Heartless (35 page)

C
alypso

I
’ve walked
by this playground dozens of times, and never once did I realize that giant painted lion with its mouth open wide is a drinking fountain.

A handful of small children burn off their Saturday morning energy playing Follow the Leader across the monkey bars, down the twisty slide, and around the Merry-Go-Round.

Emme kicks her legs, sprawled on a blanket under the shade of a squatted palm tree with robust leaves. The parking lot to our little complex is just a few yards away. I brush the back of my hand against Emme’s chubby cheek as she babbles, but our tender moment is interrupted by the fast-paced squawking of a nagging woman climbing out of the driver’s seat of a white Escalade.

“Conrad, I told you.” Her hands slice through the air as she speaks, emphasizing each and every word that leaves her thin, red lips. It’s March, in Vegas, and she’s wearing a thick twin-set sweater. Huge pearls fit for Wilma Flintstone line her neck, and her dark hair is cut to a blunt edge at her shoulders, shining in the late morning sun. The click-clacking of her modest kitten heel against the pavement echoes toward the park. “Let me help you. You’re doing too much. You’re going to overexert yourself. I don’t want to interrupt Dr. Parks in the middle of his golf game all because you’re too stubborn to listen to him.”

“Susan.” The man barks back, but his bark has no bite. She doesn’t listen. She keeps yammering on.

“This is going to be Thanksgiving all over again.” The woman throws her hands in the air as she hurries to his side.

“I’m not helpless.” He jerks his arm from her grasp. “I can walk.”

Nothing like cheap entertainment on a lazy Saturday morning.

“It’s just like you to be pigheaded. You have one good doctor’s visit and you think you’re Superman.” Her sandy tone grates on the man’s nerves. I can see it from way over here. He flinches when she speaks. “Now straighten your shirt. And come along. We haven’t seen Crew since Christmas. This should be a joyous occasion.”

Mr. and Mrs. Forrester.

Nice to meet you.

How those two produced Crew, I’ll never know.

Crew’s dad clears his throat, running his meaty fingers along his Tom Selleck-y mustache as he takes leisurely steps behind his lovely wife. He keeps back a few paces. I assume it’s intentional.

I scoop the baby in my arms and speak softly into her little ear. “Emme, I believe those are your grandparents.”

I almost apologize to her before realizing it’s not my place. It’s not my business. I’m a third party to all of this.

Judging by the way his mother henpecks his father, I can understand Crew’s reluctance to spring Emme on them just yet. Even from the other side of the parking lot I can see she’s tight-laced and buttoned up. She certainly didn’t get those deep frown lines from smiling too much.

My phone buzzes just as Crew’s parents disappear behind his door. I switch Emme to my left arm and flip it over to see Presley’s name flash across the screen.

“What’s up? Everything okay at the store?” I answer.

“So this guy was just here,” she says. “Asking about you.”

My heart lurches into my throat before free-falling so fast it hurts.

“What?” I gulp the dry, Nevada air and rise with Emme on my hip. “What did he look like?”

“Blond,” she says. “Tall. Shaggy hair. Kinda hung in his eyes. Really tan. His eyes were almost clear. Bright white smile.”

My thoughts scatter. She needs to say nothing more.

It’s Mathias.

No doubt in my mind.

“He was asking a ton of questions about you,” she says. “How long you’d owned the store. When you were going to be back. How you were doing.”

I scoop the blanket from the ground and fling it over my free shoulder. It’s time to go inside anyway. The sun is beating down on us as we approach the noon-hour.

“What did you tell him?” I ask.

“Nothing,” she says. “I didn’t know who the hell this guy was. Is he from Shiloh Springs?”

“Yeah.” I buckle Emme in her stroller and scan the park. Can’t help feeling like I’m being watched.

I came to Vegas to get away from Shiloh Springs and the Shilohs and all that they entailed. I felt safe here despite the fact that I stuck out like a vegan at a meat packing plant.

“He wanted to know when you were going to be in,” Presley says. “I told him I wasn’t sure. But he didn’t believe me. He waited around an hour, just browsing the bookshelves but not touching a single book.”

“Did he intimidate you? Did he make you uncomfortable?”

“No, no. It was more just like . . . weird.” Presley’s voice comes to a whisper before she clears her throat. “He said he’s in town, and he’s coming back.”

“When? Did he say when?” My words come out in one big string, my mouth dry. I want to swallow but I can’t.

Water. I need water.

And air conditioning.

I’m sweating.

I never thought I’d see Mathias again. Ever.

