Then the bed moved again and my eyes popped open. The room was dark except for the light from the TV. And then I felt Mr. Stanley behind me, lying next to me. His body was pressed against my back.
I wanted to run, but I stayed as frozen as I had the other day. I stayed that way, even when I felt his penis on my butt.
Oh my God! What was I supposed to do?
Then, when he put his hand on my breast again, I gasped, and that was too much. I had to get up.
But Mr. Stanley’s arm stiffened like a vise and held me down. “It’s okay,” he whispered. “Be still. I’m not going to hurt you.”
I squeezed my eyes shut as he moved his hand over my breast, but then, when he put his hand under my sweatshirt, I opened my eyes and blinked and blinked and blinked. His hands just kept moving up and down my skin, over and around my breast.
Martin and Gina laughed on the TV screen, and Mr. Stanley grunted like he was having trouble breathing.
We stayed that way for what felt like hours, but I know it wasn’t that long because the same episode of Martin was still on when he moved his hand from under my sweatshirt, and then he tilted away from me. The bed moved again, and I stayed still even when Mr. Stanley went into the bathroom . . .
THE WAY MY head was turned, the first thing I saw when I woke up were the clouds below the airplane that looked like the softest of cotton. I couldn’t believe we were already in the air, and for a second I wondered if the plane was even moving—maybe there was some kind of problem. But when I looked around and everyone else was just sitting there, I guessed everything was all right.
“Would you like dinner?” the flight attendant asked me and Regan.
It seemed like I’d woken up just in time. I chose the pasta, only because Regan asked for the fish. I tried to eat because I didn’t want to think about Mr. Stanley anymore, but I couldn’t seem to get him out of my head now that I was going to see my father. That was where I wanted my mind to stay—on Elijah Wilson. But the memory of the rest of that night seemed to want to play over and over.
When Mr. Stanley had gone into the bathroom, I had stayed on the bed, because I didn’t know what to do. Even when he came out and said it was time to go, I didn’t say anything. I didn’t ask him how he knew his tire had been fixed. I didn’t ask him why he’d touched me the way he had. I didn’t do anything except follow him out of the motel and then across the four lanes.
Mr. Stanley didn’t even check the tire. He just opened the door for me, then he got in on the other side.
The trip back to White Haven wasn’t anything like when we’d come to Lipton. I didn’t say anything to Mr. Stanley and he didn’t say anything to me. There was no music, which was fine because all I wanted to do was think.
I was thinking how I was going to tell Mr. Stanley I didn’t want to see him again. I didn’t want to see him in school, I didn’t want him to drive me home, I didn’t want to be around him in any kind of way.
But then when he stopped the truck in front of the park, he said, “I’ll have all the information you want about Elijah Wilson on Monday. So I’ll see you after school.”
I had all the words I’d wanted to say to him right on my tongue, but the only thing that came out of my mouth was, “Okay.”
I blinked so that I wouldn’t cry, especially not in front of Regan. But it was hard because that night was just the beginning of my horror. There was so much bad, but the thing was, there was good, too. Because Mr. Stanley had done what he’d promised. Because of him, I’d known about Elijah Wilson since I was fourteen.
When the flight attendant cleared my food tray, I had to fight to keep thoughts away from my horror and my hell. It seemed like I stared out that window for hours, but then a man’s voice came over the loudspeakers, “Ladies and gentlemen, the seat belt sign has come back on as we begin our final descent . . .”
I leaned over to Regan. “What does that mean?”
“It means that in about twenty minutes we’ll be landing in Los Angeles.”
I turned back to the window. Everything outside was all dark now, the match to my mood. But I was hoping that would all change. I was hoping that in about twenty minutes, all of my thoughts of Mr. Stanley would be gone forever. Because now that I was going to meet my father, the rest of what happened with Mr. Stanley was the part that I really needed to forget.
15
Gabrielle
I peeked out the window and for at least the one thousand, six hundred and eighty-seventh time, I thought we’d made the wrong decision. We should have gone to the airport and met Keisha at baggage claim with balloons and signs and smiles that told her she was welcomed and loved. But now . . .
“Babe.”
I jumped and turned around with my hand pressed against my chest. “You scared me.”
Mauricio frowned. “Why are you so nervous?”
“I’m not,” I said, crossing the room past him and once again fluffing the pillows on the sofa. Then I straightened the picture frames on the mantel before I shifted the flowerpots in front of our windows.
Before I could get over to the piano to adjust the seat, Mauricio held my arm. “I don’t get why you’re so nervous.”
“Not nervous, anxious. We should have gone to the airport and we should have had Daddy here tonight, too.”
“It was his idea to give her space tonight.”
“Yeah,” I began, pacing the length of the living room, “but I think he’s just anxious like I am.” I sighed, then bounced down onto the sofa. Holding my face in my hands, I did my best to steady my breathing, to steady my soul. But I didn’t have a yoga exercise designed for meeting my sister. Feeling my husband hovering over me, I looked up.
Mauricio said, “It’s going to be fine, you know.”
I nodded, but then I said, “I just don’t know how to do this. There’s so much for us to make up.”
