Текст книги "Crash into You"

Автор книги: Katie McGarry

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 14 (всего у книги 27 страниц)

Chapter 34

Rachel

IN THE SMALLEST CONFERENCE ROOM in Dad’s office, eleven women in various colored business suits and dresses fill the high-backed cushioned chairs. Mom sits at the head of the table, chatting gaily with the woman on her right. To Mom’s left, I continue to push the catered chicken Caesar salad around on my plate so Mom will believe I ate.

Dad closed the blinds—one solace in the midst of the storm. At least the employees working won’t gawk as they pass by. Mom signed me out of school for this travesty. I call it a speech. Mom calls it an introduction. Really, the few paragraphs are lies.

The women gathered around the table are the chosen few of Mom’s friends invited to help with her new volunteer position of fundraising coordinator for the Leukemia Foundation. Mom explained last night that they’ll start off with small teas, then lunches, and in a few weeks they’ll move on to a dinner. All of which she has planned for me to attend...and speak at.

“Ladies,” Mom says. “Let’s take a twenty-minute break before we start the meeting. That will give the caterers time to clean and us time to check on our families.”

They giggle, but I’m not sure over what. Some women break off into groups of two or three and whisper private gossip. Some head into the hallway to use their cells or the restroom. I stare at a crouton in my salad.

Still sitting, Mom pats my hand. “Are you ready, sweetheart? You’ll speak first.”

My lungs constrict. “Yeah.”

I memorized what she wants me to say, but the words have become a jumbled mess in my mind. Sort of like a crossword puzzle completed by someone with dyslexia.

“Meredith,” one of Mom’s friends calls from the opposite side of the room. “You have to come look at this.”

Mom flashes me a smile that reminds me why I’m torturing myself and leaves. I ate two bites of salad and the lettuce and the chicken are not agreeing in my stomach. In fact, I think they’ve declared war.

I suck in a breath to calm myself. Only eleven people. Twenty-two eyes. My heart rate increases and I lick my suddenly dry lips. A jabbing pain hits my stomach, and I tug at the collar of my blouse as it becomes hard to breathe. It’s hot in here. Too hot. Hot enough that if I stand I’ll faint, hit my head and bleed all over Dad’s new carpet.

And then he’ll be disappointed in me.

And then Mom will be disappointed in me.

And then my brothers will find out and they’ll blow a freaking head gasket.

My hands sweat and I rub my palms against my black skirt. What did Mom want me to say? I see the words. They drift in my mind, but not in order. I’m going to fail.

I stand abruptly, startling the ladies huddled in conversation behind me. Forcing a smile, I nod toward the door, hoping they understand I’m excusing myself. I half trip on the way out as my stomach cramps.

Mom’s best friend touches my arm as I turn left. “Are you okay?”

“Bathroom. I mean, I’m trying to find the...” And I ran out of air.

“The bathroom is that way.”

“Thanks.” I have no idea why I’m thanking her and by the strained lines on her forehead, she doesn’t, either. This is my father’s office, and one would think I would already know where the bathroom is. I go in the direction she said, praying she doesn’t mention my odd behavior to my mother. Before I hit the bathroom, I take a left through the cubicles and run for my father’s office.

Please don’t let him be there. Please don’t let him be there. Please. Please. Please.

I almost cry when I see the light off and the empty chair. Pictures of me and my brothers rest on the table near the window. The only picture on his desk is of Mom and Colleen. It’s always been about her: Colleen. Her name floats in my head as I try to breathe past the first dry heave. In one motion, I flip the switch to his private bathroom and slam the door shut.

Chapter 35

Isaiah

BECAUSE I WAS BLACKMAILED INTO giving my word to Courtney, I force myself into the Social Services building and grimace at the sight of the messed-up people in the waiting area. Kids cry. Moms scream. Each sound a razor against my skin. It’s so damn cliché my fingers twitch; there isn’t a man in sight. Of course there isn’t—men are notorious family leavers.

“Isaiah,” Courtney says from behind the receptionist window. Her hesitant smile is too hopeful. “Come on back.”

