by S. Love
I put my back to the breakfast bar and boost myself up onto the oak veneer countertop. The same spot I’ve sat most mornings, watching my mom make breakfast and sometimes listening to Dad tell us the latest joke he’d heard from one of the guys at work. Talia rarely laughed, because the jokes were so bad, but I always would. The lamer the joke the funnier my dad and I found it.
“He won’t worry.”
Ozzie’s voice sends me bursting out of my daydream, my family fluttering from the kitchen scene like butterflies escaping the jar.
“Mariah, would you like some fresh lemonade?” In the space of just a few minutes, my mom already knows this little girl’s name who barely speaks.
“Yes please.” Mariah stands in the kitchen with her fingers tightly clenched in front of her.
“Let’s go pick the lemons from the yard. Ozzie, Lyla, are you having some?”
“Yeah,” I say distractedly, slipping back into my own head. “Pick plenty lemons for us.”
My mom and Mariah head out through the back door, making a beeline for the ripe lemon tree at the bottom of the yard. The crowning glory of my mom’s blooming fruit and vegetable patch.
“What are you doing?” I hiss at Ozzie. “Today’s my day off. You need to go home. No one’s paying me to be around you on a Saturday, and my services are not free.”
He settles into one of the white wooden chairs at the four-seater round table. A linen cloth’s draped over it, different fruits sewn into the fabric. That table cloth’s as old as I am. Maybe even older.
“Worried what Falcon will say when he finds out?” Ozzie leans back and questions me.
“Falcon’s not my keeper. I just don’t want you here.”
Ozzie smiles. It’s more ice than fire. “Well, that’s too damn bad.”
“Why are you doing this?” I have literally done nothing to him.
“Why are you messing about with G when he’s blatantly having his cheap cake and eating it?”
My mom and Mariah walk back into the kitchen, my mom carrying a basket filled with plump, waxy lemons. “Lyla, if you’ve brought laundry home can you throw it in the machine now so I can hang it out to dry.”
As impossible as he’s making it, I pull my gaze from Ozzie’s chilly one. “I haven’t brought washing.”
“Then unless you’re helping make the drinks, there’s a list of things I didn’t have time to pick up from the grocery store when I finished work this morning. It’s in the living room on the coffee table.”
Right. There’s no such thing as rest in this house. If you’re able-bodied you can bet you’re able to do all the chores my mom throws at you. Being in this house shrinks me right back down to the obedient child I used to be.
Who am I kidding? That’s who I still am.
“Would you like a ride there?” Ozzie asks with an irritating smirk.
“She would love a ride,” Mom answers for me. “Ly, there’s grocery bags in the dispenser over there. Grab a handful. Mariah, are you hanging out here with me and we’ll squeeze these lemons, or would you like to go with Ozzie and Lyla to the store?” She bends at the waist to whisper something in Mariah’s ear.
Mariah giggles. “Here,” she says, her caramel cheeks flushing.
“Okay, get out of here, you two. Everyone’s welcome for dinner, but I’ll need to start making it soon.”
That’s my subtle warning to hurry the hell up.
Ozzie tails me out of the kitchen and through the living room. I open the front door, glancing behind me when I hear his footfalls on the laminated floor fade off.
He’s standing with his hands in his jean’s pockets, looking at a cluster of three pictures hanging on the pale-yellow walls. “Who’s that?”
Frustrated he’s wasting time, I walk over to where he’s standing, knowing who’s in the pictures before I reach them. My dad’s encased in the right frame, dressed smartly in his military uniform. Talia’s in the last picture, beaming at the camera in her red satin prom dress. Oddly enough, she didn’t take a date to prom, even though she was asked by half the football team.
And then there’s me in the middle. An eighth-grade picture day monstrosity. I barely give it a glance.
Ozzie taps his finger against the glass covering the last picture.
“That’s my older sister, Talia, on her prom night.”
Ozzie’s eyes narrow. “That’s your sister?”
“I’m familiar with my own sister after sixteen whole years of growing up with her.”
“She here now?” Ozzie glances around him like Talia could materialize at any given moment, summoned by the voicing of her name.