“And you’ll have plenty of time to do that.”
Just as he said those words, both of us turned toward the bay window and the car lights that shined bright through the night into our living room.
“Oh my God,” I whispered.
Mauricio peeked through the drapes. He said, “That’s Regan,” as if I didn’t already know.
“Oh my God,” I repeated. Anxiety had stolen my strength; I didn’t have any in my legs to stand.
Then my husband did what he always did. Without me speaking a word, he reached for my hand and lifted me up. “You got this and I got you.”
He squeezed my hand, but then left me alone as he moved toward the door. Mauricio had gotten me up, but what was I supposed to do now?
The car lights disappeared and then I heard the slamming of the SUV’s doors. I finally found the fortitude to follow my husband from the living room into the foyer. Regan (I assumed) had barely pressed the bell before Mauricio opened the door.
“Hey, you,” he said to my best friend, and he pulled her into a hug.
My eyes stayed on my model-gorgeous-perfect-as-usual friend for only a moment; then moved beyond to the young woman who stood behind her. Regan had given me the dossier on Keisha: she was twenty-two, she was a hairstylist, and her mother had just passed away. But she hadn’t given me any kind of physical description of the young lady, who looked as if she hadn’t yet left her teens. She was dressed simply, in jeans and a white T-shirt with the words “New Yeah” written in gold letters. The simplicity of her clothes did nothing to hide her beauty. She had taken the best from our father—her brows were perfect frames for her light brown eyes, and the mole above her lip was more than a growth—it was really a beauty mark, God’s stamp of approval for what He’d created.
As she stepped into our home, Mauricio said, “You must be Keisha.”
“Yeah.” She moved past him, her eyes scoping the space of our foyer.
I watched her check out the staircase that curved against the wall, then her glance rose to the chandelier above, before she studied the limestone floor that greeted our guests.
<
br /> I stepped up, pulling her glance to me. “Hi, Keisha.”
“Yeah. Hi.”
Then, I had another one of those moments like when we were on the phone. I didn’t know what to say, what to do. So instead of trying to figure it out, I just did what was in my heart. I pulled her into an embrace. I held her and tried not to squeeze too tight. Her arms, though, stayed by her sides.
After giving her (or maybe I was giving myself) a few moments, I stepped back. “It is so wonderful to meet you. I’m so glad you’re here.”
“Yeah.”
“Why don’t we all go on inside?” Mauricio said and cocked his head toward the living room.
I wanted to grab Keisha’s hand and lead the way, but she followed my husband and I hung back. I glanced toward the door to make sure Regan was joining us, and her eyes were already on me. She gave me a smirk that was meant to be a message, and though my sister-friend and I were always in sync, I couldn’t read her. It was probably me—I was the one out of step because my senses were discombobulated as I looked at Keisha. I’d have to get Regan’s interpretation of her expression later.
Mauricio motioned toward the sofa and Keisha sat down, though she sat so close to the end, if the arm weren’t there, she would have fallen off. My husband sat in the chair across from the couch, and I settled in the middle of the sofa, feeling like I was miles away from my sister.
Regan stood behind Mauricio, and once we were in our places, we all stared at Keisha. She shifted beneath the heat of our stares and silence, and I felt terrible; it was like we were treating her as if she were a lab animal under a microscope.
I said, “So . . . how . . . are you?”
She shrugged. “I’m good.”
Then there was more silence until Regan said, “I hope you good people won’t mind, but it’s late and I have a husband waiting for me.”
Keisha’s eyes were squinted when she said to Regan, “You married?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Wow. I can’t believe that.” Now Regan narrowed her eyes, but Keisha stayed strong beneath the fire my friend sent her way. She glared right back, then said, “I mean, you never said anything about having a husband.”
“Why would I?” Looking at me, she said, “So anyway . . .”
This time, I got my best friend’s message. Not only in her expression, but in that exchange between her and Keisha. There was no semblance of warmth; something had happened between the two.
Even though I needed to understand what was going down, there was no way I was going to get up and leave Keisha alone just so I could talk to Regan. Anything she had to tell me would have to wait.
Again, my husband did one of those things he’d always done. Without a word from me, he stood up. “I’ll walk you out, Regan.”
“Okay,” my friend said, though her eyes were still on me. “Keisha’s bag is in the car, so”—now she turned to Mauricio—“you can bring it in.”
As they turned toward the door, I pressed my hands together as if I were going to pray. “Thank you,” I told Regan. “Thank you”—I glanced at Keisha—“for bringing my sister home.”
Regan gave me a long look, then chased that with a slow nod before she followed my husband out the door.
When we were alone, I turned to Keisha. Why I waited for her to speak, I didn’t know. But after a few seconds, I told her, “I’m so glad you’re here.”
“Yeah, you said that.”
“Oh . . . kay.” I dragged the word out. “So, how was your flight?”
She shrugged. “It was long.”
I nodded. “Yeah, but I was glad when Regan was able to get you two on a direct flight.”
I saw the question in her eyes, but I wasn’t sure what she was asking until she said, “What’s a direct flight?”
For just a moment, I hesitated. “It’s a plane that goes straight from one city to another without you having to change and take a second plane.”
