“No, Emily. Listen, you’re safe...”
And he keeps talking, but I can’t listen because the fear inside me is becoming a monster and I slide my feet off the bed until they hit the floor. The walls are closing in and so is the ceiling and it’s hard to draw in air. “I need to go. Like now. Right now. Aren’t there witness protection programs or something?”
Except I didn’t witness anything to be protected from and they won’t save me and this terrible pain happens when I breathe and... “I need to go home. Take me home.”
“Emily!” Eli shouts.
I quake with my name and freeze in the middle of the room. He releases a long breath and crosses the room to me. Eli settles both of his hands on my shoulders and lowers himself to meet my eyes. “You watch too much TV.”
“But you said—”
“I said you’re safe. Your mom, Jeff and I—we are overreacting to this. Plain and simple. When it comes to your safety, none of us will mess around.”
This little voice in my mind whispers that this is too simple. Too easy. But the rational part says that he’s right. That stuff is only on TV. Gangsters and murderers and anything else are not real life. This is real life and in real life people don’t behave like thugs.
I inhale then nod my head to my internal thoughts. Yes, this is business negotiations and Eli is being overprotective because my mom is being overdramatic.
Eli stands there looking mean and tough because that’s what he is with those stars tattooed up his arm and a skull on his bicep. Anger and wrath and vengeance ooze off him just from existing, but his eyes soften to the point of pleading.
I shift my footing. “What happens now?”
“We’re going to take things one step at a time. First you get some sleep and then we’ll meet up with your parents this afternoon. Okay?”
It sounds like a question, but the way he speaks reminds me of my earlier conversation with Oz. Eli wants to create the illusion that I have a choice, but everything has already been decided. Even if I stomped my foot and demanded that we leave now it would be fruitless, so I give in. “Okay.”
He smiles and it’s a brilliant smile. It’s that darn one that he flashes whenever he sees me and it’s the one I hate because it causes me to smile in return. Like how I am now.
Eli draws me into a hug and repeats my answer. “Okay.”
Oz
A SOFT LIGHT fills the room thanks to Olivia’s prized Tiffany lamp on her bedside table. As a child, I used to be mesmerized by the mosaic blue-and-green-colored glass and forget my nightmares. Too bad I can’t lose myself in that lamp now and block out Olivia’s cancer.
The only air-conditioning unit in the house is wedged in the window of her room, but it hasn’t been turned on since last summer. Her treatments make her cold.
Olivia lies in the bed wrapped in a comforter even though it’s warm. I grab the blanket at the end of the bed and spread it over her. She rolls her head against the pillow to study me. The black circles under her eyes resemble bruises. What she should be doing is resting, not worrying about the prodigal child.
“Tell me what’s going on,” she demands.
“Eli’s with Emily. She’ll be resting here this morning and then she and Eli will be meeting with her parents later this afternoon.”
“I want someone to wake me the moment she’s up.”
I’m already shaking my head. “You need to rest. Not to be worrying over some spoiled brat. Plus—”
“Don’t remember asking for your opinion,” she cuts me off. “Last I checked this is still my house and I’m still alive.”
I plop into the chair beside the bed, stretch out my legs and toss the picture onto her stomach. “Lose something?”
“You don’t wear smug well.” Olivia picks up the picture, opens her Bible on her nightstand and slips it inside it. “It doesn’t work well with cocky bastard.”
“Nice to know you care, but on the serious side, Mom’s bent over finding this picture near Emily. Mind telling me why?”
“Did Eli see it?” she presses.
“Nope. Mom saved your ass. I also covered for you when Emily asked about it. Now that I’m involved let’s play a round of show-and-tell.”
“As I said, smug doesn’t become you.” Olivia fixates on the blanket and the shadows in the room threaten to consume us. She stares blankly, like she’s observing something that I can’t. Another time. Another place. I hate it. Mom once mentioned that maybe she’s seeing heaven. For me, that gaze sends me to hell.
Could be exhaustion. She could be lost in her own mind. According to the doctor, it’s probably a mini-seizure. All part of the progression of her illness. The doctor said it as if this is some grand design by God. Olivia has had a few of these episodes lately. Too many for my taste. I fold my arms over my chest, trying not to let it bother me, but it does. It slays me.
A lump develops in my throat and I begin to count. On two, Olivia blinks back to life. “Don’t tell Eli I gave Emily the picture.”
She continues our conversation, pretending her mind didn’t temporarily vacate the room, or maybe she isn’t aware the episode happened. But it did happen and it’s hard as hell to keep the anger simmering within me from seeping out in my tone. “What’s my real name?”
“I’m not an invalid.”
I overpronounce the words. “My name.”
“Jonathan.” No slurring and she’s correct.
Guess to check for a stroke, the doctor said we should ask her several questions after we witness that vacant stare, but I value my life so I stick with the one. “You should be asleep.”
“Sleep is a luxury I can no longer afford.”
A pit forms in my stomach and I can’t stand how my soul free-falls within it. She’s too damn accepting of what doesn’t have to be. “This round worked. I can feel it.”
