I snatched two cold burgundy cans and turned. “Let’s do this!”
We were light-weights. It took one drink for both of us to loosen our lips. Two to make us inseparable soul-sisters and three to have the bright idea of dancing in the garden with the lightning bugs and mosquitoes for company. Night had fallen while we chatted it up about the many disasters of our lives.
“Tell me about your family, Iz? It’s gotta be better than mine.”
Izzy raised her drink for a sip as she answered and her words sounded deeper from inside the cup, “Nah, probably not. God has a strange sense of humor.”
“Well, tell me anyway.”
My friend swallowed and smacked her lips. “Momma’s Catholic so she doesn’t believe in sex before marriage or birth control. She’s been married a grand total of seven times. I’ve got five brothers and three sisters. All of ‘em, well except for the twins, have a different daddy.”
I smiled. “I bet you never feel alone though.” My thoughts turned wistful at having a large exuberant gaggle of siblings. It must be amazing and loud.
Iz waved a bug away and blew out a short amused huff. “I wish.”
She turned and saw the longing in my face and changed her tone.
“There’s my momma, Georgina; then Joseph; Lucas; Delfina; Cassie; the twins, Jordan and Jason; then Moses and the baby caboose, Destiny.” Her hand fell back to her side after ticking off the impressive list of names.
I couldn’t help it. My curiosity got the better of me. “And the dads, they come around much? That’s a heck of a lot of stepfathers.”
Izzy slumped a bit as she watched the reflection of the moon on the surface of her drink. “My dad’s dead. I never even knew him.” She mumbled more, “The rest are losers—in jail or run off.”
I rocked in place and shoved her sideways with a hip. “Let’s be silly and stop talking about depressing shit.”
Iz yanked her head up with a tight grin. “You got it, chica!”
And so we began to sing.
The stars over our heads twinkled as if they were enjoying our hopping, skipping, zigzagging dance across the flagstones. A deep voice from the darkness made us squeal. Izzy tripped and almost dragged me to the ground with her.
“What the hell are you two doing? Are you drunk?”
I could just make out the dim outline of broad shoulders and dark hair. A cloud had been covering the moon and when it drifted past, the blue-white lunar light lit up Dominic’s cheeks, throwing his eyes into angry pools of glittering shadow.
The world tilted a little. “How did you get in here?”
He walked toward us on the path. Bug butts flickered in and out of existence around his body, making him seem magical.
“You left the front door unlocked, Zena. Not smart.”
Izzy giggled and gave a piggish unattractive snort as she struggled to balance herself on all fours, “We are perfectly fine. Nobody’s harassing us but you, dickhead.”
Timothy’s voice cut through the insect noise, “Stop right there or I’ll shoot!”
My heart picked up the pace and I felt a zing of adrenaline wash away my intoxication. Shit, I’d forgotten about my bodyguard driver! When the heck had he gotten back? How long had he been watching our inebriated garden gambol? Where was he? I couldn’t pick him out of the inkiness.
I waved both arms over my head. “Don’t shoot him! He’s from the store today, remember?”
God, I hoped he recognized Dominic in the dark.
Dom froze anyway but his voice carried no fear, only censure. “Some security. He didn’t make sure the house was tight and I scaled the gate, no problem.”
Timothy’s voice was gravelly with fatigue. The sound of leather and the snap of a fastened holster preceded his response from somewhere to the right, “My mistake. Rest assured it won’t happen again.” He paused. “If you’re certain this gentleman is safe, I’ll make my rounds and turn in. Ms. Skala?” Tim hesitated. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention this to Mr. Fletcher? I need this job…”
I nodded then realized he couldn’t see me and added, “Mum’s the word, Tim.”
The soft sound of snoring accompanied the bug buzz. I nudged Iz with a toe. She was out cold on the ground, arms tucked in an awkward chicken-winged pose.
Dom combed his bangs off his forehead. “I’ll get her inside. You go back into the kitchen and make some coffee or drink some water. Eat something too…besides junk.”
