by C. C. Hunter
“I don’t know. It’s just . . . like you said, it feels like he’s bottling something up inside him, drinking to try to forget. I used drugs to forget about losing Ramon. Maybe if you can find out what’s really bothering him, you might be able to help him get better.”
I’m still digesting Mr. Brooks’ advice when I walk through the ICU doors. It makes me more determined to unravel the mystery of my mom, because like him, I think it has to have something to do with her.
I walk into Hayden’s room. And while my spirits are pretty low, one look at Mrs. Carter and I know they can go lower.
“What’s wrong?” I watch her wipe a few tears from her cheeks.
“Nothing,” she says. “I just need to stay positive.” She steps close and hugs me. “Thank you for coming.” I feel the desperation in her embrace.
“What happened?” I ask when she pulls back.
“I met with the neurologist who was asked to offer a second opinion about an hour ago.”
My heart starts swelling. “And?”
“He’s even more pessimistic than Carter’s doctor. He says that if Carter wakes up, he’ll probably never be normal.”
My swelling heart’s suddenly too big for my chest. “How can they say that? From what I read it’s never a sure thing.”
“Oh, they say they could be wrong, but they also say the likelihood of that is small.” Her eyes water up again. “What’s sad is . . . I met him in the meeting room down the hall, but I could swear Hayden was standing right beside me when the doctor was talking.” She inhales and looks at me. “I know my son wouldn’t want that. But . . . I can’t give up hope.”
“Hell no you can’t.” Tears fill my eyes, and we hug again. All I can do is pray the doctors are wrong. And pray that Mrs. Carter is wrong about Hayden being there for the talk.
• • •
On the drive home, I call Kelsey to see how things went with her mom’s appointment. She answers and asks if she can call me back. I can tell from her tone that something’s happening.
“Okay. Just call me when you can talk.”
It’s pitch dark when I get home. I must have forgotten to leave a light on. I park in the garage. I have one foot out of my car when I see the door into the kitchen is open.
Freezing, I just stare. I never leave that door open. Neither does Dad.
I hesitate, unsure if I’m just nervous about being alone. I’ll bet Dad just forgot to close the door when he was dragging his suitcase out this morning.
I step out of the car. Something feels off. Like the garage is different. But I can’t put my finger on it.
I curl my fist around my car keys, sliding one key between my fingers, making them a weapon, the way I learned at a self-defense class Dad made me take a year ago. But I still tell myself this is just nerves.
I move into the kitchen, stopping in the doorway to listen for any noise that may encourage me to run like hell.
There’s no noise, except the sound of Pumpkin’s paws tapping my way.
“Hey.” I pick him up when he lets out a welcome-home meow. “Is it safe? You keep all the ghosts and robbers away?”
He meows and rubs his face on my chin.
“I knew I could count on you.” Holding him close, I ease into the kitchen and turn the lights on.
The first thing I notice is Dad’s suit coat hanging on the back of a chair at the breakfast table. I’ll bet he came home before going out of town. Then I see his lunch bag on the counter and I know I’m right.
I shut the door.
Right then the house phone rings. I go and pick it up.
“Hello.”
“You home safe and sound?” Dad asks.
A swell of emotion fills my chest like liquid goo as I remember the bottles in his office trashcan. “Yeah. Where are you now?”
“I finished the meeting with one property owner. Now I’m sitting in front of a restaurant about to go in and have dinner, then I’m heading to the hotel. I have an early meeting tomorrow.”
“Promise?” I ask.
“Promise what?”
“That you’re going straight to the hotel and that you won’t be out drinking and driving.
“Would you stop with the drinking stuff? Can’t we just have a nice conversation?”
“Just promise me you won’t drive drunk and we can.”
He doesn’t answer for a while and then, “I promise.”
“Thank you.”
“Make sure you lock all the doors?”
“I will.” I grip the phone tighter. “Will you call me when you get to your hotel room?”
