by Jody Kaye
I run my fingers over the silky hair dye swatches in the next row. A small shift catches my eye and a skitter of apprehension rankles over my spine. A girl about my age lifts a cheap pair of earbuds from a bin. She places them into her pocket. I glance around the store. Nobody has seen her except me. I should say something. Instead, I pick up a box of purple hair color, watching her with my peripheral vision as she peruses the candy selection. It’s like a movie scene. I can tell by the way her hand moves to rest on her hip she’s slipped another item in her pocket.
A friend calls to her and they shuffle toward the exit, being loud and making goofy jokes, holding up items and putting them back. Then the friend buys something. They both look happy. Why are they cheerful if they need to steal?
I look at the box of hair dye. The woman on the box looks as carefree as they are. She’s pretty too, with all those highlights and tones of violet.
The girl’s friend finishes paying for her purchase. I walk toward the exit, wondering what the hell I have left to lose. And, if there is more, why should I care?
My shoulders hitch to my ears when the three of us get to the door and the store alarm goes off. The cashier runs around the counter. My eyes widen at the girls and he looks at my prescription bag.
“You’re fine.” He scowls, pointing at the friends. “You two, empty your pockets on the counter now.”
My breath gets stuck in my lungs, but I turn to go with the box hidden under my sweats.
“Hi, is this Aidy?” a pleasant voice asks when I pick up my phone. It’s the nurse from the clinic.
I’d been so wrapped up figuring out what the hell my lecture today had covered answering was automatic.
“Ye-Yes.” I clear my throat and she reminds me of who she is. Like I’d forget.
“I want to start by saying my call is not to pressure you. I wanted to check and make sure you were okay.”
“I’m fine.” I lie the same way I tell my roommate I’m all better from whatever bug I’d caught.
“Good to hear, sweetheart. If you need someone to talk to—”
“I won’t.” I cut her off.
“It’s okay, Aidy. I don’t mean now, maybe in the future? I’m here. There’s also the campus counseling center and, if you’d rather go someplace else, I have a list of private and group support resources.” A lot of what she’s saying was information provided each time I’d seen her. “You aren’t alone. You’re not the only woman this happens to.”
Her last sentence is too much and I hang up on her as she’s babbling on about a great survivor network in Brighton.
My biological mother, Kimber, lives in Brighton with her husband and their new baby. Kimber was eighteen when she gave birth to me. She chose a wonderful couple to become my parents. For most of my childhood, I reaped the benefit of an open adoption. Kimber showed up at my birthday parties and we sent letters and cards on holidays, or rather, my mom did for me.
The same mom whose texts I reply to with an exaggerated “I’m soooo busy”, “I’m soooo tired” or an appropriate emoji to make her think I’m not failing all four of my classes the third week of school.
I’ve always been able to go to my mom with anything. Right now, I don’t want to see or talk to her. Kimber’s on my mind.
We became close after I turned eighteen. However, I’ve never asked Kimber who my father was. Until recently, it hadn’t seemed right for me to pry into her personal business. I do know she was younger than I am now, and made her choices alone during a time in her life wrought with emotion. I’ve always feared my life began because of someone more sinister and, not knowing the truth, meant there was still the possibility I was conceived by two people who loved one another. Now, more than ever, I’m left wondering if Kimber experienced what I did. I couldn’t bear for it to be the reason a child of mine existed. And, for as cherished as my mom and dad made me feel, I’m not sure I’d be able to give away someone who grew inside of me to anyone.
Kimber is so much stronger than I am. There’s no way something like this happened to her.
I go back to highlighting a textbook and realized the entire page is yellow. I’ve been dragging the marker from one paragraph to the next without reading.
“Great,” I mutter, tired of the constant distractions my thoughts cause.
I rub my eyes and reach up to my desk to snag a rubber band to pull my hair into a ponytail. A few purple flyaways get tucked behind my ear.
“Concentrate.” School has always been easy. I’ve never been so far behind. Or so tired. I refuse to touch my bed.
As if I’ve conjured her, my cell dings on the hard floor beside me.
Kimber: Hey Dumplin’! Can you call me when you’re out of class?
