by Nancy Moser
And she began to heal.
Sim was glad Merry came into her room. She’d felt so incredibly alone. Maybe the fact that she’d been alone, then not alone, and now alone again, made it hurt more.
Alone and guilty. Claire was gone, rejected by everyone. But who had rejected her first? Sim. Every time Claire tried to be nice, tried to get to know her, Sim pushed her away.
I’m so sorry.
Sim and Merry looked out the window, seated at opposite ends of the window seat. “Do you mind living alone?”
Merry hesitated. “Widows don’t have a choice. But you do. You can stay here—for a while.”
Sim nodded at the implications of “a while.” “I wish I were older. Then there wouldn’t be laws against me. They’d leave me alone.”
“The laws protect you.”
“I can do that myself. And what I can’t do, between you and Claire—”
Claire’s gone.
“But she’ll be back. People scared her away, that’s all. She must have things to do.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know…stuff for God. She wouldn’t leave me now.”
“She did leave.”
Sim dug her chin into her knees. When Merry touched her head, she didn’t pull away, but a part of her wanted to. She didn’t want pity.
Well, maybe a little wouldn’t hurt.
“How about some breakfast?”
Sim let her attention move to her stomach. She was hungry. Odd how life went on, even in the midst of a crisis.
Sim juggled three eggs.
Merry pointed a whisk at her, admiring her talent while fearing for her floor. “Don’t get cocky on me. Not unless you want to settle for a bowl of cereal again.”
Sim caught the last one behind her back, then presented them to Merry.
“You’re very talented with your hands.”
“My dad used to say the talent is all in the hands. He hated when people said he got where he was because of luck.”
“Meaning, you make your own luck?”
“Luck is bogus. Using your talents and making the right decisions at the right time have nothing to do with luck.”
“Maybe.”
“You’ve got a talent for cooking.” Sim sat on a stool at the cooking island. “I used to watch Cook like this. But I’ve never had a breakfast casserole. Not many casseroles period. Dad said they were poor-food. Besides, he didn’t like different foods touching. He’d never go for them being mixed together on purpose.”
“He sounds a bit compulsive.”
“Cook called him—them—obsessed.”
“About what?”
“Being rich. Playing the part.”
“Wearing the right clothes, driving the right car?”
Sim nodded. “And not eating poor-food like casseroles.”
Merry looked at Sim’s clothes. A plain red T-shirt and gray gym shorts. She was barefoot. “Do you feel like they feel—felt?”
She shrugged and traced a crack on the countertop. “I’m not them.” Sim looked as if she wanted to say more.
“And?”
“They didn’t like so many things.”
“Such as?”
Sim thought a moment, then counted on her fingers. “They didn’t like two-door cars, instant coffee, showing photo ID at airports—” she looked to the ceiling—“margarine, coffee mugs, sheets that were less than four-hundred-count percale, terry kitchen towels, drive-throughs, regular mustard.”
“Goodness.”
Sim wasn’t through. “Drinks served in a can or bottle, tap water, handicapped parking spaces, Monday holidays…and Rico.”
Merry looked up from measuring flour. “What’s a Rico?”
“Rico’s a who. Rico Garcia. He’s a kid I met at summer camp. He was there on scholarship; some church paid his way. We were best friends. He could hold his breath for two minutes, nine seconds.”
“That’s quite a feat. Your parents didn’t like him?”
“We didn’t travel in the same circles. That’s what they said after I got home and wanted to hang out with him. He lived in another part of town. I snuck out to see him once, but I got caught, so after that, we just talked on the phone. At camp he taught me how to swim.”
“What did you teach him?”
“Me?”
“Rico taught you how to swim; what did you teach him?”
Sim’s eyebrows dipped. She reached for one of the eggs. “Let me separate one. Cook showed me how.”
Merry pulled the egg out of her reach. “Answer me, kiddo.”
Sim looked down. “Don’t call me that.”
“What?”
“Claire called me—calls me kiddo.”
After a moment’s hesitation, Merry handed her the egg and the bowl.
Sim expertly separated the egg. “Claire’s weird.”
“How so?”
“The God-talk.”
“That hardly makes her weird. Maybe a bit unique.”
“Same difference.”
“Not really.” Merry threw away the eggshells. “Weird is when something isn’t like it should be. Unique is when it’s exactly as it should be.”
Sim tilted her head. “Hmm. I like that.”
“So is Claire weird or unique?”
Sim’s smile revealed her certainty. “Oh, Claire is definitely unique. She is exactly as she should be. I’ve never known anybody who was so driven to do the right thing.”
A new wave of uncertainty rushed over Merry. Claire was gone. Officer Kendell wanted Merry to help find out where Sim belonged. She poured the egg whites into the mixer and turned it on high. The noise covered the arguing of her inner voices.
Merry was already at the car when she noticed Sim’s absence. She was at the front door, but she wasn’t coming or going.
“Come on, Sim, we’re running late.”
Sim held the doorjamb on each side, stuck her head out, and looked both ways.
“Sim!”
She stepped back into the foyer. “You go on ahead. I think I’ll stick around here today.”
