and soak it down, but nothing burns the stench out faster than good old-fashioned sunshine, so I lug the five-foot, pee-sodden throw rug outside.

  I can’t just toss it on top of the grass, I should really drape it over something.

  It’s cold enough that I shouldn’t be outside in my pajamas and bare feet. Yikes! The frost stings my toes as I walk out into the front yard to find some sunshine. The back yard gets no sun, ever, as it’s pretty much just wild, so it has to be- there! Halfway to the front sidewalk there’s a big, sunny patch. I drop the rug and run back inside to grab a chair or something that I can drape it over so it won’t get all m
oldy from lying on the grass.

  The metal folding chairs do nothing to make me any warmer, and I rush outside, pausing only to throw on some slippers. I set up the chairs and lift the unwieldy carpet over them, arms and cheeks and ears now freezing. Damn, it’s cold, but this should work just-

  Someone gasps. I turn and see Mrs. Brookes, holding a set of tiny purple hand weights, decked out in a matching purple and white jogging suit, her hair neatly held back by a floral, purple headband and her lips glistening beneath her puffs of chilled breath.

  Is that purple lip gloss? Seriously, who accessorizes when they power walk?

  “Morning, Mrs. Brookes,” I say and race back into the house.

  I slam the door and run up the stairs, hoping to regain feeling in my limbs soon.

  The cat watches me pick up the spot bot from her perch on top of the hall bookcase, swatting her tail back and forth, moving it faster and faster until-

  She lunges and does the double-swat at my head as I bend over the spot bot. “Ow! You stupid cat, get off of me!”

  She growls, backs up, and races off down the hall. My God, can cats be bi-polar? She slept on my pillow all night!

  My face stings at the small scratches and I wash them off in the sink. Great, now I have to re-do my make-up and-

  She’s back, rubbing herself against my legs.

  “Why are you so mean to your mama?”

  She continues to rub my shins.

  “Seriously, sweetheart, if you need to talk about it, mama’s here, but vomiting on the carpet and swatting my head are not acceptable options-“

  “Wait, are you talking to the cat?” Gen asks, arms folded as she stands in the door.

  “Clearly.”

  “Well, while you were having a chat with your evil feline, I went to get coffee and saw one of those guys driving by our house again.”

  Guy? “What guy?”

  “I know you’ve seen them, meatheads in a car, driving around the house, looking menacing.”