“That’s one of the things I like about you. You’re optimistic.” Olivia removes the scarf from her head and I have to fight not to look away. Her bald head kicks me in the gut, but it’s the horseshoe scar near her ear that rams me straight in the nuts.
I say nothing in response because I don’t feel optimistic. I feel like my world is unraveling. We’ve received bad news before and Olivia always found a way to survive, but this round has a foreboding sensation. I lean forward and push the thoughts away. I loathe the emptiness they create. “Do you want something to eat? Drink?”
Her eyes are closed. Olivia does this now, can drift easily into sleep. When she’s sick, we take turns watching over her. I’m a night owl by nature and prefer the later shifts. Cyrus, Eli and I are the only ones who can stay awake in the silent darkness for hours, waiting for the moment Olivia should need one of us.
My fingers weave together and my head automatically drops. Please, God. Please let her live. The drapes near the open windows move with a gentle breeze. If that’s a response, I don’t know what it means.
“I want to sit on the porch,” she says.
I glance out the door to her room. Cyrus is on guard and he worries over Olivia enough. I could ask Eli or call my own dad for permission to take Olivia out of the house...
“When did you take to disobeying me?” she says with a hint of attitude.
My mouth twitches sarcastically. “When have you known me to listen?”
Her laughter is weak, but existent. “Do as I say.”
Olivia hates being dependent and I hate having to say the following: “I’m going to have to carry you.” Because with the toll this day has had on her body and mine, I don’t trust her to walk or trust myself to catch her if she stumbles.
“Fine.”
I lift her blanket-encased body from the bed. Olivia should weigh more, but the cancer has ravaged her. I ease out the screen door to her room, careful to keep it from slamming shut,
and step onto the back portion of the wraparound porch.
I walk until I reach her favorite spot: the porch swing. That’s where she prefers to sit, but there’s no way she can support herself. Instead, I tuck her into the Adirondack chair Cyrus built for her last summer. Her head collapses back against the chair and she scans the yard. The dim light in the east casts a glow onto the drive that leads to town, the large garage that doubles as the clubhouse, and the woods surrounding the house. This porch is her favorite spot on earth.
I settle onto the swing beside her. She may not be able to sit in it, but the creaking sound of the swing brings her peace.
“Have you considered going to school in the fall?” Olivia asks.
It’s her dream for someone in her family to go to college. Not one of her children made it. Hell, Eli dropped out of high school. Though I’m not blood-related, I’m one of Olivia’s. “No.”
“Why not? You’re smart and have potential. You can still be a part of the club. Distance doesn’t mean anything, not when it involves family.”
“What’s wrong with the family business?”
“Nothing,” she says with a sigh. “But they do what they do because their options were limited, especially at the time. Your options are not limited.”
“Next topic.”
“You think you can push everyone away, but not me. You can’t shut me out.”
Then I’ll change the subject. “Stone said Violet took on babysitting to make money.”
The mention of the daughter of a club member who died causes Olivia to grow reflective. Violet is a sore spot for Olivia and the club.
“Nice try,” she says slowly. “Bringing up Violet thinking it’ll blow me off course, but hear me—not working. Go to college. See what the world has to offer.”
“I can throw a knife straight. Does that mean I should join the circus?” Ridiculous, yes, but so is this conversation.
“Yes, if that’s what you want.”
“Joining the business with Dad and Eli is what I want.”
“How do you know?” Olivia raises her voice like she did with Eli when it came to Emily. “The only reason you want the business is because it’s all you’ve known.”
“Not true.”
“Oz—”
“Not true,” I say in a clipped manner that ends the conversation. Guilt twists my gut. Snapping at people is my norm, but I’ve minded my manners with Olivia since she got sick. “Can you drop it?” A beat. Then another. The crickets’ chirping grows louder. “Please?”
She releases a deep, throaty chuckle. “Oz being polite. I must be dying.” Olivia chuckles again. I don’t. She then mutters as if in a dream, “You don’t like her...you don’t like Emily.”
No, I don’t. “Does it matter?”
“Yes, it does.”
I extend one leg on the swing, prop my back against the armrest and ground the other foot so I can make the creaking sound Olivia loves. Her condition has declined sharply since the party and I blame Emily. “I don’t see how. Emily’s leaving and won’t come back.”
“I don’t know what Eli was thinking at the party,” says Olivia in defeat. “Shutting down the building and keeping Emily’s adoptive father from entering. All it did was scare the child more. You should have seen her on the phone with her mom. Meg probably told her they were holding him at gunpoint. The poor thing was shaking.”
Eli was probably thinking that the moment Jeff found Emily they’d be out the door, and we all wanted the same outcome: for Olivia to be happy. “She’s not a child and she decided to leave. And as I said, don’t get attached because she’s not coming back.”
“Then this mess with the Riot.” Olivia rubs her temple. “Meg should have known better than to bring her into Kentucky unannounced and believe there wouldn’t be repercussions, and Eli should have known better than to send that e-mail to them. As always, the two of them are a mess.”
That sparks my attention. “Repercussions meaning what?”