“No, she’s away for college. She did work at the country club. Maybe you know her?”
Ozzie turns away from the picture, his smile stretching as he looks me over. “Never seen her before.”
During the short car journey into town, Ozzie reverts to his usual silent and moody self.
“So that other guy in the uniform, that’s your dad?” he asks when I’m separating a shopping cart from the long row inside Tate’s Grocery Stop—St. Charlotte’s smaller-scale version of Walmart.
“That’s my dad,” I say in a flat tone.
“And who was the ghastly beast in the middle? Proof of the Chupacabra?”
I pause with the grocery cart to glare at this idiot who is intent on ruining my life.
Ozzie throws up his hands in surrender, the corner of his mouth lifting into a smile. “Kidding.”
“Tell me why you’re here again?” I push the cart into the produce aisle, the grocery list in my hand as I mentally tick off the first few items.
Ozzie shrugs casually and picks up a Granny Smith apple from the loose stack. He takes a huge bite of the shiny green fruit. “I told you. The swells are shit today. And your mom invited me to dinner.”
Repulsed by his eating unpaid-for products, I roll my eyes and turn my back on him. “You didn’t have to accept.”
“Your sister’s hot.”
I frown, since Ozzie can’t see me doing it. “I’m sure she’ll be thrilled to hear she has your approval on her face. I can’t wait to tell her.” My sarcasm’s thick, but Ozzie doesn’t mention it.
“Are you two close?” he asks. I hear him crunch into the crisp apple.
“Yes.”
With everything on Mom’s list in the cart, aside from the precise brand of salad dressing she wanted, I angle away from the freezer section to go checkout. As I’m picking the groceries out of the cart and onto the conveyer belt, Ozzie picks up a jar from the range on an end display that’s been discounted to less than half-off. He shakes the jar and pulls a face. He hasn’t spoken much the whole time we’ve been in this low-budget store, but his varying expressions have said more than enough.
“Pickled eggs?” he questions with a raised eyebrow. “Where do you guys find this shit?”
It’s like shopping with a child.
“I don’t own the store. And those aren’t on my list.”
“Shame for you. I definitely wouldn’t be staying for dinner if they were.”
“You know what? Give them here. I’m sure we can work them into the recipe.” I lean in to snatch the jar, and Ozzie pulls his hand back, pivoting out of my grasp. Our laughter lasts seconds before I realize I’m fraternizing with the enemy and my mouth clamps shut.
“Hey, Lyla. Haven’t seen you in a while.”
I tear my gaze from Ozzie, to Chuck Mitton who’s behind the cash register in his Tate’s red apron and matching worn cap. Chuck and I went to school together. He asked me out once or twice before I started seeing Garrett, but I never saw Chuck in that way. He’s too much of a nice guy, even for me. By that, I mean I’ll never forgive him for the time in grade seven when he snitched on me to Mrs. Grizinsky for going to the bathroom without a hall pass.
“Hey, Chuck.” I put the last item on the checkout and grab the recyclable bags Mom made me bring. I push Ozzie out of my way with a playful smile and head to the othe
r side of the cash register to start bagging the food. “How’s your summer going?” I ask Chuck.
He slots his fingers together and bends his hands away from him, the simultaneous snapping of his joints making me internally cringe. “I’ve been picking up extra shifts here, so not much of a summer. How about you?”
“Same. Working.” I push the conversation along to avoid the inevitable of Chuck asking where, and Ozzie seizing the opportunity like gold to tell him I’m his servant. “Are you looking forward to senior year?”
Chuck’s eyes roam over my head, reacting to the undisputable grunt of Ozzie’s laughter behind me. “Ready to put it far behind me,” he says, his attention divided between Ozzie and me evenly. “Out-of-State college is so close I can taste the freedom already.”
“You might want to try some mouthwash for that,” Ozzie pipes up, making no attempt to hide his obvious insult.
I power through the rest of the bagging with no help from Ozzie, carting the groceries to his Jeep and loading them into the back, where there’s more sand covering the interior than there is in the front.