I scroll my contacts and call her right back.
“That was fast!” I catch bass thumping in the background. The music ebbs away, but Kimber’s enthusiastic voice carries on. “It’s not a huge emergency, but Trig’s out of town and our don’t-want-to-disturb-Dumplin’s-studies-sitter is busy.”
I beam. “You have a back-up sitter?”
“Of course, we do. I don’t want to bug you when you’re supposed to be off having a good time.”
“It’s never a bother.”
Owen grows like a weed in between my visits. Her having him excited me. I was an only child and, while Ghillie and Don Fairley aren’t ancient, they are older than most of my friend’s parents. It’s also not as if my mom and dad were ever having more kids. Owen is the only sibling I’m getting.
“I know you’ll never say no even when you should and it’s why I keep someone else’s number handy.”
True. After Owen was born, I sort of went baby-crazy and volunteered to watch him every chance I got.
“Anyhow,” Kimber continues, “I have plans with Sloan I’m trying to salvage for tomorrow. If you can’t do it, don’t worry.”
I shut the back door to the utility van, taking my time to walk up the path to Trig and Kimber’s front door. Their house is at the back of a neighborhood surrounded by a fuck-ton of other gigantic houses. Each has a fenced backyard, patch of grass out front to mow, and signature southern low slung porch. About every third one is the same cookie cutter-style. The only difference is the paint color or materials used. This one is a periwinkle blue with white trim.
Nothing about the suburbs of Raleigh is like the rural part of North Carolina I grew up in. I can’t believe this is the place I’m calling home. My last zip code was chain-link fences with barbed wire, not the white picket kind.
Tamping down the urge to knock, I let myself in the front door. I’ve lived here a few months, worked for Trig doing security system installs as long, and still feel like an intruder. They have a new baby, so I’m not sure why they’re putting me up and letting me cramp their style. Although, I’m sure my record is the reason a place wasn’t offered to me at the refurbished cotton mill where my sister, Celine, lives.
I toe off my shoes and place my fast food dinner bag on the stairs by the front door before heading through the living room, following the voices to let Kimber know I’m back. I don’t ever want her shocked she isn’t alone in the house. If she’s agreed to me squatting here out of the kindness of her heart, then the least I owe her is common courtesy.
“Morgan, you’re home!” Kimber is behind a long island chatting with two women. One of them is Sloan. She’s seated on a barstool opposite Kimber and gives me a bright “Hey you!” in a similar enthusiastic tone.
Sloan does live in the old factory building the way Kimber used to. She, Celine, and Kimber were floormates until Kimber married Trig and Sloan moved her stuff to Carver’s apartment on the second floor. Or maybe Carver moved Sloan’s stuff. Who knows? It’s Carver’s building, and he makes the rules for all of us.
My sister set me up with Carver when I had no prospects. I owe him for what I have now, which isn’t much, but after losing everything I once had, there is nowhere to go but up. I know whatever happens around here works off o
f trust and I plan to keep Trig and Carver’s, Kimber’s too.
A girl a bit younger than me is bouncing Owen, Kimber and Trig’s son, on her hip cooing to the baby. She’s got long purple hair that Owen is fisting, dragging handfuls to his mouth. The innocence of it makes her let out a tinkling laugh.
“Have you met my daughter, Aidy, yet?” Kimber asks.
I’m shocked when the girl raises her gaze to me with a polite hello. I didn’t know Kimber had a daughter. Sure, I’d seen a picture on the mantle of Kimber’s family. However, there was an older couple in it too. The woman standing before me had the same red hair as Kimber’s in the snapshot. I’d figured they were sisters. Kimber doesn’t look old enough to have a kid my age. She and Trig have been together for give or take five years. I doubt Aidy and Owen have the same father. Maybe that’s why it’s never come up before.
“Morgan Wescott.” I make it a point of telling people my full name. It’s a weird habit I picked up over the past few years and am not sure I’ll ever fall out of. Doing it at least means nobody can ever insinuate I wasn’t upfront about who I am.
I hold out my hand. Aidy maneuvers the baby, so she’s still got a grip on him, shaking upside down and with the wrong hand. We all chuckle nervously at the absurdity.
