Why didn’t I ever seek therapy? she asked herself. The answer was simple and cut like a knife. Pride.
“Lady should’ve helped me. She knew I didn’t want to go into that closet with Daniel Sterling,” Nell said in her own defense, but her explanation sounded lame, even to her own ears.
“How did she know, though?” Booker asked. “Because you told her with your eyes? She looked to you to save her from taking the tequila shot, but did you?”
Nell shook her head. She couldn’t defend herself, because he was right.
He lifted the spoon and stirred the soupy ice cream around in the carton. “Did you ever tell Lady what happened that night?”
Her cheeks burned. “No. I was too ashamed.”
“Did you ever consider pressing charges?”
“Never. I was a black girl living in a white man’s world. Getting Daniel in trouble would’ve been social suicide for me. I kept my mouth shut, worked hard in school, and bided my time until I went away to college and started a life of my own.”
He hauled himself out of the lounge chair and moved to the edge of the patio. “I don’t mean to sound cruel,” he said with his back to her. “You’re my mom and I love you. I’m so, so sorry for what happened to you. No man should ever assault a woman for any reason. But try to understand how I feel. For the past ten years, I’ve had to listen to you and Dad fight all the time—the insults and accusations. I would’ve given anything to have a sibling, someone I could talk to as I watched my father cheat on my mother and tear our family apart. And now I find out I have this whole other family. I’m disappointed and angry too, if I’m honest about it, that I’ve missed out on the chance to know your family.”
“That’s just it, though, Booker baby. The Bellemores aren’t my family.”
Turning around, he walked back toward her. “Are you sure about that?”
He stood, staring down at her, waiting for her answer. But she had none.
His voice was almost a whisper. “You realize Regan’s last name is Sterling, don’t you?”
She blinked her eyes hard. “What did you just say?”
“I said Regan’s last name is Sterling. Whether that means her father is Daniel or not, I have no way of knowing.”
Beads of sweat broke out across her brow despite the chill in the air. “You never told me her last name. I’ve only ever heard you call her Regan. Until this afternoon, I didn’t know if she was black, white, Asian, or Hispanic.”
“Because you never asked,” Booker said in a sad voice.
The truth hurt. She’d been so uninvolved in her son’s life. The grueling hours she worked as a nurse consumed so much time. And then, on her days off, she had errands to run, a house to keep, groceries to buy. A failing marriage to nurture.
Was it possible that Lady had married Daniel Sterling? “It has to be a coincidence. Surely she would never have married him.” Nell shook her head as she dismissed the unthinkable.
“I wouldn’t be so sure.”
“Lady told me today that she’s divorced. I wonder if Dan—if her ex-husband still lives in Charleston.”
“That much I know,” Booker said. “Her father is some big lawyer. He lives in Chicago with his new wife.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
BOOKER
Booker went to bed confused by his emotions and woke up mad as hell. He felt the anger deep in his core. No human with a heart could have done what Daniel Sterling had done to his mother. The man was vicious and cold-blooded. Booker understood that these kinds of assaults happened all the time. Daily headline news offered proof—women emerging from the woodwork accusing public figures of sexual harassment and abuse. But this kind of violence had never hit close to his home. He’d been such a fool, a complete idiot, to treat everyone as equals, to give everyone the benefit of the doubt until proven guilty. Maybe he should be a criminal attorney instead of a doctor. He would get great satisfaction in putting sick and twisted men behind bars where they belonged.
Wow, he thought as he dragged himself out of bed. This has been some week. First Mom and Dad are getting divorced, and now this.
He avoided his mother’s questioning eyes as he picked at his sunny-side up eggs—happy eggs, as his mother called them. She’d always fixed him happy eggs as a child when he was feeling blue. But happy eggs couldn’t touch his mood that morning. Any more than the thought of picking up his 4Runner that afternoon could diminish his simmering anger.
Regan was waiting for him at his locker when he arrived at school. “So? Did you find out anything about our mothers?”
He busied himself with transferring his textbooks from his backpack to his locker. He had no idea what to say to her. There was always a chance that Daniel Sterling wasn’t her father but an uncle or a distant cousin. Booker needed more time to determine the best way to tell her what he had learned.
“Trust me, Regan. You don’t want to know. Sorry. I have to get to class now.” He slammed the locker door and turned away from her.
The repulsive vision in his mind’s eye of Daniel Sterling’s assault on his mom prevented him from concentrating during classes that morning. He still had no clue what to tell Regan, and as the clock approached the noon hour, his dread over having to go to the cafeteria for lunch escalated. He was relieved to be called to the headmaster’s office after third period. Well, almost.
“Am I in trouble?” he asked the headmaster when he entered his office.
Terrence Long was years past retirement age, but he loved his job too much to quit. His students appreciated his sense of humor and respected him for the strict but fair manner in which he ruled the school.
Mr. Long chuckled. “Did you do something wrong?”
Booker shrugged. “Not that I know of.”
Long motioned Booker to the seat across the desk from him. “Have a seat, Mr. Grady. You’re not in trouble.”
