by C. C. Hunter
* * *
Cash left Chloe, worried he should’ve kissed her. He headed to his Jeep. She looked like she wanted to be kissed. Maybe he’ll text her and say that he wanted to. Yeah. Then he wondered again if any of this was wise. How mad was she going to be when he told her the Emily thing? It’s not as if liking her had anything to do with that. He hadn’t planned on liking her.
Surely, she’d understand.
But he needed to tell her soon. Real soon. He didn’t know what he was waiting for. More proof?
He got to his Jeep and saw the driver’s door. Anger boiled in his gut as he stared at the thin line etched down the side of the car. Some asshole keyed his Jeep. And he’d bet that asshole had a fat nose, too.
He stood there clenching and unclenching his fist. He wanted to find that bastard and teach him a lesson. Then he remembered Mrs. Fuller’s sad sigh.
While he knew Paul did it, he had no proof. Just as he’d had no proof about the rape. Who’d believe him? No one. If he went after Paul now, he’d be accused of starting the fight. He’d get in trouble. Might get kicked out of school again.
“Shit!” He forced himself to get in his Jeep. He sat there gripping the wheel so tight, his fists hurt. Somehow, someway, he had to teach that asswipe a lesson, without getting in trouble.
* * *
I pull up in the driveway and sit staring at the old house. I’m afraid to go in. Afraid that there’ll be mama drama. I’m tired of drama.
Mom told me that this was the first place they’d come after the adoption. She’d been so excited to show me off to her parents. Why don’t I remember that? Instead, my only memory is staring at that dirty carpet and my black leather shoes. Sad, alone. Scared. I wonder if I was missing my real parents that day. I wonder why they didn’t want me anymore.
I wonder why the hell I’m spending time thinking about this. It always ends up with me feeling sorry for myself. Feeling pathetic. And I don’t want to be that girl.
I grab my backpack and get out of the car.
Walking into the house, I prepare myself for another standoff with Mom. She never answered my text about calling the insurance company.
She’s in the kitchen. Dressed. That’s a good sign. But with her clothes two sizes too big, she reminds me of a poorly dressed mannequin.
After stepping into the kitchen, I set my backpack on the table. Mom’s smiling, and I can’t help but wonder if this is a ploy. “How was your day?”
“Great!” she says.
“Did you start writing again?” She used to be really happy on a good writing day.
“No. I got a call from the doctor’s office. I have an interview tomorrow to meet with the other doctor. I freaked out over nothing.”
“That’s great, Mom.”
I hate to rain on her happy parade, but I have to ask. “Did you call the insurance company?”
Her smile dims. “I did. They are sending me an email with a list of counselors.”
“Isn’t there just a website you can go to?”
“Yes, but it’s being updated, so she’ll send it to me when they have it up.”
I don’t know if this is a stall tactic, but I don’t know how I can argue with it. “Good. I just want—”
“I need to go shopping,” she interrupts. “I wore the only nice outfit I have for the first interview. And since today is September fourth—” She blows me a kiss. “—I thought we could celebrate. I’ll buy you an outfit, too.”
I forgot the day.
When I was younger, September 4 felt like a second birthday. Gifts and cake. It’s the day they adopted me. We always celebrated. Last year, after Dad moved out, he sent me flowers.
I give the kitchen counters a quick check. No flowers. Maybe they’ll come later. Or maybe Dad forgot, too.
Mom’s still grinning. “Where would you like to eat?”
I force myself to look interested. I think I’m still pissed at her for embarrassing me in front of Cash, but I do the right thing. “There’s that Italian place off Main Street.”
* * *
Home by eight that night, I hug Mom, tell her I had fun helping her pick out an outfit, and say thank you for the blouse. I bypassed getting another pair of jeans, because I know money’s tight.
Actually, I did have an okay time. Mom was … almost normal. We didn’t mention Dad, the phone call, or the insurance. We ate chicken marsala and tiramisu, and she talked about growing up here. She even mentioned a few of her old girlfriends, and I suggested she try to contact them.
