by Monica James
As soon as I enter, I stand staring, dumbfounded, because this place is freakin’ huge. The king size canopy bed is draped in a black silk, jeweled duvet. The jewels throughout the design twinkle as they catch the light rays, which beam from the white lamps that sit on the mahogany bedside tables.
A matching wooden desk is situated in the far corner of the room, and a black leather chair is tucked neatly behind it. There are a few stationary items lining the oak surface, but this is just for show, as the exterior appears untouched and unmarked.
A dresser with a huge mirror sits against the wall in front of the massive bed, and as I walk toward it, I can see there’s a familiar looking porcelain jewelry box sitting on the smooth surface. Stepping closer, I run my finger over the ceramic and gently lift the lid, revealing inside an aged, onyx hair comb. The brightness of the stone catches the light, and again, this item looks familiar, just as the jewelry box does.
Quinn switches the light on in the walk-in closet jars me out of my daze, and I turn to see him looking above his head at all the shelf space, while whistling in awe. “Yikes. I don’t know if I’ll be able to fit all my clothes in here,” he says, tongue in cheek, dumping our bags onto the beige carpeted floor.
I shake my head at his cheek, but focus my attention back on the comb, as I don’t understand why I’m drawn to it.
“You like that?” Quinn asks from behind me as he rests his chin on my shoulder.
“Yeah, I’ve seen it before,” I reply, fingering the teeth of the comb.
“Yeah?” Quinn asks. “It looks really old.”
“It does,” I reply after a few moments of silence.
Taking one final look at it and realizing that this mystery is one I won’t solve tonight, I gently close the lid and tell myself to forget I ever saw it.
“So,” I ask, turning to face him. “What do we do now?”
Quinn smirks. “Well, I don’t know about you, but I really want to check out that tub,” he says, looking over his shoulder into the huge bathroom.
I chuckle. “Go for it. I might take a look around.”
“You don’t want to join me?” He winks while toeing off his boots.
As appealing as that sounds, I need to be on my own, as everything has happened so quickly and I just need time to digest it all.
“Maybe later,” I reply, but I consider changing my mind as Quinn slips off his t-shirt, revealing a sight of pure perfection.
“I’ll be here when you get back,” he replies with a smirk as he witnesses me gawking at his snail trail.
As his fingers reach for the button on his jeans, I make a quick exit before I follow him into that tub, forgetting all about my exploration plans.
Once out into the hallway, I take a deep breath and start my journey of this foreign land that Cynthia and Polly call home.
It’s safe to say Cynthia still loves her art as there are abstract statues placed inside hidden alcoves along the wall, giving the passageway an appearance of being inside a trendy museum. But it’s not pretentious or tasteless. It actually gives off a calming, cultured vibe.
As I tip-toe past Polly’s room, I hear Fiona Apple humming softly, and I wonder if she’s calmed down.
I know this must be hard for her, but it’s hard for me too. I don’t know if we’ll ever see eye to eye, but maybe one day we’ll get to the stage where we can stand to be in the same room together.
One can only dream.
There are ten doors on this floor, and I’ve opened all, bar three. The first was Polly’s, as I’m sure that wouldn’t go down too well, and the second is Cynthia’s, for obvious reasons. However, the third door, which is the room next to Cynthia’s, is the room I desperately want to break into. All the doors, except this one, are white. But this door is a pale purple, and unlike all the other doors, this door is locked. I can see by the keyhole that the key that opens this door is a big, old school brass key, which seems out of place with the modernized home.
Just as I am about to jiggle the handle once again, a voice scares the bejesus outta me and I yelp, jumping back guiltily.
“It’s locked,” Polly sneers.
Turning to face her, I try not to scowl when I see her giving me serious stink eye. “I can see that. Why?” I ask, crossing my arms over my chest.
“I don’t know. It always is,” she replies simply as she continues glaring at me.
“And you’ve never wondered what’s inside?” I inquire, incredulous.