“He didn’t say,” she said. “But I saw him looking at the posted hours on the door when he left.”

My body trembles. There’s a tiny earthquake inside me, and the fault line runs in a crooked line down my center. I push the stroller with one hand, maneuvering the cracked and bumpy sidewalk and praying we don’t run into Crew’s clan on our way to my apartment.

“Calypso, you okay?” Presley asks. “You’re breathing really hard. And not saying much . . .”

“I never thought I’d see him again.” I utter the words that keep circling my head, playing in a loop. “I don’t understand. Is he coming back for me?”

I hate the hope in my tone. It doesn’t belong there. I vowed never to return to Shiloh Springs, no matter how desperate I was or how hard life became on my own.

They say you never stop loving your first love. It’s literally impossible. They’re imprinted on a part of your soul until the day you die. Some people spend their whole lives drinking or shopping or gambling or eating until they can’t feel or recognize that part of them anymore. You can ignore it sometimes, but it’s still there, alive and well, holding that flame that will never extinguish, no matter how hard the wind blows.

“Are you coming back in tonight?” she asks. “Bryson’s in at seven. Might be good to have a guy here in case he comes back. You just never know. Leave it to one of those looney bin commune assholes to try and kidnap you.”

I laugh, but it’s a nervous, shaky kind of laugh. I’m still trembling, but I need a release. All these nerves lacing through me need to go somewhere.

“Bryson’s terrified of spiders, I don’t think he’s going to magically save me from some kidnapper,” I say. “And Mathias wouldn’t kidnap me anyway. They’re not like that. That’s a very violent thing to do, and they preach nothing but peace.”

The number of peaceful protests we participated in over the years is lost on me now, but never once, in all my years living at Shiloh Springs, did I see so much as a hint of anything violent.

Who needs to inflict physical pain when emotional pain stings twice as much? Shiloh Springs didn’t need violence. Father Nathaniel’s most powerful weapon was his mind, followed only by his tongue.

“So that was Mathias.” I can picture Presley’s pouty lips jutting out as she sizes him up in her mind and deduces that he’s actually extremely attractive. And I can imagine Mathias breezing in, his gauzy shirt flowing and half-unbuttoned and his linen pants wrinkle-free. “Not how I pictured him.”

“How’d you picture him?”

“Darker,” she says instantly. “More evil. That man looks like an angel doing God’s work.”

“I’m pretty sure he believes he is.” I stick my key in my lock and push the stroller inside.

“So what are you going to do now? Avoid him? Wait for him to stop by? He said he had something important to tell you.”

“Wait, he said he had something to tell me?”

So he’s probably not coming back for me, per se.

Oh, my God.

My parents.

“Yeah. I need to see him.” I exhale. Emme sucks on her fingers. She’s hungry and due for a bottle. I leave her in her stroller and rifle through her diaper bag before running to the kitchen and twisting the faucet until the water runs warm. If he found me, if he came all this way, it must be important. “I’ll be in tonight.”

C
rew

“
T
here are
lemon seeds floating in my water.” My mother lifts her glass as our server passes in a rush to deliver bread to another table. “I specifically asked for no lemon. Why are there seeds in my water?”

My father slips a pair of bifocals up the bridge of his nose, clears his throat, and lifts the menu high enough that it obstructs his view of what’s about to happen.

Noelle and I exchange looks.

Our poor server, who can’t be more than twenty-one and a hundred pounds, tells my mother she’ll be right back.

Sorry, little girl, you’re just making it ten times worse for yourself by making Susan Forrester wait.

“My apologies,” the mousy girl says when she returns with a fresh glass of water sans-seeds. “So sorry about that. Are we ready to order?”

My mother’s lips tighten, and I’m willing to bet she was looking forward to berating this young lady. Now she has no excuse.

Never to worry, she’ll find one later.

“Conrad, are you done looking at the menu?” Mom places her hand on his arm. Her tone is soft, but her delivery is grating. “We’re all waiting on you, dear.” She turns to my sister and rolls her eyes. “So indecisive, your father.”

“Always has been, always will be.” His voice is muffled from behind the menu.

Our server stands, pad and pen in her hand and eyes scanning all of our faces for a friendly smile. I offer it to her and hope she can read minds because if she could, she’d hear my screaming apology for the shit storm that’s about to happen.

“I offered to cook,” I whisper to Noelle.

She bites a smile when Mom’s not looking. “Your cooking or a five-star lunch with parental unit drama? I’ll pick my poison.”

“Ouch.” I smirk.