On the way home, she asked about Cash. Is he your boyfriend? What do you know about him? My answers—not yet and not much—were short and meant to shut her down. Since Lindsey mentioned how all the girls practically threw themselves at Cash, I’ve been questioning his interest in me. Besides, five kisses do not make a boyfriend, and I don’t feel like going into the he’s-a-foster-kid talk. But it does make me think about how little I know about him.
After grabbing a bottled water, I head off to my room to do homework and to figure out what I’m going to text Cash. Or why he hasn’t texted me.
I hate that I feel like this. Why can’t I just text him? I worry I’ll say something stupid and he’ll stop liking me. I worry he hasn’t texted, because he ran into some really pretty college girl.
Yup, I’m an insecure little twit. I always blame it on the adoption. Knowing my real parents gave me away. Sometimes I want to find them and ask why.
I fall back on my bed; Felix crawls on my chest. I listen to his purr, and it’s calming. I hit my picture app and take a close-up shot. I have only half his face, but it’s neat looking.
I finally push him off me, roll over onto my belly, and text, How was class?
Immediately, I see the three little dots appear. I smile and wonder if he was about to text me.
Cash: Boring. Teacher was late.
Me: Sorry. You still at school?
Him: No. What did you do tonight?
Me: Went out for Italian food with Mom.
Him: Is she in a better mood?
Me: She’s no longer a banshee. ☺
Him: Good.
Felix crawls on my back and kneads my shoulders. I pause and stare at the phone. Should I say goodbye now?
Him: I wish I’d kissed you in the parking lot.
I laugh and squeal.
Me: Me too.
Him: Can I see you tomorrow afternoon?
I don’t want to bring him here again.
Me: How about I meet you at that coffee place after I drop Lindsey off?
Him: That works.
Me: Need to do homework, but cat won’t leave me alone.
Him: The Fullers’ cat is like that.
I get a sad feeling that he doesn’t think of the cat as his and he didn’t refer to the Fullers’ house as his home. I wonder if things are bad there. I want to ask but don’t know how.
Instead, I attach the picture I just took of Felix and a note.
Me: Meet Felix.
* * *
Stretched out on the bed, Cash read the text. He shot up. Shit! Her cat’s name is Felix? He tried to remember if he’d told her the name of the Fullers’ cat. He hadn’t. He hadn’t even talked about the cat until now. Right?
Him: Your cat’s name is Felix?
Her: Yes.
Him: Who named it?
Her: I did. I was young. 3 or 4. Why?
Shit! He bounced out of bed, paced the room.
But, damn it, if this was a con, it would be the perfect way to pull it off. Keep dropping hints until … It wasn’t a con.
He stood there, his finger poised above the phone, not knowing what to type. What to say. He finally typed.
Him: The Fullers’ cat is named Felix.
Her: Great minds think alike.
Him: Yes.
Her: Did you name it?
He sat back down, and emotions zip-lined through him, hitting nerves. He typed: No. He’s old.
He had to tell her. Tomorr
ow. He’d show her the age-progression photo. Would she be angry? Shoot-the-messenger kind of anger? Would she be pissed he’d kept this from her? Would what they had end?
“Probably,” he answered aloud. But he didn’t have a choice.
11
“What are you doing?”
Shit. Cash looked up through his windshield. It was five in the morning, and he’d thought he could do this without anyone knowing.
Mrs. Fuller, still in her bathrobe, stood in the doorway of the garage. What time did she get up?
He hadn’t told the Fullers about his car getting keyed. So now explaining why he was installing a camera in his car was going to be awkward. He had about one second to decide if he should tell the truth, or lie. Lying didn’t seem right.
He got out of his Jeep. “I’m installing a camera.”
“A camera? Why?”
“Yesterday someone keyed my door.”
“What?” Frowning, she walked over and looked at the driver’s side of his Jeep. “Why would someone do this?”