“No,” Polly replies, obviously bored by our conversation as she examines her peach colored nails. “Besides, whatever is inside can’t be good, because every time Mom goes in there, all she does is cry, then she emerges, hours later, looking like shit.”
“Oh?” I reply, which has my already curious brain doing cartwheels in wonderment.
“So whatever is in there, can stay in there,” she spits after ensuring her nails are all symmetrically perfect.
I only just suppress the urge to kick down the door as I realize Polly and I are actually having a semi-normal conversation, which is a first.
“So…I hope you don’t mind me staying here?” I say, hoping we can continue to be partially civil to one another.
Polly narrows her icy blue eyes as she kicks off the wall. She walks over to me, stopping a few feet away and subtly looks from left to right before she leans forward, getting into my personal space. “Mind? I more than fucking mind,” she sneers.
Taking a step back, I’m stunned by her hostility, but I allow her to finish.
“But I don’t really have a choice now, do I? But mark my words; I’ll do everything in my power to make sure you don’t stick around.” She leers into my face, while I pull back, again left speechless by her rage.
“Welcome to the family,” she mocks, inches from my face, before turning on her heel and leaving me alone.
Chapter 11
Therapy
After my ever so pleasant conversation with Polly, I explored the rest of the house and gardens, and I would be lying if I didn’t confess I was considerably impressed with what I saw. However, the bitter cold and snow has me cutting short my outdoor explorations, and I enter through the back door leading into the kitchen.
The instant I’m inside, my stomach begins to growl at the mouth watering smell of freshly baked sweets. It’s only then do I realize I haven’t eaten all day. But my appetite is shot when I see Cynthia pulling out a tray of muffins from the huge oven, looking all motherly in her strawberry print apron.
“Sorry,” I utter, not really sure what I’m apologizing for.
I attempt to duck past her without stopping to talk, but I’m not that lucky as she quickly places the muffins onto a cooling rack, taking off her mittens. “Mia, would you like one?” she asks, looking down at the muffiny goodness.
As I stand rigid, unsure of what to say, she quickly reinforces, “They’re chocolate chip.” I can see the hope behind her affectionate, blue eyes.
Deciding to give this mother-daughter thing a try, I nod half-heartedly and pull up a stool, taking a seat at the marbled kitchen island as I watch her hunt in the cupboard above her head for a plate.
“Would you like coffee?” she asks, placing a muffin on a small floral dish.
“Only if you’ve already made some,” I reply. “Don’t go out of your way for me,” I add, and Cynthia cringes at my unintentional, snippy remark.
“It’s no trouble, really,” she says, passing me the muffin.
I gratefully accept, and she turns to the swanky-looking machine and begins brewing us some coffee. She seems to be deep in thought, silently watching the coffee percolate, so I remove the top of my muffin and bring it to my lips, eager to take a bite. But Cynthia’s unexpected confession stops me from moving, or breathing.
“I did love your father.”
I’m so glad I wasn’t chewing, as I would have gagged on my food. Placing my muffin onto the plate, I silently wait for her to continue.
“We were high scho
ol sweethearts, and I always knew we’d get married,” she says in a faraway voice, her back still turned.
“He was such a good man, always doting on me, and during our senior year, he surprised me by proposing right before Prom. Of course I said yes,” she happily states. “We got married right after graduation.” She pauses, before she continues on a sigh. “I was so happy back then.”
My numb body can’t believe she’s finally opening up. Am I really going to get the answers I so desperately seek?
Hopeful I don’t disturb her reminiscing, I ask, “Wh-what happened?”
She remains still, her soft sigh the only thing alerting me to the fact she’s listening.
“When I got pregnant with you, Mia, I was the same age as you are now. The day I found out I was with child was the happiest day of my life. I always wanted a family, as it was only me, my brother, and my mother growing up.”
“I have an uncle?” I suddenly question, as the prospect of having uncles, aunts, and cousins were factors I never really took into consideration.
“Yes,” Cynthia replies, but the sharp tone of her voice has me thinking my uncle is someone she wishes to forget.
