by Monica James
“What the fu—!” but I widen my eyes to imply something is wrong.
He thankfully reads my facial charades and nods, indicating he’s listening. I gesture with my head toward the doorway. At that instant, the cackling over the radio sounds, and Quinn curses under his breath. We arise in a synchronized manner, both reaching for our guns, which have taken up permanent residency in our besides tables.
We start a slow crawl toward the voices, and Quinn nudges his head over in the direction of the bathroom, indicating I am to wait in there. My response to his offensive suggestion is a light snicker, and I follow him as we silently tip-toe toward the window. Quinn scoffs, shaking his head, obviously annoyed by my stubbornness.
I don’t know how much longer I can keep doing this, as every day seems to be a vicious circle, and the thought of turning myself in crosses my mind for the briefest second. But as I hear the familiar voice of someone who shouldn’t be here, my thoughts of surrender are put on hold. I need to know what the hell she’s doing here.
“Good morning, Mike,” says the chirpy voice of Cynthia Lee.
As soon as Quinn hears her, he turns to me, eyes wide, mouthing, “What the fuck?”
I only shrug in response, because I’m just as stumped as he. We both freeze, listening intently.
“Mornin,’ Cynthia. Whatcha doing out so early?” the man, who I’m presuming is Mike, asks.
“Oh, I just had to take care of some business for Chandler,” she replies flippantly. The mere mention of his name has my teeth grinding in annoyance.
“Oh yeah? Is he back for the holidays?” asks another male voice.
“I’m not too sure yet, Dean,” Cynthia replies. Her voice sounds like it’s just outside our door.
My hands begin sweating, as I have no idea why she’s here outside my room, playing nice with the police officers who are about to arrest us. I make an attempt to move to look out the window, but Quinn squeezes my hand and I stay put.
“What are you boys doing here?” Cynthia asks, but surely she knows—they’re here for me.
“Well, this pickup has been reported stolen. We’re just about to go inside and talk to the manager to see who checked in with the vehicle,” replies one of the police officers calmly.
“Oh, stolen?” Cynthia questions. “That’s just awful. What’s happening around here? Just this morning, I was talking to Mr. Bourke, and he told me someone broke into his home and stole some money and documents out of his safe,” my mother concludes with a sigh.
“Mr. Bourke?” questions an officer I think is Mike. “You mean Mr. Bourke who lives on Cherry Lane?”
“Yes, that’s right. Do you know him?” Cynthia asks.
From the choice curse words Mike uses, I dare say he does.
“Isn’t that Amanda’s grandpa?” asks Dean.
“Amanda—she’s your girlfriend?” Cynthia innocently asks.
“Shit,” mutters Mike.
There’s a long pause, and I look at Quinn, hoping he can shed some light on what the hell is going on, but he looks just as baffled as me.
“If you’ll excuse me, Cynthia. I better go check that out,” Mike says, and I can hear his footsteps walking away from the door.
“Yeah, Mike. You’re in the doghouse as it is with her, and you’ve only had two dates. Maybe checking on her pops will win you some brownie points.” Dean chuckles loudly.
“It certainly would help,” replies Mike, and suddenly, Cynthia’s plan becomes clear.
“What about the pickup?” she asks. I can see her silhouette just outside the window.
“Oh, it’s probably just a bunch of kids,” Mike replies in the distance. “We’ll come back later on to check it out. Have a good day, Cynthia.” A car’s engine revs to life and pulls out of the parking lot with a loud squeal.
It’s only when I hear silence do I let out the breath I was barely holding onto. Although I think I know what’s happening here, I have to find out for certain, because Cynthia lying to save us from getting caught makes no sense.
“You can open up, they’re gone,” she says through the door, jiggling the locked handle.
Quinn looks at me, ensuring I’m okay with allowing her inside. I nod, sitting shakily on the sofa as he opens the door. As she quickly enters, I try not to recoil. The memories from yesterday are flooding back, but I suck it up and meet her flighty eyes because I want answers.