“I’m thinking it’s the boy I fought with. But I can’t prove it. So, I thought if I caught him again, I could be sure.” What would he do if his plan worked? Oh, he had a few ideas. Most of them involved his fist, and all of them would land him in a shitload of trouble. But that was a bridge he’d cross later.
“Did you report it?”
“No.”
She tightened her lips. “Why? The school needs to know this.”
His gut knotted up. “Please let me handle it.”
She stiffened. “And get into another fight with him?”
“I won’t fight,” he said, knowing that was going to be a hard promise to keep. “I don’t know for sure he did it. It could even have happened at the college.” That was a lie. “I don’t want to accuse anyone without proof. If anyone does anything else, I’ll know who.”
“And what are you going to do when you know?”
“I won’t start a fight. I promise.”
She sighed that sad sound, and his chest shrank, knowing he was letting her down again. “We need to report it to the insurance. I’m sure it’s covered.”
“It’s fine. I can live with this.” Never mind it felt like he couldn’t.
“You shouldn’t have to. I’ll let Tony know, and you and he can decide how to handle it.”
Crap! He should’ve lied.
“Where did you get the camera?” she asked.
“At an auto store. I paid for it with my own money.”
She released another slow breath. “You have our credit card. You could’ve used it.”
Yeah, he had it, and never used it. Never would. He’d never take advantage of the Fullers more than he had to.
“Since you’re up, join me for breakfast. I’m making toast and eggs.”
He wanted to decline, but knew she’d be upset if he did. “Sure.”
“Five minutes,” she said.
He got the camera going in three minutes and went inside.
“Mr. Fuller not up?” Cash asked.
“He doesn’t have a patient until nine, so he’s sleeping in,” she said.
“You want juice?” he asked.
“Please.”
As he got to the counter, he saw what was lying there beside Mrs. Fuller’s purse. His breath caught. “What are you doing with this?” He looked at the age-progression photo.
“Someone took the one that was at Walmart. I printed an extra.”
He looked up at her as she was cooking eggs.
“Don’t say it. I’ve already heard it from Tony.” She set the skillet off the stove. “I know the chances of ever finding her are practically nil. I get that the picture that man showed me is probably a fake, I do. But what does it hurt to keep one up?”
She hugged herself. “I’d love to know who removed it.”
Guilt tugged at his chest.
She pulled toast out of the toaster and set it on a plate. “Did they think it looked like someone? My mind goes all over the place. What if it’s the person who took her? Everyone thinks she’s dead. I get that.” She put the toast on the table. “But what if she’s not?” She looked up. “I’m not obsessing over it. I just … What would it hurt to keep the image up?”
He saw the hurt in her eyes and wondered if she and Mr. Fuller had argued over it. Cash had heard them arguing after they were conned. Mr. Fuller wanted her to let it go. She accused him of forgetting their daughter. “I’m sorry.”
She frowned. “I know. Don’t make a big deal out of this like Tony did. I’m fine.”
She wasn’t fine, Cash thought. She’d lost her child. Why was it that after fifteen years, Mrs. Fuller still longed for her girl, but his real mother had just gotten up one morning and walked out?
He heard his father’s words: She didn’t give a shit about you.
* * *
My alarm rings and I stumble toward the bathroom, still half asleep. Lights are on in the living room. The scent of coffee flavors the air. I slow down enough to peer around the corner and spot Mom, without her bandanna, sitting on the sofa. She’s wearing that too-big robe and has a photo album in her lap. She turns a page. Something about the slowness of that turn sets the mood.
And it’s not good.
Hoping I’m wrong, I go pee. Then I step out and move into the living room, purposely adding a cheeriness to my tone. “Morning.”
She looks up. I emotionally cringe at the tears in her eyes. I hope the insurance company emails that list of counselors today.
Moving closer, I feel like I’m walking into a bubble of sadness. My gaze shifts to the album. I’m expecting to see a picture of Dad, even though I think I confiscated and hid all his pictures when I found her yanking them out of the album and ripping them up. But it’s not Dad’s image she’s staring at.