He lowered himself to the edge of the chair. Booker, unlike a few of his classmates who had a propensity toward trouble, had never been inside Mr. Long’s inner sanctum. An avid outdoorsman, the headmaster had lined his walls with photographs of his biggest catches and kills. One particular photograph captured an image of him standing beside a marlin that hung bill down from the scales and was three times his size. Someday Booker aimed to catch a fish like that.
The headmaster steepled his fingers. “With only a couple of months left in your high school career, I thought this would be a good time for us to discuss the next phase of your academic career. I understand from Mrs. Holmes you’re upset about being wait-listed at Harvard.”
Booker thought about all the times he’d been in the guidance counselor’s office in the past week—at least once a day—enlisting her support in helping him get off the wait list.
“Yes, sir. I was hoping for acceptance. But I refuse to give up. I’ve spoken to the head of admissions at Harvard and emailed all the professors I met when I visited last fall.”
“That’s the fighting spirit I like to see in my students. I’m here to assist you in every way. I made a few inquiries of my own.”
Booker tensed. “You did?”
Long’s eyes filled with pity. “I’ll be honest with you, son. Getting into Harvard is always a challenge, but the competition is even stiffer than usual this year. My source doesn’t hold out much hope of you getting off the wait list before May first.”
Booker choked back tears.
Mr. Long continued, “However, he has promised to reevaluate your application again when your final transcript becomes available.” He flipped open a file in front of him. “Your midterm grades are strong, although I see a little room for improvement in AP Chemistry.” He closed the file and rested his hands on top. “You’re looking at a long wait, and I would definitely pay the deposit for your second choice of schools, but getting off the wait list for Harvard isn’t out of the realm of possibilities.”
“Ugh!” Booker exclaimed as he ran his hands through his cropped hair.
“It
’s way too early to get discouraged, Booker. Stay focused, and keep working hard. I had a student once who got off the wait list for his dream college as he was moving into the dorm of his second choice. If you decide to wait it out, make sure your parents buy tuition insurance.”
“Adding valedictorian to my résumé might help. When will you make that decision?”
Tilting his head to the side, Long studied Booker’s face as if trying to decide what to tell him. “You are one of the best students this school has ever seen. But so is Regan. In cases such as these, when two students’ grades are essentially tied, some schools have selected two valedictorians. I know of a school in Florida who once reported ten valedictorians. But that goes against everything I believe in. I promote healthy competition here at All Saints. You should know that about me by now. The race for valedictorian is close. As of this minute, Regan is a fraction of a stride ahead of you. But all that could change. You still have plenty of time.”
Booker’s heart began to race, and he experienced a sudden tightness in his chest. He was too young to have a heart attack. Or was he?
The headmaster continued, “As I said, you have the full support of my office and staff. Anything you need, do not hesitate to ask.”
“Yes, sir.” He squirmed in his seat, casting a glance toward the door.
“The race is far from over, Booker. We have thirty-seven more school days until you cross the finish line. However, if Regan beats you out, you can hold your head high. Considering the number of top performers in your class this year, being second best is pretty darn good in my opinion.”
“Salutatorians don’t get accepted to Harvard,” Booker mumbled.
“I beg to differ, young man. Plenty of students who are neither valedictorian nor salutatorian get accepted at Harvard.”
“Not this student.” Based on the statistical information he’d studied online, Booker suspected he didn’t stand a chance without the valedictorian title. He felt dizzy when he stood to leave, and sweat trickled down his back as he waited for the headmaster to excuse him.
Mr. Long rose from his desk and walked him to the door. “Let me know how I can help.”
“Thank you, sir.” Finding it increasingly difficult to breathe, Booker hurried out of the office and down the hall to the nearest exit in search of fresh air.
A light drizzle had driven students inside from the patio where they typically gathered after lunch. Booker moved to the edge of the patio and stared out over the deserted basketball courts as he tried to steady his breath. He felt a tingling sensation in his arms and hands. Was he having a stroke? Should he call himself an ambulance?
He heard the door bang shut and footsteps on the concrete behind him. “There you are. I’ve been looking all over for you.”
Booker turned to face Regan, and for the first time ever, he resented her. His longtime study partner and friend, who’d encouraged him to strive for excellence, had become a threat. They were no longer competing to be top of their class. The stakes had increased. She was single-handedly responsible for him not going to Harvard.
“If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were avoiding me,” Regan said. “I’m dying to know what you found out about our moms.”
His nostrils flared as a surge of anger pulsed through his body. She’d already been accepted at the college of her dreams. She had nothing better to do than play Nancy Drew. But he’d already solved the mystery.
“What’s your father’s name, Regan?”
She squished her eyebrows together. “Daniel Sterling. Why?”
Booker wasn’t surprised. Somehow, he’d known Daniel Sterling was her father.
She gripped her backpack to her chest. “What does my father have to do with anything?”
“Because I discovered why our mothers had their falling out. Your father raped my mother on your mother’s sixteenth birthday.”
Emotions crossed her face in quick succession—confusion, then denial, followed by pain. Good! He wanted her to hurt as much as he was hurting. He didn’t feel the slightest bit guilty for bending the truth. In his mind, what her father had done to his mother was rape.
“I don’t believe you.”