Starting up a conversation with him is out of the question, and we bring the stilted awkwardness home with us.
Mom puts me to work preparing the salad to go with the baked chicken, and Ozzie volunteers himself to cut and peel the potatoes. His phony chivalry lands us side-by-side at the kitchen counter, boxed in on one side by the stove, and the other side by the refrigerator. Our elbows clash as we work, the kitchen overheating from the oven.
I use my wrist to wipe strands of hair from my face, blowing up into my hairline with little effect of cooling down.
“Your lemonade’s in the fridge,” Mom says. She’s making dinner rolls with Mariah using thawed-out dough at the table. “There’s ice in the freezer.”
Leaving the tongs in the salad bowl, I squeeze between Ozzie and Mariah’s chair that’s pushed nearly all the way out from the table while she kneels on it, and I grab the pitcher from the fridge and dump in ice from the bag. I give it a quick stir and fill two glasses, leaving one on the counter beside Ozzie.
We all sit at the table when dinner’s ready. Ozzie’s eyes lift, resting on my face before I close my eyes when Mom starts to say Grace. Giving thanks isn’t part of the Osbornes’ daily routine, and I suspect this is a first for Ozzie. Not that I think he’ll join in and appreciate the food in front of him. His niceness today is an act for my mom, and even that didn’t last. And he hasn’t said one word to Mariah. If my mom’s picked up on the weirdness or is wondering what’s going on, she hasn’t let on, sailing along on this ship full of frauds with the rest of us.
After dinner I help wash up, vocally insisting that Ozzie watch television with Mariah before we leave. I couldn’t wait to get here this morning, with hopes of sleeping over, and now I just want to get out and take Ozzie with me.
Mom joins me at the sink, lifting the wet dishes from the rack to towel dry by hand. No dishwasher in this house. Mom doesn’t like them, claiming they’re only good for harboring germs.
“So. Ozzie’s… cute.” She opens the cabinet above her and slots the plate on top of the stack.
I snort, absently scrubbing harder at the plate in my hand. “He is not.”
“Wrong word. He’s handsome. Very handsome. And Mariah is beautiful.”
“Yeah, she is.” I hand her the dripping plate.
“You’re not keen on him, then?”
“I’m not keen on peas. Trump. Broad beans. I don’t like Ozzie. I couldn’t even tell you why he’s here.”
“Oh?”
I glance at my mom from the corners of my eyes, taunted by the humor in that one word. “Oh, what?”
She shrugs, her rosy lips hitched in a small smile. “Oh nothing.”
“It sounds like you’re trying to get at something. Whatever it is, I don’t want to hear it.”
“You can leave the job if you aren’t happy, Lyla. No car doesn’t mean the end of the world. You’ll find something else. Tate’s is hiring.”
“Tate’s? No thanks.” I turn off the faucet and pick up another dish towel to dry the remaining utensils in the holder. “Cindy pays me really well.”
“And they treat you well?”
“Very well.”
“Okay.” Mom studies me over a long look. Then she reaches out to push my hair behind my ear, her hand lingering on the side of my face affectionately. “Okay.” She nods, convincing herself of something she chooses not to share with me, and I’m so ready to go home I don’t ask. The worry in her eyes makes me uneasy, though. “I trust you, Lyla. But are you sure this job of yours isn’t a clever excuse to alienate yourself further from your friends? You should be having fun this summer, not bringing home a wage.”
“Yeah… no.” I shake my head. “That’s not what I’m doing.” I hang the towel over the oven door handle. “I don’t suppose there’s any news?” I ask hopefully. “Any change?” I already know what she’s going to say before she says it, but that idealistic hope never burns all the way out. And I pray it never does. That’s a day that isn’t worth thinking about.
Mom shakes her head with a resigned smile. “No, sweetheart. Still the same.”
Chapter 17
Ozzie abandons Mariah and me the second his jeep swerves into the driveway. We’ve barely got one foot on the flagstone and he’s reversing toward the gates, leaving us outside the house alone. He is so rude, it’s unbelievable. I get to leave at the end of summer, but I know once I’m gone, I’ll still be thinking about Mariah who has no choice but to stay. Unless her mom gallops in and saves the day. But I can’t see that happening anytime soon. Or ever.
