Not My Mother, Miranda Smith [smart books to read txt] 📗

They were afraid to intervene. Hell, when I backed away, it’s like they were afraid to touch him.”

“Is that why you ended up leaving Peppermill?”

I knew from previous conversations he’d never graduated. He dropped out and earned his GED.

“That’s the craziest part about it. All that night and the next morning, I kept waiting for my slap on the wrist. It never came. My teachers didn’t mention it. The students didn’t. Ben didn’t come back until the following week, after the swelling in his nose went down. Even he didn’t say anything to me about it. Or his friends. It’s like they knew they’d crossed a line. Me beating up Ben may not have been the best move, but they weren’t wanting to admit what they’d done either.”

“You must be an all right guy if that’s the worst thing you’ve ever done.” I smiled, tucking my chin to my chest. “All you were doing was standing up for a guy who wasn’t in a position to defend himself.”

“I guess you’re right.” He looked up at the sky, perhaps searching for forgiveness, still rolling the cigarette between his fingers. “Thing is, I think about that day all the time. I think about those guys. It’s like I still see them everywhere. Whenever some guy in a snazzy car drives through my neighborhood or some douchebag with shiny shoes slums it at Buster’s for his afternoon lunch. I want to just start beating his face in. I know they’re different guys, maybe even good guys… but that’s not what I see.”

His honesty was refreshing, yet startling. “You wouldn’t do that, right? Unless they deserved it?”

“Right.” He laughed, nervously. “You only give someone a beating that bad if they deserve it.”

I realized that day, sitting in that dirty alleyway behind Buster’s, this was the first time anyone had looked at me in a long time and seen me. Not seen the screw-up or the criminal or the extra mouth to feed. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have told me that story. And although I didn’t tell him the truth about what was going on in my life then—that I was struggling to get by, hoping I’d still have the same job and apartment come Christmas—I felt like it was the happiest I had been in a while.

“Break’s over,” Jamie said, swinging the door wide so that it smacked the brick.

Cliff took his cigarette, still not smoked, and tucked it behind his ear. He scrambled back inside, leaving me alone with Jamie.

She leaned against the building. She pulled out her own cigarette and lit it immediately. “You feeling it yet?”

“Feeling what?”

“Butterflies. You two have been flirting back and forth for weeks.”

“You think?” I had little experience with guys. I wasn’t sure if they liked me, if I liked them, or if we were just passing the time.

“He’s into you, that’s for sure.”

I couldn’t hide the smile on my face. It seemed to ignite a chain reaction through the rest of my body, my bony frame filling with warmth.

“When I hired you, you said you didn’t have a boy problem.” She smiled. Like she was looking for the same acceptance from me I found in Cliff.

“I still don’t.”

She raised her chin. “The three of us should get a drink after work. It’d be good to get out, maybe act my age for a change. Who knows? Maybe you two will hit it off.”

“I’d like that,” I said, practically floating back into the building. I was on track to make friends, maybe even more. I couldn’t help but think Buster’s, and the people inside it, had come into my life for a reason.

Maybe it was fate. I thought that then. I still think that sometimes.

7 MarionNow

In the morning, I have a brief moment of ignorance. All I hear is the ocean crashing into the shore on the other side of my patio. I hear Ava through the baby monitor, wrestling with the covers in her crib, starting to wake. I smile.

Then I remember yesterday. Everything that happened. Everything I was told. All the things I still don’t know. And I remember Mom is gone. She’s being detained at the jail, and I’ve still not had the chance to speak with her.

I stumble into the kitchen and turn on the coffee machine. I’m alone, and yet the usual quiet of the morning seems disturbed. There’s an unusual background noise seeping in from outside. I walk to the window and push back the curtain. A cluster of news vans are parked on my street.

Shit. The press. Like Carmen said, Baby Caroline was once a big news story. A cold case people aren’t likely to forget. I pull the curtains tight, making sure no one can see inside. I retrieve my phone to call Carmen, but there’s already a text from her.

It reads: Stay calm. I’m on my way.

Just then, Ava lets out a cry. Not an upset wail, more a curious caw that asks, Did you forget about me? I’ve been so enveloped in my own problems I’m neglecting her.

I walk into her room. She is standing in her crib, bouncing in anticipation of being picked up. I immediately go to the windows in her room, making sure they are locked and covered. Her bedroom doesn’t face the street, but I feel an unusually strong urge to protect her now that I know there is a horde of tragedy vultures outside our complex.

The minutes spent waiting for Carmen to arrive pass slowly. The entire time I’ve been with Ava—holding her, rocking her, cleaning her—I’ve felt guilty. Aside from me, Mom is undoubtedly the most important person in my daughter’s life. She’s nowhere to be found now, and I’m not sure when I’ll see her again. I realize Ava is too young to understand what is going on, and yet, I believe she can sense Mom’s absence. I know I can.

When Carmen arrives, she walks into the living room wearing red slacks and a silk, sleeveless blouse. I would guess