It’s my grandmother when she was younger. I remember her.
Mom dusts a tear off her cheek. “I dreamed about her.”
As I sit beside Mom, the sofa sighs. I stare at the image of a woman with light brown hair, light green eyes, and a bright smile. For the first time, I realize how much Mom looks like her. Yet, I haven’t seen Mom smile that big in a long time.
She turns the page. There’s a picture of both my grandparents. Mom was an only child, and they didn’t have her until late in life. I’m told her father died soon after I was adopted.
Grandma died when I was seven. She always came and stayed with us at Christmas and during the summers. Back then, Mom worked full-time at the hospital and Grandma watched me. I remember her always eating and giving me tangerines; she even smelled like tangerines. She always read to me at night, and her hugs were extra tight. She called me Bug. I hated bugs, but I knew she meant it with love.
I also remember waking up one morning and finding Mom sobbing in the kitchen. Dad was holding her. He let go of Mom and pulled me aside and explained that Grandma had gone to heaven and Mom was sad. I remember crying that day, too. I had loved my grandmother. I was going to miss her tangerine hugs and the funny faces she made when she read to me.
But right now, because I came so close to losing Mom, I want to cry again—but for Mom this time. I can imagine all too well what it feels like to lose a parent.
“Was it a good dream?” I ask.
“Yeah. We were cooking. Peeling potatoes and laughing. I still miss her.”
“I’ll bet you do.” My heart swells. I touch her head. “Hey, I see hair. Real hair, not just peach fuzz.”
“Yeah, I noticed it, too.” She smiles, but her eyes look tired.
“How long have you been up?”
“Since three.”
“Go back to bed,” I say.
“Nah. I’ve got to emotionally prepare for my interview.”
“Oh yeah.” I squeeze her hand. “Good luck.”
“My interview isn’t until four thirty. I’ll see you before I go. I’m going to need you to remind me that I don’t have anything to worry about.”
N
o. No. No. I’m meeting Cash. The words sit on the tip of my tongue, but I can’t push them out. “Sure.”
Damn. Damn. Damn. I’m muttering under my breath twenty minutes later as I swipe some gloss over my lips. Why can’t I just tell her good luck now? My mom needs a life, and until she has one, it’s going to be hard for me to get one. The thought of leaving for college seems impossible. I get this image flashing in my head of growing old with Mom.
I stare at my face in the bathroom mirror and wonder if depression is contagious.
Truth is, I was probably depressed before school started. But having someplace to go every day, and maybe the excitement of finding Cash, and maybe even becoming better friends with Lindsey have made my life feel brighter. Better. Less bitter.
It gives me hope that Mom will feel the same way about her job. Between that and the counseling, maybe I’ll get my mom back.
I hear Buttercup whining at the bathroom door. I open it and he’s standing there with his leash in his mouth. “Sorry, buddy. I gotta go to school. Maybe this afternoon.” And that’s when I realize that although I might not be able to meet Cash right after school, Mom’s interview will last long enough for me to see him while she’s gone.
“You liked Cash, didn’t you? It’s okay if he joins us, right?”
Buttercup’s tail wags. Ah, there is hope after all.
* * *
It was early when Cash got to Chloe’s house. She’d told him to arrive at four thirty, so he parked four houses down and waited. His nerves were so tight, his shoulders hurt.
He touched his front pocket, where he’d put the folded progression photo.
How was he going to explain this? Would she be pissed? Would knowing this clue her in to all his other lies? The tire? The counselor’s file? He kept telling himself he’d play it by ear, but his ear wasn’t in the mood to play.
Needing something to do, Cash deleted video footage off the memory card of his car’s camera. He’d gotten nothing today. But it might take a while before they got disappointed that he wasn’t reacting and try again. That’s what they wanted. A reaction. Paul wanted him to start a fight. So he could say, See, Cash started this one and the last one.