“Yes.”
“I love you, Dad.”
“I know,” he says. “I love you, too.” The call goes quiet. “I went by the grocery store before I took off and bought some lunch meat and a few frozen dinners. I even got you some of those marshmallow treats you love. So there’s food in the house.”
Then it definitely must’ve been Dad who left the door open. Probably bringing in the groceries. “Thanks.”
“Don’t stay up too late. And make sure you get your homework done.”
“I will, but remember you’re calling me when you get to the hotel.”
“I know.” A touch of rebellion sounds in his voice as if he doesn’t like having to answer to me. But like it or not, that’s how it’s going to be until I can trust him.
We hang up. I stand there with Pumpkin purring in my arms. The quietness in the house is almost eerie. “Hayden,” I say, even though I don’t feel him. “If you come by that’d be nice.”
I stand in the same spot. Waiting. Wishing. Wanting to see him. And worrying the reason I haven’t seen him is because of what he heard the doctor say.
Remembering Dad’s mention of food, my stomach grumbles. But I really want to see if I can find any of Mom’s paintings. I set Pumpkin down and grab a knife to open the boxes.
I turn to the door leading to the garage, and that’s when I hear them. Footsteps. Ghosts don’t normally create footsteps. I grasp the knife tighter and force myself to turn around.
Chapter Eighteen
He’s wearing black and a burgundy cap. His hair is black, straight. His eyes are dark. Something about him feels familiar.
His gaze goes to the knife I’m holding. “Put it down.”
“Lea . . . ve!” I say, but my voice shakes, my hands shake. My insides are quaking. I remember Selina’s warning: You don’t know what you’re up against. They’re dangerous.
“I’m not here to hurt you. I just want to talk.”
“Then you normally knock on the door.”
“I’ll try to remember that next time. But you know, an unlocked window is practically an invitation.” He actually smiles, but it fades too fast to ease my fear. “My name is Reagan Rodgers.”
Rodgers? I know why he looks kind of familiar. He looks like Selina and her dead twin. “Yeah?”
“Selina called me.”
“And?” The temperature drops. I feel the cold presence. I’m guessing it’s Reagan’s brother. My gaze cuts that way, and I’m right. Thankfully, this time his bullet hole isn’t showing.
“He won’t hurt you,” the spirit says.
I want to believe him, but I can’t reach that level of trust with an intruder who has a bulge in the waist of his jeans and I know I could end up with part of my head missing.
“What do you know about my brother’s death?”
“Please. How would I know about your brother’s death?” My words lack conviction.
“The same way you know things about Ramon’s brother?” He takes a step closer, as if he’s no longer worried about my knife. “Who killed him?”
“I’m not telling him that. He’ll try to kill him,” the spirit says.
“I . . . don’t know.”
“But I can tell him where the gun is,” the spirit continues. “He’ll have to turn it over to the police. Or better yet, make an anonymous call and lead them to it. The gun is registered to the pers
on who killed me.”
“Where is it?” I ask.
“What?” asks Reagan.
The spirit keeps talking, I keep debating if telling Reagan is right. Before I overthink it, the words come out. “You should call and leave an anonymous tip for the police to search the roof of the apartment building number nine. Don’t try to fix this yourself, because the person who did this isn’t anyone you’d know.”
“Are you just saying that to get me to leave?”
“No.”
“If this is a wild goose chase, I’ll be back. And I won’t be happy.”
The spirit speaks up again. “Remind him that he promised me if I’d tell him who did this, he’d quit the gang. Tell him he has to keep that promise.”
I swallow. “Now you’re quitting the gang, right? You . . . promised.”
“Shit!” He looks at me. His dark eyes round. Without a word, he leaves. So does the spirit. I immediately run and lock the door, then I race around in a panic checking the windows. And yeah, the one in the downstairs office is unlocked.