“What are you doing here?” I bluntly ask, crossing my arms over my chest.
I don’t fail to see the hurt flicker across her face at my direct question, but I don’t care. I’m done trying to play nice and leaving with nothing in return.
“Hi, Mia,” she says, taking a small step toward me. She at least seems a lot more coherent and groomed today.
“Hi,” I reply curtly, my arms still crossed.
When I make it clear I’m not talking until she starts giving me some answers, she says, “I needed to see you. Polly told me where you were staying, and I saw the officers sniffing around your car, so I had to come up with some excuse to get them off your trail,” she explains, nervously fidgeting with the neckline of her pink sweater.
“So that was all bullshit? No one got robbed?” I ask, raising my eyebrow at her.
“No,” she replies softly as she attempts to take a seat near me.
I almost fall over my feet as I jump off the sofa quickly, not wanting to be anywhere near her. She bites her lower lip, but settles on the stained cushions, ignoring my insolence.
“What happens when they find out you were lying?” Quinn asks from behind me.
“Oh, Mr. Bourke did get robbed, but that was in 1984. It’s a story he loves to retell over and over as he still thinks it’s 1984,” she explains, her eyes flicking to Quinn’s.
My mother preyed on the senile, old mind of poor Mr. Bourke, and as much as I hate to admit it, that was ingenious thinking on such short notice. But I would rather cut out my own tongue than admit it to her.
“Thanks,” I bark, glaring down at her. “But that doesn’t answer my question.”
I can’t stop the venom spewing from me, but I think I’m allowed to be a tad snippy after the way she’s treated me.
“You have every right to be angry at me, Mia. I have been awful to you. But I’m here to ask for your forgiveness,” she says nervously, lowering her eyes when I scoff at her suggestion.
“Forgiveness? Forgive you for what, exactly? Because from where I stand, that’s a shitload of forgiveness you’re asking for.”
Every time I open my mouth, I tell myself to shut up because she’s making an effort, something she hasn’t done before. But the anger and rage overtakes my sanity, and insulting her is the only way for me to deal right now.
“You’re right, you’re absolutely right,” she says. She stands up and reaches out to me.
Again I back away, and bump straight into Quinn. His warm presence is like a soothing balm to my blistering soul, and I quietly calm down, because I want to know why she’s here.
I remain quiet, silently encouraging her to go on.
“I’m sorry for everything, and you’re right, you do deserve answers,” she explains. I try not to prematurely celebrate until I’ve heard the last of her speech. “But you must understand, this is hard for me, too. I have repressed these memories for a very long time, and I can’t just speak about them right away, as I too, need time to digest it all.”
Rubbing my forehead in frustration, I realize I may be eighty by the time she’s ready to talk. Of course I understand what she means, but that doesn’t make it any easier to process.
“So, what I propose is you come stay with me and Polly, and let’s get to know one another. I promise to answer all your questions in time. And I promise to listen to everything you have to say.”
“How long?” I press through clenched teeth, as the thought of living under the same roof as Pollyanna sounds like a bad, bad idea.
Cynthia straightens out her pressed slacks as she replies
, “I don’t know. I mean, there isn’t really a time frame on something like this.”
“No,” I spit, stepping away from the comforting sanctuary of Quinn’s body. “There is no way I am playing happy families. I can’t stay with you, pretending like nothing has happened.”
“That’s not what I’m asking, Mia. My home is big enough for you and Quinn to come and go as you please, and without fear of being on the run from the police, and your fa—” but she doesn’t finish her sentence as she clutches at the gold locket around her neck.
The events of the past few days have totally shifted my priorities, and my father has been low on the list of things to worry about, which has been careless. She does have a point, but I won’t submit just because she thinks it’s a good idea.
As I’m about to object, Quinn speaks softly. “Red, she has a point. I mean, today was close. At least we wouldn’t have to keep looking over our shoulders. And we can also figure out what to do next without fear of your dad and the cops sniffing us out.”