Merry did her own scan of the street. No one was outside. She backtracked to the porch, speaking softly. “You’re acting as if people are stalking you, getting ready to nab you. They’re not.”
“Can you guarantee that?”
Actually, she couldn’t. Though Ken Kendell had given her a reprieve from turning Sim in—mostly because no one knew her last name—that didn’t mean there weren’t any other well-meaning citizens of Steadfast who would call other authorities.
“There’s not much to do here.” Merry glanced around. “I don’t have cable or a single video game.”
Sim grinned. “You have books, don’t you?”
“A few.”
Sim spread her hands.
Merry retrieved a piece of paper and a pen from her purse. “Here’s the number at the library. Call if you need anything.”
“I’ll be fine. Really.”
As soon as Sim closed the door, Merry called after her. “Lock the door!”
The bolt clanged into place. The girl was safe.
Wasn’t she?
When the phone rang at the library, Merry’s first response was dread, fearing more fallout from the Claire-Sim-ghost incident. But as soon as she answered it, she was faced with another, more tangible kind of anxiety.
It was her mother. She needed emergency surgery. Tomorrow, first thing. “Come home, Merry. I need you.”
Blanche was close by when she hung up. “Great bananas, Merry. You look whiter than any ghost I’ve never seen.”
Sudden fear clamped Merry’s heart. She’d lost so much. Certainly God wouldn’t take her mother too.
“My mom needs me. Surgery. Tomorrow.”
“What’s wrong?”
“She had a suspicious mammogram. She was so scared that she pressured the doctor to do a biopsy tomorrow.”
“Then go. Right now. She needs you. We’ll take care of things here.”
Merry shook her head, her mind juggling the logistics. Blanche and Ivan probably could take care of the library. But then there was Sim. Claire was gone. Sim needed Merry’s protection.
Blanche was talking. “…anything else I can do, you let me know.”
There was only one solution. “Is Ivan here yet?”
“As always.”
“Go get him, please.”
Blanche looked skeptical but went after Ivan. They returned immediately. Ivan took Merry’s hand and patted it. “Sorry to hear about your mother. Whatever you need, just ask.”
“Thank—”
When Merry spotted Bailey coming in, she cringed. She wasn’t up to his dating game today.
He came toward the counter. “My, my, such attention. Three sets of eyes stuck on me. What did I do?”
Merry turned to Ivan and Blanche. “We’ll discuss this in a few—”
“Discuss what?” Bailey asked.
“Merry’s mom needs an operation,” Ivan said. “Merry has to leave ASAP”
Blanche nodded. “She needs our help.”
Bailey bowed. “At your service.” He actually sounded sincere.
Merry rubbed her head. She had no choice. Best get on with it. “I need help with Sim. Since it’s obvious she can’t stay in the library anymore, she stayed with me last night.”
“Ask Claire to help.”
“Claire never came back. She’s disappeared.”
“You’d better call the authorities on that girl.”
Merry shook her head at Ivan. “I’ve talked to Ken. He’s given me some time before we go that next step. So for now, we’re it. She needs us.”
“Us?”
“Someone.”
Bailey placed his hands across his middle. “You’re asking us to take care of her?”
“For just a few days, until I get back.”
Blanche raised an arm. “Merry’s friends to the rescue!”
Ivan rubbed his chin. “It will never work. I don’t care what Ken said. Time’s up. We need to turn her in to the authorities. We have no right to—”
Blanche swatted his arm. “To be nice to her? To give her some attention and a place to sleep?” She pulled her blouse over her hips. “Actually, I’ve been going through grandkid withdrawal. It’s been six weeks since I’ve had a little one around.”
“Sim’s hardly little.” Ivan directed a pointed look at Blanche. “And your place is so cramped none of your grandkids stay over. They just come for the day.”
“She could sleep in my recliner.”
Ivan shook his head. “And no way can she stay at my place. It’s smaller than Blanche’s. And what if Claire comes back? Are we supposed to give the kid up to her?”
“No way.” Blanche shuddered. “I liked her at first, but now…she’s too strange for my medicine.”
Everyone started talking at once, and Merry glanced at her watch. Decisions had to be made. Now. She raised a hand to quiet them. “Discuss Claire later. I need a real volunteer.”
A hand shot up, but not the one she expected.
“I’ll take her,” Bailey said.
Merry had never considered Bailey a contender in the guardian race. “You’re…single.”
He glared at her. “What does that have to do with anything? Claire’s single. Truth be, we all are.” He raised a hand, as though taking an oath. “I promise I won’t let her stay up too late, let her watch any nasty things on television, lose her, or teach her any cuss words she’s never heard before—though I can’t vouch for Jered’s vocabulary.” He looked at his audience. They seemed unconvinced. “Come on, people. I was the oldest of six brothers and I didn’t kill, wound, or maim any of them. I know how to deal with an extra kid for a few days. Give me a chance.”
“What about Jered?”
“He’ll be fine. Maybe they’ll become friends.”
Merry wasn’t sure she liked the sound of that.
Ivan slapped his hands on the counter. “Let’s get this wrapped up. I’ve got a mural to do.”