The door buzzes open, and I slink past two toddlers on the floor pulling at an already-damaged stuffed zebra. When the door shuts behind me the noise fades, but my skin still crawls.

Today Courtney wears a blue bow in her ponytail. “Thanks for coming.”

“Thought it wasn’t optional.”

Her smile widens. “It’s not, but I like to pretend that you want to be here. It makes my day go smoother. Let’s go.” She nods to the right and when I don’t move, she heads down the hallway, looking back to make sure I follow.

I can almost feel the tug of the leash around my neck. “Do the other hostages you torture tear you apart for wearing a bow in your hair?”

She stops at a cubicle and grabs a manila file folder. “Clients, not hostages. Help, not torture. And you’re my only teenager. The little ones love my bows.”

“Maybe you should transfer me.” To someone who doesn’t give a shit and will leave me the fuck alone. “You could pick a hostage you like.”

“Client.” Courtney pauses outside a closed door. “I like you.”

That brings me up short. “No, you don’t.”

“Yes,” she says slowly, as if my response surprises her, “I do. Isaiah, I requested to be your social worker.”

I glance behind me, half expecting a smaller child also named Isaiah to be there. “Why?”

She knocks lightly on the door. “Because.” Courtney’s hand rests on the knob. “You and I agreed on thirty minutes.”

“You’ve wasted five.”

“I sent the letter of recommendation in. I kept my part of the bargain, I expect you to keep yours. I call—you answer. I schedule a meeting—you come and stay for thirty minutes.”

“Like rubbing it in, don’t you?” But I’ll show because I gave her my word.

“Good. Now that we’re firm on the agreement, I should tell you that your mom is here.”

I tower over Courtney. “Fuck no.”

She never flinches. Instead she tilts her head, causing her ponytail to slide over her shoulder. “Are you keeping your word or not?”

The muscles in my body turn to lead. I want more than anything to run; to get behind the wheel of my car and gun the engine. The little bitch in front of me has backed me into a corner. I rub at my neck, feeling as if the collar she placed there has spikes.

Courtney opens the door and anger races like venom in my veins. I stalk into the room and slam my ass into the chair farthest from the woman already sitting at the table. “Twenty-two fucking minutes, Courtney. And if I were you, I’d get the hell out of here because you are the last person I want to see...besides that thing over there.”

“Isaiah,” Courtney says apologetically. “I can’t leave the two of you alone with you so angry.”

“It’s okay,” she says from across the room. I lower my head into my hands. The sound of the soft voice I remember as a child resurrects too many memories—too many emotions. “We’ll be fine.”

We’ll be fine. The same three words she said to me before my entire life went to hell.

“I don’t think that’s wise,” says Courtney. “I haven’t seen him this upset before.”

The chair beside me moves and I smell Courtney’s faint perfume. “Your mom just wants to visit.”

“She is not my mom.” My voice trembles and a fresh wave of rage washes over me. My mother will not hurt me again. I lift my head and fight for control. “I don’t have a mom.”

“Then call me Melanie,” she says with the same damn soothing voice that used to sing me to sleep. “We are strangers.”

I glance at her and immediately look away because the sight of her causes strangling pain. My head hits the back of the wall and I cross my arms over my chest. “How many more fucking minutes?”

“You look good, Isaiah,” she tells me. And because I can’t help it, I peer at her again. Her lips are pressed into a thin line and her forehead buckles with anxiety as she stares at me. The thoughts in her head and the words she says are not in agreement. She doesn’t like what she sees: a punk.

The piercings, the tattoos, yeah, I think the shit’s cool, but what I really like is how they tell people to stay the fuck away. From the way her eyes travel over my arms, “Melanie” reads the signals loud and clear.

“You look old,” I say with as much menace as I can muster. She doesn’t look old—just middle-aged. She had me young, barely out of high school. I never knew her age. What six-year-old would? I don’t even know her birthdate.

Her dark brown hair is cut short at her shoulders. She’s thin, but not drug-addict thin. Her oversize hoop earrings sway when she tucks her hair behind her ear. The blue jean jacket matches her pants and underneath the jacket I spot a gray tank. The worn brown cowboy boots on her feet make me consider a maternity test.