I look up at the Osborne mansion; the crowning glory straddling the pristine beach. The white and grey stone veneer’s intricately beautiful, but there’s no soul inside the walls, and that makes the whole house seem… sad.
I puff out a depleted sigh, something so draining about being back here.
We’ve not long ago eaten, but I check Mariah isn’t hungry. We’ve been in St. Charlotte most of the day, and I’m no one’s mother, but I’m guessing it’s approaching Mariah’s bedtime. Still, I’d rather run that by someone with actual authority. Preferably her dad.
I wander through the house with Mariah closely on my heels, the soft squelch of her sneakers over the marble floor. It’s unnatural how silence eats away at a home with actual people living in it. The only signs of life are when the three brats are throwing a raging party.
Underneath the upstairs balcony, the sunken living room’s empty. For some reason, one I don’t care enough to explore why, that part of the house is rarely occupied, serving more for appearances. I can see from a single glance there’s no one in there. Wall sconces and lamps are lit most days, and sometimes the gas fire, but that’s usually because I lit them. My duties as housekeeper extending to making sure the house always looks presentable.
Every room’s empty, even the pool and yard, and I circle back to the living room. Nothing glows in here, though. With a reflective look while I think on the spot, I ask Mariah, “Should we put your pjs on and watch a movie?”
Mariah’s gaze darts to the shadowy room with the plush, expensive furniture and the Palladian windows overlooking the black ocean. She shakes her head.
Yeah, I wouldn’t want to sit in here, either. “How about the den? It’s cozy in there, and we can make popcorn.”
When she says nothing, but looks considerably less horrified, I take her upstairs so she can change into her pjs, and I hurry into my room to change at the same time. I throw on an oversized shirt, cotton shorts, and pull on a pair of thick tube socks.
When I get back to Mariah’s room, she’s sitting on her bed in a Disney Princess nightdress with two holes in the long sleeve. The once-white polyester blend is bobbly and graying, so obviously her favorite pajamas. I once had my own that looked the exact same way.
Nostalgia grips me hard and gives a tight squeeze, reminding me my happy childhood rema
ins in the past where there’s no chance of it coinciding with my present or my future.
There’s still no sight of anyone else when we move to the den, and I stick a bag of corn in the microwave to nuke for five minutes. I give Mariah the remote, the TV screen loaded up with the a-z selections.
“I’m gonna check on the popcorn, and you pick out whatever movie looks good to you.” I point to the movie covers that pop up next to the titles. My knowledge on kids is slim, but five seems too young to be reading synopsis’ in eight-inch font. But what the hell do I know? Maybe I’ll be surprised. I’m already convinced Mariah’s growing brain is significantly more advanced than her half-brothers’.
I leave her with the movie selections, fetching the popcorn from the kitchen and two bottles of water.
“I like this one,” she tells me in her shy, sweet voice. Pocahontas brightens the screen.
“Me, too,” I say, settling in beside her on the loveseat. I position the bowl of popcorn between us, and Mariah presses PLAY on the movie with both thumbs.
Fifteen minutes in, she’s asleep, her head resting on her shoulder, her breathing deep and even. She weighs nothing as I carry her up to bed, tucking her comforter up to her shoulders and leaving her door open a crack. Last thing I want is for her to wake up and panic, not realizing where she is.
I’m not tired enough for sleep, so I grab a throw blanket from the linen closet and curl up in the den, exiting out of Pocahontas and choosing a horror flick that looks the least cheesy and unbelievable. I lower the volume. The Osborne boys are probably all out, and at no point have I heard Ozzie return, but if Ray and Cindy are upstairs, that’s where I’d prefer them to stay. My head’s steadily spinning from today, the stress from Ozzie creating its own adrenaline. Paired with last night, and tossing Garrett into the mix, I’m on my last legs. Replaying how the night ended and all the ways it could have ended are useless now, and I just want to forget, clearing my head of all of it.