• • •
After I quit shaking, I eat a mac and cheese frozen dinner and down two marshmallow bars. Carbs are calming. Or at least I want to believe they are.
Chasing a piece of macaroni around the otherwise empty plate, I look at the knife still resting beside my plastic frozen dinner container and recall why I got it out in the first place.
I stand up to go look for the paintings. My phone rings. The noise echoes in the house that feels too big. I pull my phone out of my pocket.
• • •
Thirty minutes later, I hang up with Kelsey. She told me about the argument she had with her mom about giving the baby up for adoption.
She was really upset, and I don’t blame her. Moving from the table, I drop my spoon in the sink and walk out into the garage. I realize I really want at least one of those paintings to be Mom’s. I want to see her work. To study her work. I want to have something she created.
I move to the corner where the boxes are, and just like that I realize what it is that’s different in the garage.
The boxes are gone. How could that be?
It had to have been Dad. But why? Did he know I’d want to look at them? Did my finding the easel set off warning bells for him?
But why the hell would he not want me to see the paintings? Does it mean for sure they were painted by my mom? Now I’m hell-bent on finding out.
All I have to do is figure out what Dad would do with them.
I see a ladder leaning against the garage wall. I’m pretty sure it’s been moved, too. I look up and see what appears to be an attic opening with a rope. I move the ladder, climb up, and realize it has one of those pull-down steps.
It takes me a few minutes to keep moving the ladder until I can pull it all the way down. During the whole getting-the-attic-open debacle, a text rolls in from Dad saying he’s at the hotel. I want to text him so badly and say what the hell, but I don’t.
I climb up. There’s a light switch. I turn it on. The attic space swallows up the tiny amount of voltage put out by the one bulb. But it’s just enough light for me to see the boxes pushed over in the corner.
“If you were trying to hide them, Dad, you did a piss-poor job.” I go back down and collect my knife, then carefully climb back up.
I move to the first box and cut the tape free. My heart pounds as I lift the cardboard top up. Covered with a towel is the first framed 20-by-24-inch painting. I pull the towel away and recognize the image of a barn and some chickens as artwork we had in our Dallas house. The style is impressionist with a touch of realism.
Who painted this? Mom? I look at the bottom for the artist’s signature. I see it, but it’s small and dust coated.
Leaning down, I blow some of the grit off. Dust explodes, and I feel the grit land in my eyes. Blinking away what feels like sand, I ease in again. The lighting sucks and I still can’t make out the signature, so I pick up the frame and crawl down the steps.
Moving straight into the kitchen, I set it on the breakfast table and turn the overhead lights on. My pulse is beating. Feeling as if I’m closer to my mom than I’ve ever been, I lean in again. Disappointment hits when I read the name. Sam. It’s not my mom. Or at least it’s not my mom’s name. But what would be the chance that she’d sign it by another name?
Not giving up, I climb back up into the attic and pull out another one. I bring it down. This painting is different. It’s more impressionistic and it’s an image of a pond with water lilies. It even has a bit of a Monet influence. I set it on the table and check the signature. Sam.
I return to the attic five more times. Opening two more boxes. Each time I find the same artist’s signature on the work. Who is Sam? Why do we have seven paintings by him?
Did Mom maybe take art classes from him? An ugly thought hits. Did Mom have an affair with an artist? I remember asking Dad if Mom loved him and his answer—She said she did—seemed loaded with innuendo. Bad innuendo.
Is that why Dad reacted like he did when he saw the easel? That could explain why he’d want to hide the paintings. That might explain some of Dad’s problems and why he doesn’t want to talk about Mom.
Then again, I’m completely jumping the gun here. Her having paintings by an artist is a huge leap away from her sleeping with an artist. Frankly, I don’t like thinking Mom would do that. And if Mom was having an affair with “Sam,” why would Dad keep the paintings and not get rid of them?
I go to close up the attic. And when I do, I see something resting at the bottom of the ladder. It’s the white side of one, no, two, photographs. Were they in one of the boxes and fell out?