Aidy ducks her head, embarrassed and clinging to Owen. I feel awful, especially when she offers, “There’s pizza by the toaster if you’re hungry.”
“I got dinner for you, Dumplin’. Your freshman fifteen has turned into the sophomore shed sixty.” Kimber has to be exaggerating. Aidy could use a little meat on her bones, but there’s no way she’s lost that much weight.
“I don’t mind.” Aidy moves her purple locks to cover her porcelain white skin, seeming lost when Kimber takes the baby from her.
“Thanks. I snagged something on the way back.” My takeout is getting cold on the steps as we speak. I’m not sure why I’m still standing here. I’m intrigued by the purple curl hitting Aidy’s bare arm, and the way her creamy skin contrasts her charcoal black t-shirt.
“There is plenty.” Kimber winks in my direction. She offers me food a lot and I tend to say no. I think she’s trying to make both me and Aidy comfortable. “Sloan and I are going out tonight. Aidy is staying overnight to babysit Owen since Carver and Trig are busy.” Her eyes roll. I know what busy means so I don’t press for details. It’s not like Trig will tell Kimber what he’s up to anyhow. Her eyes dart to Aidy. Some things are better left unsaid.
“I’m on the schedule and walking Cece home tonight.” I’m casual telling them my plans so Aidy doesn’t think she’s stuck babysitting me too.
I pick up a few extra bucks at Sweet Caroline’s, where Kimber is the manager, making sure the dancers are safe. I’d do it without getting paid because my sister works there. I’d prefer Celine did something other than use her body to rake in the cash for her college tuition, but in this life, you take what you can get. Cece swears she’s only stripping and there’s some convoluted rule about living at the mill and not turning tricks there. I hope it’s enough to stop her from hooking altogether.
There’s no reason for me to stick around. I excuse myself and grab my takeout bag off the steps on the way to the attic. The footprint of the room matches the entire second floor, but otherwise, my space isn’t much. A queen size bed was here and made when I moved in, and I pushed it flush to the wall. The random coat hangers in the closet are the type you’d get your dry cleaning returned on. My underwear and socks are in boxes in there on the floor. I have no dresser. My clothes are hung or folded on the shelf. The sparseness aside, I don’t feel confined. That’s why I haven’t bothered to go to the thrift shop to find more furniture. Plus, I don’t want to ask Trig to help me lug it up two flights of stairs when I don’t know how long I’ll be living in his house.
I lie back on the bed, eating my dinner, and staring at the ceiling thinking about Aidy before taking a nap. The alarm for my second shift of the day goes off a few hours later and she’s still on my mind. I haven’t paid attention to women over the past few years. The only ones I’m around now are married, the security company’s clients, or strippers at Sweet Caroline’s. Some of those girls are hot, and Cece’s been upfront about which of the dancers to avoid. Otherwise, no one is going to want to invest in a relationship with someone who has no future.
I should wait on showering to see what I’m in for at the club tonight. If I’m lugging boxes, I’ll work up a sweat. Hell, If I have to haul someone out who can’t keep their hands to themselves, I will too. Yet, I wash up in the small bathroom because there won’t be much time between getting home and getting up again.
Jeans, tee, wallet, keys. I’m dressed and ready to go. My shoes are still downstairs by the door. Fool that I am, I stop to make sure there’s nothing in my teeth before taking the stairs.
Aidy’s on the sofa with her eyes closed. She’s changed into baggy sweatpants and an oversized Pinewood College hoodie. I try not to disturb her, but Owen’s laundry and baby toys are on the wing chairs. There’s no place else to sit but on the couch.
“I know you’re there.” She yawns, cracking an eye.
“I won’t tell your mom or stepdad you were asleep on the job.” I lean to tie my shoes.
“I wasn’t asleep. Only resting to get him to settle.” She pats the baby’s back. “Trig’s not my stepdad.” She lets out a sardonic laugh. “I’ve actually never thought of him that way. He’s been Kimber’s husband since I met him last year, right before Owen was born.”
“You never met your mom’s husband until after they got married?”
