A dollhouse-sized perfect replica of our house sits on the floor. Like always, within the dollhouse, the figure meant to represent Mom lies next to the figurine meant to represent Colleen. My brothers told me that Mom slept with Colleen during the last weeks of her life and that Mom never stopped praying for a miracle.
“Rachel?” a small voice that hardly sounds like my mother whispers from the room. Gavin must not have realized she’d come home. I swallow to calm my nerves. I hate this room, and I hate entering it even more.
I nudge the door open and the hinges squeak painfully. With her legs curled underneath her, Mom slides her hand against the soft, shaggy white throw rug lying near the dollhouse. In her other hand, she clutches a baby-pink fleece blanket just the right size for a newborn. Her blue eyes are hollow as she regards me. “What are you doing home?”
The thumb of my left hand pushes against the sweating palm of my right. “I’m not feeling well.”
Worry consumes her face, and I force myself to enter the room to keep her from bolting off the floor. “I’m okay,” I say. “Just a headache.”
She gets on her knees. “You haven’t had a migraine in years.” Because a migraine is typically the aftermath of a panic attack.
“No, I haven’t.” Bold-faced lie. I step closer to the rug and flutter my hands in a downward movement to indicate she should stay where she is. “It’s a fluke. Probably my period.”
The conflict of whether to overanalyze my health or to stay where she feels a connection with Colleen wages war on her face. What I dread the most happens. Mom decides she can’t choose and wants both. She extends her hand to me and I notice that her long fingernails are a freshly painted pink. I kick off my shoes, accept her hand and join her on the rug. Does Mom know she still holds the blanket she brought Colleen home from the hospital in?
Mom surveys the room. Porcelain dolls perfectly dressed in ruffles and lace line several shelves. The only indication that Colleen made it anywhere near thirteen is the ancient Discman with headphones resting on the bedside table alongside of her diary and a book opened to the last page Colleen read.
“I dreamed of her last night.” Mom squeezes my hand. “She was calling to me and no matter how hard I tried, I could never find her.”
But I’m here. Right beside you. Look at me. See me. I exert pressure back. The gesture does nothing to rip her away from the nightmare imprisoning her mind.
“I always wonder if Colleen’s death was a punishment for my past sins,” she says.
My muscles tense with edginess, the same feeling as if I’m teetering on a ledge. Mom behaves like this sometimes. Her body here, but her mind far-off. She says things that make me unable to breathe. Mom’s hand tightens around mine and I suddenly feel claustrophobic.
“I made mistakes,” she says. “When I was younger. Before I met your father. Colleen was such a good girl. So good...”
Look at me, Mom. I’m your daughter and I’m right here. “Mom?”
She blinks and turns her head, the glow of life back in her blue eyes. I suck in a relieved breath. Mom tucks my hair over my shoulder. “You’re such a good girl, too.”
My eyes shut. I’m not. I defied curfew, drag raced and now owe five thousand dollars to a guy my mother would faint at the sight of. I’m in danger, I’m putting Isaiah in danger and I’m risking my mother’s—my family’s—happiness because I am not a good girl. I’m exactly who Gavin described: I’m selfish.
“Mom...” A lump forms in my throat. “Dad told me about the amazing opportunity to help with the Leukemia Foundation. I...I want to speak on Colleen’s behalf.”
My mother’s face explodes into a smile. Her blue eyes glitter like light dancing on the ocean. She abandons the blanket and hugs me. Reactions like this from Mom are, in theory, what I live for, but I can’t enjoy it. Being in Colleen’s room, understanding what I just agreed to, it’s like I’ve agreed to a death sentence and I’ve become numb.
Chapter 25
Isaiah
I PACE OUTSIDE THE SHOP, feeling restless, a little wild.
Eric.
Rachel.
Five thousand dollars.
I slide my hand over the tiger tattooed over my right biceps. Eric’s not the first predator I’ve been up against.
I went to the zoo once in elementary school on a field trip. Being the smallest kid in the class, I never saw much other than the back of someone’s head. The zoo had built a towering three-story glass house over the tiger’s habitat. Everyone else in class ran to the top to watch the tiger cub playing with a ball in the roughage. I stayed where I knew I belonged: on the bottom.
I leaned against the glass to stare at the worn mud tracks. This was where the tiger no one was interested in would wander. A raggedy thing, his skin hung from his body, his coat was devoid of any shine, his ear half-chewed-off—he was a pathetic creature. A rescued animal, my teacher had said, that would die in the wild.
From out of nowhere, the old tiger pounced from the right, slammed both massive paws against the glass and roared. My heart tripped out of my chest; my body shook from head to toe, but I never moved and I never stopped making eye contact. The tiger paced in front of me, its head whipping with every turn, never letting me out of his turbulent gaze.
I knew in that moment, without a doubt, that I no longer wanted to be the smallest in my class, the smallest in my group home. I yearned to be this badass tiger that no one messed with. My teacher, like all adults, was dead wrong: this tiger would have ruled the wild.