He squatted down and rolled my limp friend face up. She looked like a punkified version of Sleeping Beauty, if the fairytale damsel had been a half Mexican, half black curvaceous drunkard. She smacked her lips and curled into Dom’s T-shirt, mumbling in Spanish. He hitched her higher until her cheek rested against his shoulder and I followed him into the house.
The light was too bright to my sensitized pupils. A pile of emptied plastic wrappers with metallic interiors filled with crumbs littered the island’s surface. I used an arm to scoop them to an edge and into the wide mouth of the trashcan I retrieved from under the sink.
There was a puddled ring of water from the melted bottle frost of the open vodka. I screwed on the blue metal cap and stuffed it back in the freezer by the neck. I’d had my fill of drunken revelry for the time being.
House sounds filled my ears. After all this time they were still familiar. The swinging door popped on its hinges and Dom’s presence filled the kitchen. The space seemed too small with him in it. My stomach erupted in butterflies and nausea bloomed—unexpected and undesired. Clamminess broke out on my palms and on the back of my neck. He took one look at my expression of unease and guided me to a chair by the elbow.
“What were you thinking, Zena?” He nudged the trashcan closer with a foot. “Barf in that if you feel the need. You can hold your own dang hair.”
I breathed in through my nose, determined to control my rebellious gut. “Why are you at my house?” I squinted at the blurry digital numbers over the stovetop. “It’s two in the morning. Who climbs someone’s fence and walks into their house uninvited at this hour?”
Dom hopped on the island jean-covered ass first. I could see the spots of dew and bits of grass on the sides of his tennis shoes and the frayed cuffs of his pants.
His eyes held no shame. “I decided to check on you. If you’d had your door locked I wouldn’t have come in. I rang the bell.”
My nails dug into my palm as a tide of sickness rushed up my esophagus. I swallowed it back. “I didn’t hear the doorbell go off.”
He wrinkled his nose then rubbed it with the backs of his bent fingers. “Obviously, Z.”
The last straw was my heart skipping a beat at his casual use of Izzy’s nickname for me. I lost the battle with the alcohol I’d drank. I barely had time to lean over the trashcan before a violent cascade of partially digested food, vodka and sour-smelling bile rushed out of my nose and mouth. It felt like it should be coming out of my ears too. God it burned.
Dom whooped, “Holy shit! I’ve never seen someone barf out of their nose before. Hold on let me get my phone. I’ll take a video for you.”
I couldn’t even protest. My whole body was seized with convulsions as I gripped the plastic covered trashcan edge and lost my hold on reality for a while. The only thing that mattered was surviving the next heave and the next after that.
When it slowed down enough for me to spit the foul taste out of my mouth and recoil at the stench emanating from the bottom of the trash bag, Dom laid a cold rag across the back of my neck. I cupped both hands over it. Nothing had ever felt so good.
My voice was hoarse from the abuse my throat had taken, “Did you really video me?”
A glass of water appeared next to my face and I tried to straighten. All of my muscles felt locked and sore so it took longer than it should have. My hand shook as I concentrated on holding the lip of the glass to my mouth. Dry lips met smoothness and I tilted the water in.
Dom cautioned, “Just a sip. Swish it around and spit it ou
t. With the second drink you can swallow.” He was standing with another rag in his hand, this one dry. He held it out. “And no I didn’t video you. I should’ve. Did you learn your lesson at least?”
I spit as instructed and then took a small sip. I groaned and rubbed my mouth with the proffered dish cloth. “I learned. No more drinking for a while. I’m not cut out for it.”
“I’ll help you upstairs and then I’m gonna crash here. This mess,” he tapped the trashcan with the toe of his shoe, “is going out in the garden. You can clean up after yourself tomorrow.”
My concentration went inward while he carried my vomit outside. I didn’t think I had it in me to walk. It was embarrassing.
His feet came back in view. “Can you stand up, Zena?”
I stared at my knees and shook my head.