“How are you?” Melanie asks.

“Do you mean how have I been for the last eleven years?”

She scratches her forehead. Good, I drew blood. “Yeah. And that.”

I stretch my legs out, kicking one scratched-up combat booted foot over the other. “Let’s see. Years six through eight blew. Found out Santa didn’t exist. I’m pretty sure foster father number two shot the Easter bunny with his sawed-off shotgun during one of his backyard hunting escapades. Foster mom one liked to slap me until I stopped crying. She’d quote Bible verses while she did it because Jesus was obviously about tough love.”

Melanie shuts her eyes. Attempting to redirect my attention, Courtney nudges her chair closer to mine. “Isaiah, maybe we should take a break.”

“Nah, Courtney,” I say with a mock smile. “You just don’t want me to tell her about the group home I lived in between eight and ten and how the bigger boys used to beat the shit out of me for kicks.”

I hold my hand out to Melanie. “Don’t get me wrong. They’d punish the other boys and document my bruises in their nice files. Get me a doctor. Maybe a therapist, but it never stopped the new boys from pushing around the smallest kid.”

“I’m sorry,” Melanie says in a tiny voice.

“Yeah,” I say. “You should be. And what really fucking sucks is to find out that the woman who gave birth to you was released from prison two years ago and never cared to see what happened to her son. That...” I lean forward. “That is what really blows.”

Melanie goes dead-person-white, and her hands tremble as she touches her cheeks. “I can explain.”

And I don’t want to hear it. I stand. “I’ve got to take a piss. Where’s the fucking bathroom?”

“Down the hall.” Courtney massages her temples. “On the left.”

I tear out of the room and the door bangs against the wall. From their safe, tidy cubicles, several people gape at me. I ram my hand against the bathroom door and slam it shut, locking it behind me.

With my palms flat against the door, I suck in deep breaths and swallow the lump in my throat. My mom. My mom. My fucking mother.

I want to go back and tell her that I still love her—so time can unwind and she can hold me like she did when I was six. I yearn for her to tell me that everything is going to be okay. But all of it is lies. My entire life is one big fucking lie. A strange wounded sound escapes my lips as my body shakes. Every part of me begs to cry and that’s just too damn sad.

* * *

I open the bathroom door to find Courtney waiting on the other side. “She left.”

Good. “Yeah, that’s her specialty.”

Courtney has lost her enthusiasm and part of me hates it. “I learned my lesson,” she says. “I won’t force this again. I thought...I thought...”

“That if you could throw us in the same room we’d make up and live happily-ever-after?”

She releases a loud, pathetic sigh. “Actually, no. Look, I know this is the last thing you want to hear, but you should give her another shot.”

Hell... “No.”

“Consider it, and if you change your mind I’ll schedule another meeting.”

“Are we done?”

“Yes. Next time it’ll be just you and me. I’ll buy ice cream.”

I blink. “Do I look five?”

She shrugs and almost smiles. “Sometimes you act five.”

And I almost crack my own smile. Did she just joke at my expense? “Funny.” I head for the exit, and when I glance back, I see her smile has grown.

The gray clouds hang low in the sky. I heard last night that the rest of the winter will be mild. I sure as hell hope so. The track will only stay open if it’s warm. As I approach my car, I spot a woman with short brown hair and a blue jean jacket. I quicken my pace.

“Isaiah,” she calls out and walks toward me.

Is this lady a damn masochist? “Maybe I was too subtle in there, so I’ll make it clear. Fuck off.”

“Please,” she says. “Please, wait.”

With keys in hand, I point at her. “Even I know you don’t have permission to see me without one of those crazy people inside near us. In case you don’t know, because let’s face it, you wouldn’t, I’m seventeen and their ward. You are on parole, so step back.”

I could give a fuck if she breaks rules and returns to prison, but I’ll use those laws to keep her from me. She doesn’t stop her advance. “I want to see you again. Promise you’ll let Courtney schedule another meeting. I’ll do anything for the opportunity.”

With my key in the lock, I freeze. “Anything?”

Too much hope floods her face. “Anything.”

“One hundred dollars in cash for each visit. Courtney never knows about the money.”