“When you were born,” she continues, “I counted each of your perfect little fingers and toes, and in that moment, I knew my purpose in life had become clear. I was put on this earth to look after my baby girl.” A small sob escapes her.
As touching as this story is, a lash of anger overtakes me, because a mother abandoning her three year old child doesn’t really classify as looking after her ‘baby girl.’
“Yeah well, you failed on all accounts,” I bite back, unable to control my annoyance.
“I know,” she whispers, and I see her wipe at her eyes. “If I could take it all back, I would. But I thought it was the right thing to do,” she confesses, her shoulders shuddering in sorrow.
“What was?” I ask, but I know what her reply will be.
With her head bowed, she replies, “Leaving you.”
Red hot rage boils to the surface because deep down, I hoped that maybe she was suffering from some kind of amnesia, or maybe suffered a mental breakdown, or was abducted by aliens, and that was the reason why she left me. But to hear her admit she left me with my father intentionally fucking hurts. I mean, what kind of mother does that? What kind of mother admits abandoning her child was the ‘right thing to do?’
“I was three,” I say between clenched teeth, barely containing my fury.
“I know, Mia,” she says, spinning around to face me, her mascara tears running down her porcelain cheeks. “But I—”
“You what?” I demand, kicking back my stool as I stand up.
“I thought it was for the best,” she whimpers, her lower lip trembling when she meets my enraged eyes.
“How?” I yell, slamming my palms onto the marbled counter, frustrated with her heartless excuses. “Please explain to me how you thought leaving a three year old with her unstable father was for the best. Because from where I stand, that’s just a fucking weak and selfish thing to do.”
When my mother begins sobbing, choking on her tears, I storm over to her, tempted to shake the answers from her. But instead, I decide to share how her decision to leave was in fact not for the best. She needs to know how her decision ruined whatever hope I had at ever living a normal life.
“Do you want to know all the things he made me do?” I yell, ignoring all personal boundaries as I dive into her face. “Do you want to know all the things he wanted me to do?”
“Stop, Mia,” she wails, raising a quivering hand to her mouth. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore. Please, just stop.”
“No, I won’t stop just because my fucked up childhood makes you uncomfortable. Try living it! Try living with memories which will never go away, no matter how hard you try!” I roar. “Try being an eight year old little girl, scared out of your mind because your daddy has left you with a disgusting drug dealer, who has no qualms about ruining your innocence. Try being an eight year old little girl who has no friends because you’re too busy dealing drugs to every low life scumbag in L.A. And try being a confused eight year old little girl attempting to wake up your father, who has passed out in his own vomit and shit after being on a three day bender. Go on, Mother,” I sneer, “walk a day in my shoes, and then have the nerve to tell me it was for the best.”
I am mere inches from Cynthia’s terrified face, my spittle covering her cheeks, and as she sobs uncontrollably, sliding onto the kitchen floor, I think I’ve broken her. She slumps against the cupboard, sobbing hysterically, and I look down at her with nothing but loathing.
“You have no right to cry. An innocent man is dead because of you!” The mere mention of Hank has tears springing to my eyes. But I angrily wipe them away because my sorrow can wait.
Cynthia slowly raises her head, her face stained with tears. “I’m sorry, Mia. I’m so sorry.”
“Yeah, so am I,” I spit out. “I’m sorry that I ever thought you were worthy enough to be my mother.” I turn my back on her, as our therapy session is over for today.
Storming from the kitchen while Cynthia is an inconsolable mess may seem cruel, but it’s either that, or I continue to divulge my past. And judging from today’s performance, it’s safe to say she’s had enough.
Charging up the stairs two at a time, I speed down the hall to my room before I totally lose my shit and go back downstairs for round two. However, when I push open the door, my anger boils to the point of no return, and whatever minute reasoning I had explodes into an inferno of fury.
“What the fuck are you doing in here?” I screech at Polly, who is sitting on the edge of my bed, chatting to my boyfriend, while patting my dog.