He blew a raspberry of exasperation and scooted my chair back none too gently. I clamped my lids closed so I didn’t have to see the world move when he lifted me against his chest. The scents that hit my nose were soothing. A hint of male sweat, the fading tang of a deodorant and the clean breeze of laundry detergent.
I looped one arm around his back and laid the other over his sternum. His heartbeat was steady and the cotton of his T-shirt was soft. The muscles on either side of his spine flexed with every step. He took the stairs slow but I didn’t seem to be a burden. Maybe he was afraid if he jostled me too much I’d throw up all over him.
A door opened and he knocked my feet against the frame. It smarted where my ankle bones connected with the hard wood. I sucked air past clenched teeth in a painful hiss.
He mumbled, “Sorry, its dark.”
I felt the depression of the bed and his arms slid free from under my knees and shoulders. Even after all this time I recognized the feel of my velveteen comforter. My fingers roamed across the carefully stitched-together squares.
There was the sound of the side table rocking on its legs and then Dom swore his frustration before muted yellow light cast long shadows into the corners of the room. Plastic rustled as he moved a small trashcan to the side of the bed.
“Sleep it off, Zena. I’ll see you in the morning.”
I grabbed the loose bottom of his shirt and fisted it. “Don’t go. Being alone doesn’t sound too good right now. I promise not to throw up anymore if you’ll stay.”
He looked doubtful. “I don’t know, Zena…”
I made my eyes big and beseeching. “Please?” Why not? It’d worked when I was twelve.
Dominic tapped my white knuckles and I withdrew my hand with a look of apology. Yes, I knew I sounded desperate and pitiful. At this point I’d do anything not to be left alone with the ghosts of my past for company.
It appeared he wasn’t falling for it as he turned away but then I felt the bed move behind me. His shoes hit the floor one at a time. The mattress bounced and swayed and the blanket from the bottom of my bed covered me. It smelled sanitized and unused. Dom jiggled the bed some more and I had the feeling he was getting under the covers on his side.
I rolled onto my back and stared at the lace canopy. “Thank you.”
Out of the corner of my eye I could see his shoulders. He had his back to me.
“Shut up and go to sleep, Zena.”
Being in my house, in the room that had meant safety and security to me for years was actually unsettling. I did try to sleep but I couldn’t relax. What if it all went away? What if I really was crazy and this was just a drug-induced hallucination. Eventually exhaustion and the remaining alcohol in my bloodstream won out.
Oblivion had never been so sweet.
5 MEMORY OR DREAM
Our past is sneaky. Your brain stores it away and chooses inopportune moments to throw it back at you. Sometimes it’s in dreams, sometimes a smell or a visual similarity brings it to the fore. I knew I was dreaming but the sensation of being trapped in the replay was so strong.
Eighth grade me had been upset with Rowena that horrible day. She was being positively unreasonable about a school trip to Charlotte for the Science Club with my middle school. Her reasons behind not signing the permission slip were couched in condescension. Didn’t I read the papers or watch the news? Crime was simply rampant in the big city. I should be glad she was watching out for me, and so on and so forth. Bleh, bleh and bleh.
Never mind that she went to Charlotte to shop and brunch, lunch or cocktail all the dang time. Never mind that I would be going to a family environment. I was dying to see the IMAX show on the Southern Pacific. I loved all things ocean. She wasn’t going to stop me out of spite.
One more try for her signature and then I would hit Chris up for a forgery. We’d done it enough times to know it worked without a hitch. Rowena didn’t really care what I did, she just liked being difficult in the guise of giving a crap.
I’d looked in all of her usual places in the house but failed to locate her so far. I was beginning to think she was hiding from me. Voices bounced off the spongey acoustics of the first floor hallway. They sounded like they might be coming from the library. That was odd, I’d never seen the platinum bombshell read a book in her life, unless you counted magazines.
I passed scenic paintings of flowered hills in delicate pastels. A long cherry wood side table was pressed against the wall to the right of the sliding door into the library. Chris was the most avid visitor to my father’s favorite old haunt. It was filled with shelves and shelves of books, old and new on different subjects and in different languages. My half-brother was fluent in six dialects. I was lucky to know enough Latin to squeak out rough and likely inaccurate translations in the romance languages if forced by necessity.