Melanie blinks as the hope fades. She doesn’t have it. I know she doesn’t have it. It’s why I made the demand. “Why do you need the money? Are you using drugs?”

“Yeah,” I say. “I’m a junkie. Are you paying or not?”

She brushes her hair from her face. “I’ll pay.”

Chapter 36

Rachel

IT’S A PAINFUL PULSE BENEATH my skull and above my brain. It radiates down from my forehead to wrap around my temples, my cheeks and my nose. Light makes the pain worse. Sound nearly kills me. This is the aftermath of my panic attack.

All off at some important meeting or game or social life event, my family is missing from the house. My lights are on, and my iPod plays softly next to the closed door of my room on the off chance someone does return home before their curfew of eleven—the boys, as sexist as it is, get an hour later than me.

The goal is to appear normal so I can cover up the migraine. That leaves me lying in bed with a pillow over my head and praying for the pain to cease.

After vomiting in my father’s bathroom at work, I cleaned myself up and returned to the conference room. Eleven pairs of eyes watched as I stood at the front, beside my mother, and announced how honored I was to speak on Colleen’s behalf.

My phone rings and the sound echoes violently in my head, yet at the same time a rush of adrenaline hits me. Isaiah is the only person who would call. I adjust the pillow so I can check the caller ID. My lips lift at the sight of his name. “Hello?”

“Rachel?” There is major question in his voice.

“It’s me.” Just me, my painful migraine and my sensitivity to light and sound.

“You sound off.”

I clear my throat. “I was resting.”

“I can let you go.”

Anxiety shoots through my bloodstream at the thought. “No. I’m glad you called.”

“Yeah,” he says. “I wanted to hear your voice.”

I wake up when I notice the strained tone in his voice. Suddenly my head doesn’t hurt so bad, and I edge the pillow onto the bed and off my face. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah.” A car honks. “Tell me how the thing with your mom went.”

“Good,” I say, and place the pillow back over my head. Every part of me flounders. I don’t want to lie to him, too. But if I tell him about my attacks then he’ll view me as weak, and that’ll mess up what’s between us. Maybe I don’t have to lie. I can leave some things out—just like Ethan does to me when he uses twin amnesty. “Actually, horrible.”

I hear a car door close. “What happened?”

“Maybe we can meet someplace and talk?”

“Yeah. Tell me where.”

I swing my legs off the bed to stand, but the headache hammers my head hard and fast. A sound of pain escapes my lips, and I wince because Isaiah had to hear it.

“What’s going on, Rachel?” Isaiah became very serious, very fast.

“Just a headache, I swear. So I was thinking we could meet at this coffee shop—”

He cuts me off. “You’re not driving if you’re hurting.”

I lie back down as my eyesight doubles. With a touch to my iPod, music stops playing from the speakers. I strain to listen for any sound, and all that comes back is glorious silence.

What I’m about to do is wrong. So wrong. The exact opposite of everything my parents expect from me, and for that reason alone it feels right. “Would you like to come over?”

Chapter 37

Isaiah

THE GUARD LEANS OUT OF his little boxed-in brick house at the entrance to Rachel’s neighborhood and assesses me like I’m a serial killer broken out of death row. “Who did you say you want to see?”

“Rachel Young.”

His hand falls to his hip as if he’s packing, but both the rent-a-cop and I know that the only thing he’s carrying is thirty additional pounds of beer and nachos in his stomach. “I think you have the wrong neighborhood, son.”

Not in the mood for his games, I push redial on my cell and Rachel immediately answers, “Are you here?”

“At the gate. Do you mind informing your militia that I’m not here to rape and pillage?”

She sighs. “Put Rick on.”

With his mouth set into a pissed-off line he takes my cell and turns his back to me. His whispered words have an edge to them and after a few seconds he hands me the phone back. The gate lifts in front of me, but my car remains idling next to him.

I glance at him from the corner of my eye. “Don’t tell her parents.”

“Or what?” he asks.

“Or what is right.” I place my foot on the clutch and shift into gear. It’s not a threat I’ll carry out, but it’s an empty one worth issuing to keep Rachel safe and happy.