I pick them up and turn them over. My eyes take in the image, and I gasp. It’s a photograph of a porch scene. A rocking chair, with a cat, and flowers and two pairs of flip-flops. It’s the painting in my memory that Mom was working on. The one I’ve started painting in my room. I look at the next snapshot and I get chills.
This is the image of the pond with yellow and white waterlilies.
Did Mom paint this one, too? Or did Sam paint it and Mom was with him when he did?
I stand there puzzled. Then I realize a way I might find answers. Google is my friend.
I rush upstairs and turn on my laptop. I type into the search engine: artist with the name Sam.
Unfortunately, like a million links appear on the screen. I add Texas Artist with the name Sam. I still get like fifty links.
I bypass the ones that appear too old or too young. Then I stumble across a link, Sam’s Art Gallery, and it’s in New Spring, Texas, a small town by Dayton. I open the website. In addition to being a gallery, they offer art classes.
They have some photos linked to the site. Different paintings. Most of them in the same style as those I found. There’s no headshot of Sam. Not even a bio. But in one photograph there’s a guy, about my dad’s age. He’s tall and blond and has long wavy hair worn in a ponytail. He’s giving painting lessons to a woman. Is that Sam?
How could I know? I start to move to the next image, but something in the background of the photograph catches my eye. I get chills running up then down my spine. It’s the painting. The porch scene with flip-flops. I enlarge the image. It’s not in sharp focus, but I know that’s it. I also see the sign below that reads: Not for Sale.
That has to be Sam. But how close was Mom to him? And I can’t help but wonder if we have paintings he did, if he doesn’t have more of Mom’s. Did they paint together and then gift them to each other?
There’s only one way to find out. I’m making a trip to New Spring, Texas. In my mind, I’m already skipping school tomorrow. But then I click on the gallery hours and am devastated that they are only open on the weekends.
It’s almost midnight when I go to bed. My thoughts are twisted. Hayden. Annie. Dad. Mom. And the mystery artist, Sam. It’s hours before I finally fall into slumber.
• • •
I wake up at four in the morning to find
Hayden next to me. He’s smiling. I smile back, but it slips away when I remember he didn’t come see me yesterday. “Where were you?”
“I had some thinking to do.”
From his tone and the reflection in his eyes, I know his mom was right. Hayden was there when the doctor delivered the devastating news. “Don’t do this.”
“Don’t do what?”
“Lose faith.”
He brushes a finger under my eyes. “You didn’t sleep well last night.”
“No, and it’s partly your fault. I was worried about you.”
“You can’t worry about me.”
“Like you don’t worry about me?” I ask.
He leans in, and his lips meet mine. The kiss is warm, welcome, but it feels somehow wrong. When it ends, he pulls back and focuses on my eyes again. “What kept you awake besides me? You worried about Annie?”
“That and . . .” I tell him about finding the paintings and seeing a hot tall blond guy in the images and how I found the photographs and I worry my mom might have had an affair with him.
“That’s a stretch,” he says. “Maybe he was just your mom’s friend.”
“Yeah,” I say. “But why would we have seven of his paintings?”
“Maybe she liked his art.”
I admit I might be jumping the gun. Then I tell him about finding the liquor bottles in Dad’s office and even about Ramon showing up at the funeral home.
He listens and says all the right things the way he always does. I don’t think I’ve ever felt this connected to anyone. While Kelsey is a touchstone, Hayden is a soulmate. But I see something in his eyes that I felt in his kiss. And I’m afraid of what it is.
I lean up on one elbow. “Are you feeling bad again?”
“Not really.”
“What do you mean, ‘not really?’ Hayden, if something’s wrong we can do exactly what we did before.”
He doesn’t answer, then sits up. I do the same. And I see it even more in his eyes now. I remember that look from the last time he turned away from me. He’s here to say goodbye.
“You can’t leave me.”