I don’t rule the streets. That title can belong to someone else, but no one messes with me. Eric knows this, and he’s spent years trying to place me under his thumb. I won’t allow that to happen, and I won’t allow him to hurt Rachel.
In order to protect her, I have a plan to set in motion. A plan that hinges on the following yes. I take a deep breath and enter the shop.
The heaters in the old garage are so jacked up that it may be warmer outside. With no car on the lift and none in the parking lot, Tom, the owner of the auto shop that employs me, is short on work and long on stories. He and the full-time auto mechanic, Mack, sit in his cramped office and laugh over a shared bottle of whiskey.
“Isaiah.” Tom grabs his cane as if he’s going to stand. Everything in the shop is old, out-of-date and paid off. Since he makes only enough to pay Mack and, occasionally, me, Tom’s sole reason for keeping the place open is that his wife died a few years ago and he hates to be alone. “How was the first week back at school?”
“Fine.” I wonder if he’s aware that this is Saturday morning and that when I saw him yesterday I had told him the news. His mind drifts more in the past than it does the present. “Eastwick is going to let me intern on Tuesday and Thursdays at Pro Performance.”
“You told me that,” he murmurs.
Tom smooths his thinning white hair and shifts back in his seat. He pats the pocket of his red flannel shirt, no doubt searching for a pack of Marlboros and a lighter even though the doctor told him to quit over a year ago. His kind light blue eyes dart as his mind sorts through the memory and the present. Today is a good day as his face brightens with the rare retained knowledge. “You told me that. They’re going to give you a job when you graduate.”
“Yes, sir.” My gut untwists with his words. I dread the day he does forget.
The old man and Mack have been good to me. A friend of theirs fostered me for a while. Then the one good family I had left town, the system moved me to Shirley and Dale’s and these two old guys got it in their head to hire me at the raw age of thirteen.
“Good,” Tom says to himself and then stares at Mack. “Isn’t that good.”
A thirty-years-served retired vet, Mack tips his Marine Corps baseball cap once in my direction. “Don’t f**k it up.”
“Not planning on it.”
“Good.” Mack reiterates Tom’s sentiments. “That job will take you somewhere.”
I glance around the sparse garage. “No work?”
Mack shakes his head. Tom may own the shop, but Mack manages it. Like Tom, Mack has no need to work. He prefers the garage over his empty apartment. “I finished the Chevelle.”
“Do you mind if I work on some side business during the day? Assuming there’s nothing coming in?” I doubt Rachel will be able to stay late.
Since I was fourteen, I’ve done side work for friends. They find the parts; I do the manual labor in exchange for a fee, parts to supe up my own Mustang, or a debt they owe me to be paid later. The side work typically waits until the garage is officially closed at night, but with business being slow maybe they’ll give on the timing.
Mack sips the whiskey from the bottle. “No problem. What are you working on?”
Anything I can scavenge in order to make extra money. “My car.” I clear my throat. “And a 2005 Mustang GT.”
A ghost of a smile plays on Mack’s lips, creating deep crevices around his mouth. “Finally save enough to supe your car?”
No. “Calling in favors.”
More like I’m calling in debts owed to me. Debts I saved for times when I would need help—like bail. Some of those people will pay in cash. Others who don’t have a cash flow can supply parts. I hate that I’m using my rainy-day fund, but owing Eric could be worse than jail.
“And I’m assuming that’s why I’m here?” asks Abby from behind me.
Mack, Tom and I turn our heads. She nods at me, acknowledges Tom, and like always, ignores Mack. Mack finishes the whiskey, throws the empty bottle into the trash and leaves the office. He’ll be MIA for the rest of the day. Abby’s never told me why the two stare at each other from opposite sides of a battlefield, and because I respect her, I never ask.
Tom pats his pocket again, still searching for his cigarettes. “Keep your politics out of my garage, Miss Abby.”
Politics as in her drugs. Tom’s the only person I’ve seen Abby cave to. “I always do.”
“Good.” By the way Tom’s eyes glaze over I can tell we’ve lost him to a memory.
I head to the other side of the garage and Abby follows.
“Everyone knows about the deal you made with Eric,” she says. “He means business, Isaiah, and he wants your head and Fuzzy Bunny’s on a platter. Eric’s threatened to retaliate against anyone who helps you raise the money.”
Shit. That complicates things. I had hoped to raise half of the five thousand from collecting on debts. Now I’ll have to rely solely on the parts. “I’ll respect whatever decision you make as long as you make it now. What side are you playing, Abby? Are you my friend in this or my enemy?”
“I can’t help,” she says.
I place my hands on the tool bench and lean into it. Not what I wished to hear. “Abby...”
“I can’t give you money.” Her eyes flash to mine. “What I make, I need. Eric may own some of the streets, but he doesn’t own me. I’ll help in what ways I can, but I still have to watch my own back.”