Yeah, Meg’s a traitor for leaving, but Eli signed away custody of Emily when she was two and he signed away his parental rights entirely when she was five. The supervised visitations that he’s had over the years have been a pity offering.
“I wish Emily would stay.” Olivia ignores my question. “I regret not knowing her.”
“I don’t think you’re missing much.” Gorgeous? Yes. A pain in the ass? Definitely.
Olivia’s chest rises as she pulls in a breath. The sweet scent of the first blooms of honeysuckle hangs in the air and my chest hurts as she smiles. Olivia adores that smell. The happiness fades from her face. “Emily’s my blood. How could you hate what is a part of me?”
“She’s a rich girl from a big city who doesn’t get a thing about Snowflake or the people in it.” What Emily did—abandoning a dying woman who craved to spend time with her—was unforgiveable. But what should any of us expect from the daughter of a traitor?
“Why should she understand us? Her mother ran when the child was barely two.”
My fingers curl around the swing’s chain. I have my theories, but I’d like confirmation. “Emily doesn’t know that she lived here?”
“No. Eli said that Meg created a new version of her life. Meg told Emily her parents threw her out when they found out she was pregnant and that Eli didn’t want either of them. Meg denies that Emily ever lived in Kentucky. When Eli could finally see Emily again, Meg was married and the child was ten. Part of the visitation agreement was for the past to stay buried.”
I scratch my knuckles over my jaw. Interesting. Very interesting.
“Besides,” Olivia continues with a hint of annoyance, “part of telling Meg’s story would mean telling Eli’s story and Eli doesn’t want the child to know his past.”
“You disagree with that?”
“I’ve never agreed with any of the choices Eli and Meg made. And don’t act so high and mighty with your knowledge. There are things even you don’t know.”
“Like I keep saying, it doesn’t matter. Emily’s not coming back.”
“Don’t be too sure about that. Trouble has always followed that child, whether she knows it or not. I have a feeling we’ll be seeing her again.”
“What does that mean?” A wave of tension ripples through me. So does an annoying twinge of protectiveness. The way Emily held on to me tonight...she was defenseless. That’s the reason for this confusing reaction. “The Riot going after Emily has to do with club business. Not Emily being...Emily.”
Olivia remains unusually quiet.
“I’m right on this,” I add.
“I hope you are, Oz. You have no idea how much I hope you are.”
The whine-creak of the porch swing creates a soothing effect that silences us both. There’re secrets involving Eli and Meg. We are all aware of that. Secrets that have been buried deep and if something’s been hidden that well, it’s typically the type of news that can kill.
“I’d love a cigarette,” she says.
I’m sure she would. “You were allowed one pack at the wake.”
“Ingrate,” she mutters. I maintain the constant rhythm of the swing. It’s after six in the morning and the hypnotic creaking is starting to put me to sleep.
Olivia’s breaths become consistent and when her eyes dart behind her lids, I pick her up, carry her inside and tuck her into bed. A huge shadow floats in from the hallway.
“The club is guarding the property,” says Cyrus. “I need to sit with her.”
I touch Olivia’s hand in a goodbye then head for the door. Can’t argue when a man wants to tend to his wife.
Emily
OLIVIA WAS ASLEEP when we left and I guess that’s good, even though a heavy weight sloshes in my stomach. I had no idea what to say to her and I probably wouldn’t have wanted to know
what she had to say to me.
I gather my hair in a ponytail at the base of my neck, but, thanks to the wind ripping through the rolled-down window, wayward strands break loose. Eli’s in the driver’s side of what turns out is his truck. He props his arm on the open window and lightly grips the roof. His other hand steers.
Sweat forms along my hairline and I stick to the pleather seat. We’ve been riding along back roads, blowing past cornfields and forests, for an hour. There are two motorcycles in front of us and three behind. Passing cars reduce their speed so they can gawk at the procession.
“Did you go to junior prom?” Question number fifty-four from Eli’s endless reserve.
“Yep.” My eyes flicker to the passenger-side mirror. Oz is on one of the bikes trailing us. As the group of men was getting ready to leave this afternoon, I caught Oz watching me a few times, but each time my gaze fell on him, he glanced away.
I’d be lying if I didn’t admit a thrill would run through me when I noticed him staring, which is moronic because he doesn’t like me. At all. And stupid me can’t stop stupid thinking of stupid him. The latest Oz train of thought: Did he go to his junior prom?
“Who did you go with?” Eli asks.
“Some friends. The guys rented a limo so it was cool.”
Eli switches his hands on the wheel. “Are you still in the advanced program at school?”
“Mmm-hmm.” Oz weaves so that he reappears in the passenger mirror. He wears a folded black bandanna and his hair blows in the wind. He doesn’t wear a helmet. Real smart. A car smashing into him would mean brain damage.
“Was one of those friends you mentioned your prom date?”
That question trips me up and I peer over at the walking, talking gene bank. Junior prom then advanced program and then back to junior prom. “Why the subject shift? Are you concerned a girl who’s smart can’t have a date to prom? Like all I do is stare at the walls in my room when I’m not scanning Wikipedia for mistakes? If so, you’ve been watching too many teen movies. Our generation believes in being well-rounded.”