Following the directions she texted, I wind my way past mansions the size of miniature castles with far more land between them than needed for a single family.

At the end of its very own road, Rachel’s house sits entirely illuminated against the night sky. It has white columns and white marble steps and what the fuck is she doing with me?

I drive around the front loop and kill the engine. Therapists, social workers, teachers...they’ve spent years looking down their noses at me, but they were hard-pressed to make me feel smaller than shit. Being here in front of Rachel’s, that’s accomplished what very few have been able to do.

I force myself out of the car, up the steps, and before I can ring the bell, the door swings open and Rachel greets me with a smile. “Hi.”

She’s in sweatpants, a T-shirt, and her hair’s pulled up on top of her head with loose pieces falling around her face. Not an ounce of makeup covers her face and she’s barefoot. Each toe painted a mild form of red. Except for the dark circles under her eyes, I’ve never seen something so gorgeous in my life. “Hey.”

Rachel sweeps her hand for me to enter, and I shove my hands into the pockets of my jeans when I step in. People have a fancy-ass name for this type of area of the house and because I’m not fancy-ass, I don’t know it. It’s a hallway that’s a room but is bigger than some of the foster homes I’ve lived in.

“I don’t think anyone will be home before eleven, but if you don’t mind, I think I’d like you to only stay an hour just in case.”

“Going gangster with boundaries. I like it.” The tease is there in my voice, but I can’t stop the sweep of the place. Huge-ass winding stairs. A skylight above me. Several double-doored rooms off to the sides and probably a whole other wing down that hallway straight in front of us.

Rachel tries to smooth out her hair, but the pieces only fall back to her shoulders. “Sorry about this. I know I should have tried to change, but...”

That’s when I notice how pale she is, how sick she looks, and a warning sensation crawls along my spine. Something’s wrong. “You’re beautiful.”

Rachel lowers her head, but I can tell she liked the compliment. “We can watch a movie or listen to music or—” She closes her eyes and goes from pale to drained of blood. Her forehead scrunches like she’s in pain, and I reach out to snatch her as she leans to the left.

“That’s no fucking headache,” I growl.

She sucks in air through her nose. “Migraine. I get them occasionally, but I’ll be okay.”

Fuck this. I bend my knees and have Rachel up in my arms before she can protest. “Where’s your bedroom?”

Her mouth falls completely open.

“You need sleep. I can come with you or I can put you down and I’ll leave. Your choice.”

“Isaiah,” she protests.

“Rachel.” I use the same tone back.

“Fine. Upstairs on the left.” Giving in, she weaves her arms around my neck and rests her head on my shoulder. I can’t help but note that she fits perfectly.

Taking two steps at a time, I climb the stairs, cut to the left and pause when I come to two open doors. One room is painted pink. The other purple. Both look very girly and very perfect. The pink room looks younger, but neither fit my image of Rachel. “Which one?”

She points to the purple room. “That’s mine.”

I do a double take at the pink room before entering Rachel’s and gently place her on the mattress of the four-poster bed. The sheets and blanket are twisted in ways that suggest a restless sleep. Five pillows lie on the floor and three remain on the bed. Rachel eases over and pats the empty space beside her. “Do you mind?”

The question is, does she mind? I look over my shoulder, half expecting her father or the cops to show and when I spot nothing, I sit on the bed beside her, leaving my booted feet hanging off. If I keep my shoes on, I’ll remember not to go too far with a girl I’ve only kissed twice and who’s in pain with a migraine.

Rachel messes with her fingernail and steals glances at me every few seconds. Girls are normally forward with me. The type that mess with me know what they want, what I’ll give, and they’re prepared to act so they can get it. This change of pace makes me almost as nervous as her.

I stretch my arm so that it goes around her back, but leave my hand extended so that she knows if she wants me to hold her, she’s going to have to move in my direction. Rachel immediately slides over, places her head on my chest and wraps herself around me. I tuck her closer and nuzzle the top of her head.

Everything inside of me relaxes, and I didn’t even know I was tense. Remembering she has a headache, my hand drifts up and I begin to rub her temple. I don’t like the idea of her being in pain.