He’s right, but my stubbornness is yelling at me not to surrender.
“Red?” my mother questions with a small smile, looking over my shoulder at Quinn.
“Yeah,” Quinn quietly chuckles. “Her temper earns her that well-deserved nickname.”
My mother smiles, brushing a piece of hair behind her ear, and she nods at his comment. I turn to glare at Quinn for consorting with the enemy, but he looks at me, faking innocence.
“It’s true,” he says with a small shrug.
“It’s a lovely nickname,” Cynthia has the gall to say.
Well, fuck them both. I clear my throat. “I’m glad you approve,” I spit, turning back around to face her.
“Mia,” Cynthia says with a small frown, but I cut her off, ignoring the miserable look on her face.
“The answer is no. Thank you for the offer, but I’d rather be caught by the police, or my father”—Cynthia flinches as I mention him—“than live under the same roof as you.” I turn on my heel and slam the bathroom door behind me, as I need to get the hell away from her.
Bracing my head into my hands as I slump onto the toilet lid, I scold myself for being so stubborn because Quinn is right. It is a good idea, and I should suck it up and agree. I should meet Cynthia halfway, because this is what I want, isn’t it? I just wanted her to open up and tell me the truth. But now that opportunity has come knocking, I’m slamming bathroom doors in its face instead of embracing it.
“Ugh!” I groan into my palms, angered by my pig-headedness.
A knock on the door interrupts my pity party for one, and I raise my head as Quinn enters the bathroom.
“She’s gone,” he says when I look over his shoulder to ensure she isn’t loitering behind him.
“Good riddance,” I utter under my breath while looking at my scuffed Chucks.
I’m suddenly embarrassed that I’m behaving like a two-year-old, but I can’t help it. The thought of trying to mend bridges with my mother scares me. What if after everything is said and done, she’s still a disappointment? Or worse yet, what if I’m a disappointment?
Returning to my pity party, I groan and clasp my head into my palms, unable to face Quinn.
He gives me a minute to sulk before he kneels on both knees before me, lightly placing his hands on my thighs.
“Whatever you want to do, I’ll support you. You know that,” he says softly, and by the concern in his voice, I know he means every word.
But of course my single-mindedness overtakes my common sense as I mumble from behind my hands, “Oh, really? It sure as hell didn’t feel that way in there. ‘It’s a lovely nickname,’” I mock in a lame attempt at impersonating my mother.
“Hey,” Quinn says, removing my hands from my face.
The moment I meet his eyes, I kick my own ass for being no better than Polly.
“I’m on your side. Always,” he firmly states, reaching forward and brushing a long lock of hair behind my ear.
“I know. I’m sorry for being a spoiled brat. She just brings out this awful, childish, rebellious side to me,” I mumble, chewing on my lip.
“It’s okay,” he replies, thumbing my pouty bottom lip.
“So…” I sigh, feeling every bit as miserable as I probably look when the realization of what is about to happen hits home. “To the dragon’s lair we go?”
Quinn nods with a smirk. “I’ve grabbed a few of your things.”
“You what now?” I question, raising my brow. “That was a little presumptuous, don’t you think?”
“No, presumptuous would be telling your mother we’d see her in an hour.” He quickly stands to avoid my playful slap.
“You’re lucky I lo—” but I stop myself before I drop the L bomb.
Looking at Quinn’s rigid stance, I’m glad I stopped myself before I embarrassed us both. But as Quinn takes a step toward the door, he suddenly stops and slowly turns over his shoulder and whispers, “Every moment spent with you has me realizing how lucky I really am.”
My mouth parts, stunned by his confession, but he’s gone before I can tell him I feel the same way.
Chapter 10
Welcome to the Family
“This is a bad idea,” I grumble as I dawdle up Cynthia’s driveway.
Just to rebel, we’re late, and I did this deliberately. My mother was expecting us an hour ago, but she can wait.