“Oh,” she said. Then, her eyes took a journey, soaking in the sight of our living room before her gaze rested on our piano. She said, “You play that?”
I smiled. “I do.” I tilted my head. “Do you know how to play?”
“No, I don’t know anybody who knows how to play the piano.”
“You know me.” She looked as if she had no idea what I meant by that. I said, “And maybe I can teach you.”
She shrugged, but didn’t give me another word to work with. So again I had to figure out what to say. And again I just reached into my heart. “Keisha, I’m really sorry about your mother.”
Her eyes turned back to me and she gave me such a frown that for a moment, I wondered if Regan had messed up that intel totally. Was Daisy alive? If I bungled this part up, if her mother hadn’t died, that certainly wasn’t the way to start a relationship.
I said, “Your mother . . . she passed away . . . right?”
She nodded. “Yeah, she died. Not that long ago.”
I breathed. “I’m really sorry.”
“Oh. Yeah.” After a moment’s thought, she added, “Thank you.”
Then the silence that hung between strangers came back, and I wished I’d had a list of talking points. “Are you hungry?”
She shook her head. “I ate on the plane.”
“Oh, that’s right. You were in first class, so they did serve a meal.”
She shrugged.
“What about something to drink?”
She shook her head and yawned.
“Oh, my goodness,” I said. “You have got to be tired.” I glanced at my watch. “It’s after midnight for you.”
She frowned as she reached into her purse, then glanced at her phone before she held it up for me to see. “It’s not midnight; it’s only ten.”
“Yes, here.” I rested my hand over hers. “It’s ten here. But with the time change—we’re two hours behind you.” She frowned and I added, “You’re on central time, and this is Pacific time.”
She glanced at her phone, then back at me before she shrugged.
At that moment, all I wanted to do was wrap my arms around Keisha. What had her life been like that she didn’t know what a direct flight was or understand time zones? Those were two little things I took for granted, and now I wanted to teach her everything that I knew.
“Since it’s so late, why don’t we do this: I’ll take you up to your bedroom, you’ll get a good night’s rest, and we can start this all over in the morning.”
She tilted her head. “I’m staying here?”
That question surprised me. “Yes.”
“I thought I’d be staying with . . . uh . . .”
The way her eyes shifted, I could tell she was hunting for a word. She said, “Elijah. I thought I’d be staying with him.”
“Oh, no. I thought you’d be more comfortable here.”
She frowned. “What’s wrong with his house?”
“Nothing. That’s not what I meant. I just mean you don’t know him.”
And without taking a breath, she said, “I don’t know you either.”
That made me bust out laughing. One thing I was never going to have to wonder was what Keisha was thinking. “That’s true.” And then, for the first time, I spoke to her as my little sister. “But another thing that’s true is that I wanted you here with me. I know this can’t be easy and I’m sure you’re going to have lots of questions. I want to be here, close by, so that you know you have a big sister who’s going to help you through all of this.” After a pause, I added, “And having you close, I know you’ll help me, too. Okay?”
I’d given her my best; I’d given her my heart. And what she gave me in return for those words was another shrug.
I said, “So we’re going to his home tomorrow afternoon and we’ll spend the day with him. Is that all right with you?”
She shrugged, and right then I thought it was a good thing that my self-esteem was healthy. Because talking to Keisha could give me a complex.
“Okay.” Mauricio’s
voice came into the living room before he did. He stood at the archway, carrying a duffel bag. “I’m going to take your bag upstairs to your room, Keisha.”
“Perfect timing,” I said. When I stood, Keisha did, too. “Keisha’s tired, understandably,” I told my husband. “So we were going up, but I want to give her a tour around so she’ll know where everything is.”
Mauricio nodded, gave us a grin, and then moved toward the staircase. But before he was up two steps, he stopped, turned back. “Keisha, we’re glad to have you here. Welcome to our home.”
“Thank you.” And then she smiled. “Thank you very much.”
That made me raise my eyebrows a bit. Six words and a smile? My husband had gotten far more out of my sister than I had.
Keisha and I watched Mauricio trot up, and then I led her through the foyer to the dining room. “I just want to show you around because I want you to know that this house is your home, too. So you don’t have to ask me for anything, unless you can’t find it. But if you get hungry in the middle of the night, just come on down.” From the dining room, we moved into the kitchen.
“Wow,” she said when I clicked on the light. “I never saw a kitchen like this.”
I watched as her fingers trailed along the black granite countertop, and then she paused. “You have two ovens.”
I nodded. “It’s a double oven, but I don’t do as much cooking as I’d like.” I paused. “But maybe we can do a little cooking together.”
For the first time, I got my own smile from Keisha. “Yeah, maybe.” My own smile and her first positive word—maybe.
From the kitchen, I led her down the three steps into our sunken family room and watched her eyes widen at all of the blessings I often took for granted. It was fun seeing my world through Keisha’s eyes—the way she sat and reclined in one of the six theater-style seats we had in the family room; next the way she marveled at the hundreds of books that lined three walls in our library; and finally the way she said, “No way,” when we walked into our workout room.
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