“Then ask your mother.” He brushed past her, leaving her standing alone in the drizzle on the terrace.
Inside the building, he turned left and hustled down the hall. He was no stranger to the nurse’s office. He suffered from seasonal allergies. When the pollen counts were exceptionally high and his daily over-the-counter medicine wasn’t doing its job, he’d stop in to see Nurse Carol for a Benadryl.
He burst into her office. “We need to call an ambulance. I’m having a heart attack.”
She looked up from her lunch, a plastic container of leftover spaghetti that stunk up the room. “What are your symptoms?” she asked, pushing aside the spaghetti and wiping her mouth.
“Pain in my chest. Shortness of breath.”
The nurse reached for his wrist and felt his pulse. “Your heart is racing.” She motioned to the examination bed next to her. “Sit down, close your eyes, and tell me about your favorite summertime activity.”
“Wait, what? I’m having a heart attack, and you want to talk about fishing?”
“Trust me on this.” With her fingers still pressed against his wrist, she pulled him down to the bed. “Try to clear your mind and tell me about your favorite fishing hole.”
He was unsure of the nurse’s objective, but he did as he was told. With his eyes closed, he described the secret spot where he took his boat at low tide and the doormat-size flounder he’d caught there last summer. After a few minutes, his heart rate slowed, and the pain in his chest eased up.
“Feel better?” she asked when he opened his eyes again.
He nodded. “So I’m not having a heart attack?”
“Not a heart attack, Booker. A panic attack. Have you ever experienced anxiety before?”
Anxiety? “Nope. Never.” Which was surprising, when he thought about it, considering his level of intensity.
“I get students in here every day with similar symptoms, especially seniors. You kids are under an enormous amount of stress with application deadlines and college decisions.”
While the symptoms of his panic attack had subsided, the doom and gloom remained. He mentally listed all the things that had gone wrong in his life during the past week. His parents had separated and were getting a divorce. He’d been wait-listed with little hope of getting into Harvard. He was losing the race for valedictorian. He’d found out his mother was assaulted as a teenager by his best friend’s father. Worst of all, the most recent addition to his list, was the cruel way he’d broken the news to said best friend about the assault.
“It might help if you talked to the counselor,” Nurse Carol said. “I can call and see if she’s available.”
He didn’t need to talk about his problems with a shrink. He needed to pull up his grade in chemistry. “No thanks.” He jumped to his feet. “I need to see a teacher about a grade.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
REGAN
Regan waited until Booker was out of sight before rushing inside to the restroom. Elbowing her way through the group of girls primping in front of the mirror, Regan locked herself in a stall, dropped to her knees, and vomited her lunch into the toilet.
There was a tap on the stall door, and her friend Janie said in a soft voice, “Regan, sweetie, are you all right in there?”
Regan swallowed a wave of nausea. “I’m fine. I think I ate something that made me sick.”
“Should I get the nurse?”
“No, but thanks. I’ll have the office call my mom.”
“Okay, then. If you’re sure.”
Regan waited until the restroom was empty before emerging from the stall. She rinsed her mouth out and splashed cold water on her face. She stared at her reflection in the mirror—pale skin, red-rimmed eyes, and trembling lips. Was what Booker said true?
She walked to the headmaster’s
office with her head lowered and eyes on the ground so as to avoid eye contact with anyone in the hall. “I’m sick and need to go home,” she said to Mrs. Redmond, the gray-haired receptionist. “Will you please call my mom for permission?”
Mrs. Redmond peered at her over cat-eye glasses. “Do you need to see the nurse?”
“I just threw up in the restroom. I’m pretty sure that means I’m sick.”
The receptionist pushed back from her desk, away from Regan, as though she might be contagious. Nausea over discovering your father is a rapist isn’t catching, Regan thought.
Mrs. Redmond lifted the receiver from its cradle and tapped the buttons on the phone as Regan called out the number. She greeted Regan’s mother and explained the situation. “Just a minute. I’ll ask her.” The receptionist held the receiver away from her face. “It’s raining out. Would you like your mother to come pick you up?”
“I’ll walk. I need the fresh air,” Regan said, and left the office before either woman could object.
The drizzle had increased to a steady rain, and she darted from one awning to the next as she headed down the street toward home. Deep down, Regan knew Booker had been telling the truth. Her father was not a warm-and-fuzzy kind of guy. Even during the good years of her parents’ marriage, she’d never seen him show affection toward her mother, not even a peck on the cheek in parting. As a young child, when she’d latched on to his leg, begging for him to pick her up, he’d patted her on the head and gently pushed her away as one might an irritating puppy. It was more than that, though. Plenty of men and women had trouble showing their emotions. Something was off about her father, something lurking in his dark eyes and the firm set of his thin lips that rarely parted into a smile.
She’d always been more than a little afraid of him. Once, when she was nine, her mother had taken Regan to watch him deliver closing remarks in a murder case. He’d struck an imposing figure—tall and handsome in a tailored suit, addressing the jurors in a commanding voice. She carried his genes in her DNA. Did that mean she was capable of harming another human being? She’d never felt aggression toward anyone, except her mother for drinking too much and wasting her life, but that was more annoyance than anger.
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