Stranger things have happened.
“Kimber’s my birth mother.”
“Huh,” I say like that explains it all.
“Huh, what?” She becomes defensive, mistaking my comment for judgment.
I reach to take Owen from her. I watch the little guy a lot, so it’s a natural action. She’s not hot to give him up, even when he scrunches his baby form into a ball and snuggles into my chest.
“Do you consider him your brother?”
“I do. What a silly question.” Focused on her lap, she tucks a long strand of hair behind her ear, revealing a single lobe piercing. The diamonds shimmer. No doubt they’re real and expensive.
I shrug. “Just making sure I have it right.”
For the first time, Aidy looks directly at me. She’s prettier than I’d even thought with high cheekbones and a full lower lip. I search the bridge of her nose for freckles, but it’s either too dark in the lamplight or they aren’t there. She’s got deep circles under her eyes that don’t detract from her beauty. It’s the blue of her eyes which gets to me. Dead on her feet, Kimber’s sparkle. It’s as if she’s grateful for what she’s got and in the darkest moment can see hope shining around the corner. Aidy’s eyes look as if someone has snuffed the life out of them.
My brain shouldn’t go there, but I remember those dead eyes staring back at me. My stomach bottoms out and my knees weaken. Without warning, the burrito I had for dinner makes me feel like I’m about to shit myself. I try to play it off by putting Owen down in his playpen thingy and covering him with a blanket.
“Kimber doesn’t like it when Trig sleeps with Owen on his chest. Hard not to, though, isn’t it. He’s calming. When he’s not screaming his head off.” I try joking to lighten the mood. “Catch forty winks. You could use it. Up late studying already?” She’s gotta be a student if she’s wearing the college insignia.
“No all-nighters yet. I don’t sleep well,” she’s quick to add, “in those beds. I have more room to stretch out at my parents’.” She won’t meet my gaze again.
“Yeah,” I agree, running my hand through my brown hair. “Dorm beds are the worst.”
They aren’t. Although, Aidy doesn’t need to know the ones in prison cells rank lower. I slept sitting up with my back wedged into a corner until my release. I wonder where she’s sleeping? I wonder if I’m wrong. If I’m not, then why doesn’t anyone els
e notice the way Aidy shrinks away when I talk to her? Is she shy? Does she do this around Trig too? Logically, I get that I’m reading into Aidy’s behavior. However, it’s not stopping my pulse from pounding.
“I, ah, I have go—” I point to the door as if she doesn’t have a clue where it is or that it leads to the driveway. Where a vehicle is parked. For me to leave in. I’m a fucking idiot trying to act like these four walls aren’t closing in on me. “You should sleep. While you’re here. The guest room has a big bed.” I continue to stumble, getting out, “I’ll set the alarm.”
I punch the keypad by the door without saying goodbye. The door hits me on the way out. I choke on the night air until I get behind the wheel. It takes more than a minute to get my bearings and, like a struggling drunkard, six tries to get the key in the ignition. If Cece weren’t counting on me tonight, I’d blow off my shift and drive to the beach to clear my head. Backing the truck out of the driveway, I’ve never wanted to see anyone again more in my entire life and I’ve never been so scared to.
I sling the bucket of ice I’ve been carrying on my shoulder down and tip it into the cooler, refilling the ice bin. The bartenders—all females who either have shorts too tiny to cover their asses or their tits on display—scurry about, filling glasses and mixing drinks for the people waiting at the bar. I get an unexpected “thanks” from one of them as I move out of the way.
Everyone is in a mood tonight, which seems to happen when Kimber is off. Someone on the waitstaff or a bar back calls in sick to avoid dealing with Jake, the owner’s, continual foul mood. The dancers get in one another’s faces. Some drunk asshole starts something a bouncer has to finish out back.
In the beginning, I’d racked my brain over why Kimber bothered to work here. It’s obvious based on where she and Trig live she doesn’t need the cash and she’s got a new baby at home. Doesn’t seem as if the headache is worthwhile. However, the place is a well-oiled machine when Kimber is here, and you feel more like you’re hanging out rather than doing a job.