Bailey traced a figure eight near her eyes. “Don’t look at me like I’m some alien who’s threatened to eat your baby. Sim will be fine in my care.”
She couldn’t say what she wanted to say.
“What? You think I’m a bad parent?”
Jered’s no gem.
“Goodness, Merry—” Blanche planted her hands on her hips— “give the man a break. He’s trying to help.”
Bailey took the in Blanche gave him. “Then it’s settled. Sim will stay with me.”
What choice did she have?
“Bailey’s taking her in?”
Claire yanked a weed from the ground and tossed it in the garbage can that was already full. Cleaning up Harold’s overgrown backyard was the least she could do to repay his hospitality. She wore an old straw hat as a disguise just in case anyone could see through the jungle.
“He volunteered.”
She pushed herself to standing. “Bailey only volunteered to get on Merry’s good side. And from what I hear he has a problem teen of his own. This is no good at all. I can take care of Sim better than any of them.”
“But where?”
Claire hesitated. “I could move back to the attic. Or even the motel. I have some money. Anything would be better than strangers passing Sim around like a used book. She needs me.”
Harold rocked on his heels. “Maybe the town needs her more.”
“The town?”
Harold pushed the weeds deeper in the garbage can. “Maybe Sim’s situation will force people to think past themselves, past their own lives. Caring for someone else can be a blessing.”
“But I miss her. And I feel responsible for her.”
“I know.”
“So what am I supposed to do while Sim goes from house to house?”
“It’s just Bailey’s.”
“For now. But later? Who knows where this will lead? I repeat, what am I supposed to do?”
“You have to wait some more.”
“Or?”
“Move on.”
Claire used the gardening claw to tear through a wad of weeds. Move on. Maybe that’s what she should do. Go home, accept the church commission, take up where she’d left off. And keep the likes of Dermont Davis from giving art a bad name. “I’m not needed here. I was never needed here.”
“You know that’s not true.”
She tossed the gardening tool aside. “Then tell me what good I’ve done. I’ve been instrumental in creating a ruckus that caused an orphan girl to be tossed around like a beanbag.”
“You’re overreacting.”
She stood, needing to pace. “I got Merry in trouble for letting us stay at the library, I wasted days and days researching a paper I could care less about, I befriended nice people then left them in the dust.” She stopped in front of him. “I’m completely confused.”
Harold smiled. “How ‘bout some carrot cake? Genuine Betty Crocker.”
“Is carrot cake an antidote to confusion?”
“It can’t hurt.”
“Go on—” Merry nudged Sim—“Bailey’s waiting for you.”
Sim held her position at the front door. Merry stood behind her, blocking her retreat.
She felt Merry’s hand on her shoulder. “It will be all right. Bailey’s a nice guy. He’ll take good care—”
“I don’t need taken care of I want to stay in the library and wait for Claire. Or let me stay in your house while you’re gone. I promise I won’t mess anything up.”
Merry looked down but shook her head.
Sim’s muscles tensed when Bailey opened his car door to come get her. No! I won’t be a baby who has to be helped to the car. She cast a backward glance at Merry. “Fine. Be that way. Have a good trip. Hope your mom is okay.”
Merry reached out to hug her, but she slipped away and pushed through the door.
“Great.” Bailey got back in the car. “Glad you’re ready. Time’s a’tocking.”<
br />
“You make that saying up all by yourself?” Sim got in the car, noting it was an older model Mercedes. Not bad for a small-town hick.
“You get that snotty attitude all by yourself?”
Touché.
They pulled away from the curb. “Seat belt.”
Sim didn’t move. “I don’t believe in them. They didn’t save my parents, so why bother?”
“Because it’s my car and my rules. Put it on.”
With a sigh, Sim fastened the belt and looked at this man who had volunteered to take her in. The big question was why? Bailey certainly hadn’t done it out of pity. “Why aren’t you being all gushy to me?
“Gushy?”
“Feeling sorry for the poor orphan girl. Being sickly sweet.”
“You like sickly sweet?”
“Not especially.”
“Then stop complaining. Bad things happen. That’s life. We have to live with it.”
Sim ran a hand across the dash. “Nice car. But you should have picked a better color. This one’s too blah.”
“Silver is classic.”
“Boring.
“Elegant.”
“Stodgy.”
Bailey glared at Sim. “I am not stodgy. If people only knew the amount of time I spend on not being stodgy.”
“Maybe you try too hard.”
“You should talk.”
“Huh?”
Bailey glanced at her, motioning to her face. “What’s with the eye makeup and that nose thing? And the red hair. No way is that natural. You trying to look like a hooker?”
“It’s the style.”
“Whose style?”
“Girls’.”
He shook his head. “Not the girls I see.”
“Kansas City is miles ahead of Steadfast in the style department.” Sim realized what she’d said. “I mean…”
“Too late. You blew it, girl.” He sang a blues song, “‘I’m going to Kansas City, Kansas City here I come.’ Claire’s from there too.”
“Along with a million and a half other people. Maybe you should mind your own business.” Sim crossed her arms. She felt a pout start but held it back. No way was she giving this pompous man the satisfaction.