If the idea of spending my life studying marine biology and ecosystems was a dream come true, then Chris’s dream would be to pursue knowledge to the ends of the known universe. He was my walking encyclopedia. Who needed the internet when you had a genius older sibling who loved nothing more than to talk about the things he knew?
The voices leaking out of the cracked pocket door were getting louder. I paused. Rowena rarely raised her voice at Chris. She adored him. Every bit of affection she failed to shower on me was heaped in saccharine sweet drifts on her son.
“…and I said no, Christophe!”
A book slammed down. Probably on the huge black desk that had been my father’s. My nerves spiked at the anger in Rowena’s tone.
Chris’s voice was calm by comparison. “I don’t see how you plan to stop me, Mother. Father left specific instructions about where he went and what he planned to do. At least if I find signs of wreckage we’ll finally know. Wouldn’t you like to know?”
She laughed. It was bitter and harsh erupting like the bray of a donkey. “He isn’t dead, Chris. You know he isn’t. So what if you find a crashed plane? It doesn’t mean anything.”
My heart hiccuped. Not dead? Where was he then? How could he leave us?
Now my brother was angry. “Explain that to me then! You hint and you scoff and you condemn but you’ve never given me a reason to believe the worst of him. Never!”
Her voice filled with fury and pettiness, “You want a reason? I’ll give you a reason! Because your father was a freak! He could do things, go places—look like another person. A goddamn thief is what he was! It was his trade! Where do you think all the money came from, Christophe?”
What? Was she out of her mind? Father was old money, our descendants immigrated from Bohemia or something.
“You’ve been hitting the bottle a little early today haven’t you, Mother?”
My shaking hand brushed against the slick veneer on the door. Lips numb, I waited for Rowena to take it further. She didn’t disappoint.
“On your eighteenth birthday I was supposed to give you this if anything ever happened to Cyril. It’s the only thing that bastard ever trusted me with.”
I couldn’t see what she proffered. Stepping as quietly as possible on the floorboards, I put one eye to the inch-wide crack. Rowena had her back to me, pale hair swept up in an artful
ly messy tangle of curls. She was decked out in a royal blue backless camisole with black leggings and high-heeled ankle boots that canted her foot at a severe angle. Her toned arms were raised and it looked like she’d drawn a chain from around her neck. Something was cupped in her extended palms but her upper body was blocking it from my limited vantage point.
Chris stood and leaned across the book cluttered desk with a curious look in his cornflower-blue eyes. He was so tall. His features were soft and delicate but his heart wasn’t. It was filled with the stubborn nature our father had passed to us along with the sun-kissed cast of our skin. I worshipped him. I looked up to him. He was my hero.
His hand reached toward what Rowena presented for inspection but she tut-tutted and leaned her shoulders sideways.
“No. Listen first and then you can touch.”
Chris’s forehead wrinkled with impatience and his white-blond eyebrows took on miniscule shadows from the overhead light. “Don’t play games, Rowena.”
Ooh, he only called her by her first name when he was really pissed. Their relationship was sort of lopsided but it worked. They cared for one another, but neither one had any illusions about Rowena’s maternal shortcomings. The brutal honesty was somewhat refreshing.
Her tone sank into a rhythm of soothing placation, “Now, now…no need to be mean about it, honey. I’m merely illustrating a point. For once, I know something you don’t, so play nice.”
Chris’s chair scraped against the floor. He made his way around the wide desk, forcing his mother to present a side profile to me. I could finally see what she held in her palms. The light glinted off a flattened disc about two inches in diameter with a bump in the center. It was the color of copper or bronze and shiny like a newly minted penny. The shape reminded me of a silly representation of a flying saucer from an old drive-in sci-fi film or something. Mystery Science Theater 3000 would’ve had a heyday with it.
The Blood Key (The Wander Series Book 1) Page 3