“C’mon, stop dragging your feet,” Quinn says, grabbing my freezing hand as he drags my protesting feet through the inches of snow.
The door opens as we ascend the first step and Cynthia greets us with a beaming smile. “I’m so glad you’re here,” she says, opening the door wider for us to enter. “Hello little guy,” she adds, bending forward and patting Lucky on the head. He happily accepts her pats as he seems to like her—traitor.
Quinn stands behind me and practically shoves me through the door. He must be afraid that I’m going to turn away and run screaming for the hills.
Once inside, every muscle within my body seizes up and I feel claustrophobic as the walls begin closing in on me. This house is to be my prison for the next, god knows how many days, or weeks, and I suddenly begin to question my decision to come here.
“Your room is upstairs,” Cynthia says. She nervously fiddles with her locket before leading the way up the glorious staircase.
Quinn slides my backpack off my shoulder as I remain firmly rooted to the shiny floor, gazing up at the endless steps that no doubt lead to my impending doom. He lugs my bag onto his shoulder and then reaches for my hand, pulling me toward the flight of stairs. But my hand snags in his, as I have no intention of moving.
Turning to see what my problem is, he cocks a brow. But I animatedly shake my head.
“I can’t go…up there,” I say, raising my eyes toward the stairs.
“So you want to stay down here all night?” he asks with a smile.
I nod, as that option is far better than having to go into a room which will never be ‘mine.’
“Well, all right then, but with all the Christmas cheer going on down here,” he says, looking at the front window where I can see the ridiculous Christmas display. “I just may feel the need to break out into song. And I know just the right one.”
He takes an exaggerated breath, which puffs out his chest, and he bellows, “Rudolph—” Before he can continue, I slap my hand over his mouth and smile.
“You sing. You die,” I warn, biting my lip to stop myself from laughing.
I know what he’s doing, and it’s worked. Cautiously removing my hand in hopes he doesn’t feel like belting into another carol, I lean forward and kiss him on the cheek.
“Thank you, Quinn.”
“Any time,” he replies, slowly reaching for my hand, and we take our first step toward what, I don’t know.
I don’t want to be here, but a small part of me does. This is my chance to find out who I am, and it’s also my chance to live in a home, and not only a house.
The staircase leads up to the second floor, which is just as lavish as downstairs. I almost trip up the last step when I see how many rooms this floor has. The white walls are decorated with beautiful paintings, and as I look down the long hallway, I can see they extend all the way down the corridor.
“This way,” Cynthia says, leading us down the beige carpeted walkway with Quinn and me silently following behind.
My shoes squish on the plush carpet, and I look behind to ensure I’m not leaving a trail of mud, as I wouldn’t want to mess up this immaculate, unpolluted environment.
We stop at a white door, and inside, I can hear the recognizable voice of Kurt Cobain, sounding over the radio. “Polly?” Cynthia says, knocking softly. “Your sister is here,” she adds, waiting for a reply.
Looks like she’ll be waiting a while as the only response she gets is the volume being turned up to full, and Kurt yelling at us to “Stay Away.”
Cynthia sighs and rubs her brow as she turns to face us with a strained smile. “She mustn’t have heard me,” she says, which we all know is a flat out lie.
But no one addresses it, as this situation is awkward enough without adding Polly to the mix.
We arrive at a door a few doors down from Polly, and Cynthia stands aside. “Well, this is your room. If you don’t like it, or want another, just let me know,” she says kindly.
“It’ll be fine,” I reply, which are my first words to her since my arrival.
“Please make yourself at home. My room is at the end of the hall,” she says, looking back the way we came.
“Peachy,” I reply, reaching for the knob, but I stop when Cynthia says, “It’s really lovely to have to here, Mia. I hope you treat this home as your own.”
I nod in response, but I hate that when I look at her, I actually feel sorry for her. I know she’s trying, but I’m not ready to play nice just yet. I need time to process everything before I think of anything that’s hers as mine.
“Thanks,” I mutter quickly, turning the handle and running into the safety of the room.