“I didn’t know you had a younger sister,” I say softly.

“I don’t. That’s Colleen’s room. She died before I was born.”

My fingers freeze. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I know it’s going to sound like an awful thing, but it doesn’t bother me. I mean, it does, because my parents and my oldest brothers are seriously torn up about it, but I didn’t know her. Mom wants me to miss her, but I can’t. Especially not when Mom’s shoving her in my face every five minutes.”

There’s an edge in Rachel’s tone I’ve never heard before. “What happened with your mom today?”

Rachel picks lint off my T-shirt and the small pinches of her nails nip my stomach. I close my eyes and slightly shift to keep from thinking about the fact that she’s touching my stomach, even though it’s through a thin piece of material.

After she’s found every fuzz ball of avoidance, Rachel finally answers, “My sister died of cancer so my mom raises money for the Leukemia Foundation.”

“Admirable.” Though I feel an impending derailment to the good deed. I’ve seen that shit plenty of times with rich people. They sweep in, do their one good deed for the year to cleanse their soul of all the fucked-up things they do the other three hundred and sixty-four days. And most of the time, they jack up that one day, as well. “But you still haven’t told me what happened with your mom today.”

Rachel releases a strangled “Humph.”

I begin to massage her head again, except this time I give in to temptation and run my hand through her hair between rubs. Rachel’s shoulders relax and she melts further against me. The sweet scent of jasmine reaches my nose, and I only want to lie like this forever.

“Waiting, Rachel.”

“My mom has me make speeches on Colleen’s behalf.”

Rachel gets uncomfortable if I stare at her longer than ten seconds. I can’t imagine her in front of a crowd. “Do you want to?”

Her head rocks a no against my chest.

“They why do you?”

“Because I want to make her happy.”

Not having had a mom to want to make happy since I was six, I’m at a loss over what to say so instead I run my hand up and down her spine. I may not understand, but I care.

“Can I tell you a secret?” she whispers.

“Yeah.”

A weighted silence builds between us, and I begin to count the unspoken beats. One. Two. Three. Four.

“Sometimes I hate Colleen,” she whispers like she’s in a confessional. “Does that make me an awful person?”

I think of seeing my mom today and of the anger still festering deep inside. If someone had told me she died four years ago when she was in prison, would I have honestly missed her? If someone told me the dad I never knew croaked, I could guarantee there wouldn’t be any tears. If Rachel’s an awful person then I must be related to Satan. “No, it doesn’t.”

Rachel pulls her head off my chest, and her violet eyes have a glaze that shows the extent of her headache. “Are you just saying that?”

I brush my fingers under the dark circles of her eyes, wishing my touch could make her better. “I saw my mom today.”

She blinks and an ache fills my chest. When I opened my mouth, that wasn’t what I thought I would say.

“Do you see her often?”

“It’s the first time I’ve seen her since I was six.”

“Oh, Isaiah.” Rachel grips the fingers of my right hand and rests our joined hands on my stomach. “Are you okay?”

I start to say yes, but then think about Rachel telling me about her mom and Colleen. “No.”

She squeezes my hand and I squeeze back, grateful that she doesn’t say a thing. There are no words for what happened today. For neither me nor Rachel. Being born into the world is the greatest crapshoot there is. Some are born lucky, others aren’t. For the first time, I see that this rule transcends money.

“I wish I could make you feel better.” Rachel places her chin back on my chest and flutters her eyelids like it’s a struggle to keep them open. She’s in pain, and she wants to take on mine.

Not sure how to handle her statement, I rub her temple again while gently guiding her head so that she rests her cheek against me once more. “This makes me better.”

Rachel shifts her mouth to the side, clearly not buying it.

“How are you?” I ask to deflect.

“Tired,” she mumbles.

So am I, but when I’m with her, the weight of my problems doesn’t feel as draining. “Go to sleep. I promise I’ll be gone before anyone knows I was here. Remember, be at the garage tomorrow after school.”

“After school,” she repeats.

Rachel snuggles close, and I tighten my hold. I have a feeling tonight I’ll roll over in bed searching for Rachel, because this moment right here is the closest I’ve come to having peace in a long time.