“What crawled up your ass and died?” she retorts mid-stroke, and her snide comment has me seeing red.
“Get out!” I scream, storming over to her, seconds away from pulling out her long hair.
Polly must realize she has three seconds to move before I throw her out, because she launches off the bed, hiding behind Quinn, who has quickly moved to act as a barrier between us.
“What’s going on?” he questions, nothing but concern lining his face.
But the fact he’s in here with her has that minute sense of reasoning diminishing to nothing.
“I could ask you the same thing,” I spit, glaring at Polly, who is cowering behind Quinn’s shoulder.
Quinn opens his mouth, no doubt about to give me a reasonable explanation, but I cut him off, as I’m in no mood to listen to any more excuses.
“What is she doing in here?” I demand, pointing at her as I stalk forward, but Quinn’s huge frame stops me from moving any further.
“She came in here to talk to you, that’s all,” Quinn says, bracing his hands out, attempting to stop my rampage.
“So why is she still in here?” I ask. “She could obviously see I wasn’t here, so what, you thought you’d entertain her while I was gone?” I say, wrongfully accusing him.
Quinn looks beyond mortified at my accusation, and so am I, as I don’t mean a word of it. But I can’t stop the vile lies bubbling from my throat, because everything inside of me feels tainted and confused. I feel like I’m losing it with every breath I take.
“You need to calm down,” Quinn says with a touch of hostility to his tone, and I know he’s in no way impressed with my allegation.
“Don’t tell me what I need to do,” I bark, glaring at him.
“I’ll go, Quinn. Sorry for getting you into trouble,” Polly says in soft voice from behind him, and my body begins to shake in anger when I see her lips curve into a small, sinister smile.
“Don’t sweat it, Polly,” he replies, his eyes watching my every move.
“Okay, well, I’ll talk to you later,” she innocently says.
As I glare at her, her lips turn up into a full blown snicker, and I now know that her plan to make me leave has everything to do with the one thing that is making me stay.
“You little—”I scream, lunging forward to tear out her eyeballs, but Quinn launches for me, wrapping an arm around my waist to prevent me from charging at her.
“Polly. Leave,” he spits while I’m fighting him like a wild cat, clawing at him with all my might.
I watch as she quickly exits the room, but not before she turns to me and blows me a kiss with her middle finger, before slamming the door shut.
“Come back here!” I bellow, my feet skidding on the floor as Quinn’s arms restrain me.
“Get off of me, Quinn!” I shriek, clawing at his hands, which are like manacles around my waist.
“Not until you calm down,” he breathlessly replies, holding my back to his heaving chest.
“I’m calm!” I yell, trying to pry his fingers off of me as he lifts me off the ground.
“Oh yeah, real calm,” he spits.
The fact I’m trapped infuriates me more than I already am, so I do something stupid. I throw my head back and connect with Quinn’s nose. Stunned, his grip loosens, and I scramble out of his hold, running toward the door to kill that little bitch.
However, I take about two steps before I’m tossed onto the bed, bouncing with the momentum. I try and scramble off, but Quinn is on top of me before I have a chance to move.
“Get. Off,” I snarl. My cheek is pressed into the mattress, as Quinn is lying on my back, but he doesn’t budge an inch.
Attempting to use my arms as leverage, I push off the mattress in hopes of throwing him off balance. But the move has Quinn reaching for my arms, and he extends them above my head while securing my wrists in his palm. He then pins my flailing legs with his thighs, and any hope of escape begins dwindling to none.
My last endeavor to buck him off proves futile as he’s too damn heavy, and I realize I’ve lost this war. Sagging in defeat, I stop fighting him as my exhausted body surrenders.
“Would you care to explain to me what the fuck is going on?” Quinn breathlessly asks, inches from my ear.
“Nothing,” I stubbornly reply, blowing my tangled hair off my face.
“Nothing? I don’t call two minutes ago nothing, Red. I mean, I was waiting for your head to rotate and you to puke up some wicked green spew.”