“What are you two giggling about over there?” Mom’s face lights, like we’re kids again. She turns to our server, brows furrowed, and waves her away. “We’re obviously not ready yet. You’ll need to come back.”

She says nothing, but her face is washed in relief.

“Men don’t giggle,” my father says, monotone. I don’t know if he’s sticking up for me since I clearly wasn’t giggling, or if he wasn’t paying attention and is gifting me one of his famous passive-aggressive scolds.

“We were just talking about Crew’s cooking skills,” Noelle says. “Remember that lasagna he made on Christmas Eve two years ago?”

“It was amazing,” I stick up for myself. I’d just taken a culinary class as an elective that semester, and veggie lasagna was the only assignment I aced.

“It was awful.” Mom toys with the cross necklace dangling from her veiny neck and smiles. It’s the kind of smile that always accompanies her insults. “But we appreciated the effort, didn’t we, Noelle?”

“A for effort. F for making us eat frozen pizza for dinner that night because all the grocery stores were closed.” Noelle kicks me under the table.

Funny how we’ve taken on these roles over the years. We protect each other. When one’s the target of my parents’ deflected frustration, the other steps up with a funny quip or distracting story.

It works like a charm . . . most of the time.

“How’s the old ticker?” Noelle asks my father.

He places a fist across the left side of his chest and knocks twice. “As good as new.”

“Conrad,” Mom yell-whispers. “Don’t do that. Your pacemaker.” She turns to the two of us. “And he’s lying. He’s not as good as new, he’s got a long road to recovery. Any minute of any hour, he could have another episode.”

Her chin wrinkles for a fraction of a second and then she straightens her shoulders.

“I’m not ready to be a widow yet.” Her hand flies to his. To anyone else, this would seem like a tender moment.

We know better.

Susan Forrester doesn’t want to be a widow because then she’d have no one to boss around, and she’d spend the rest of her years on this earth resenting him for selfishly leaving her all alone to handle the business and all the less pleasant and tedious parts of life, like paying car insurance and renewing their country club membership.

Our server returns. “Are we ready to place our order yet?”

She says “our” like she’s one of us. Like we’re just one big happy family. Conrad. Susan. Noelle. Crew. And the mousy little pipsqueak who already looks like she’s on the verge of tears.

It’s going to happen.

By the time we finish this lunch at this quaint little Italian bistro, this little lady is going to be bawling her eyes out into the apron of some sous chef in the back kitchen who doesn’t have time to care.

We go around the table, my father, Noelle and myself placing simple orders. My mother, however, orders the most complicated dish on the menu and requests it sans olives, tomatoes, mushrooms, and capers. My father tells her she may as well order spaghetti marinara at this point, and they argue while Noelle and I sneak a peek at our phones under the white linen tablecloth.

No text from Calypso. So that’s good.

I’d much rather be with her and Emme.

And at some point, I need to personally apologize to Emme for her grandparents. Even if she doesn’t understand it yet, I feel like I need to put it out there.

“I’m sorry your grandparents suck, Emme.”

I smirk to myself.

It’s a shame. She’ll never have the doting kind who spoil her rotten and smother her in kisses. Mine were pretty great. Guess we can’t all be that lucky.

Two Thanksgivings ago, my cousin brought her baby over. My mother flounced around like she was excited to be a “great-aunt.” She made a big fuss over the chubby-cheeked baby and carried her on her hip from room to room as guests arrived.

As soon as the timer went off on the oven, she shoved the baby into her brother’s arms. The first thing she did was run a hand down her cashmere sweater, examining each pearl button and picking off any crumbs or hints of drool. Her mouth was downturned, as if she’d been holding a smelling, shedding alley cat and not a little boy.

She didn’t give that kid another look the rest of the day.

My mother’s kindness and excitement are only ever for watchful eyes. Never genuine. Never without an agenda.

“We need to discuss Easter.” Mom reaches for her glass of water, the one she hasn’t touched since the server brought her a fresh one. She closes one eye and squints into the top of the glass, only to take a sip when she’s absolutely positive there are no fucking lemon seeds. “Your father and I have decided we should spend a long weekend in Lake Tahoe at the lake house. It’ll be relaxing and good for his heart. You’re both required to be there.”

Required.

I hate that fucking word with a passion.

It denotes a lack of choice.

She doesn’t need to say required. I’d go there anyway. Not because I want to, but because I know Noelle will, and someone needs to be there to save her from my mother’s incessant henpecking.

“I’ll have to check my schedule,” I say.

Noelle shoots me the dirtiest look I’ve ever seen in our twenty-four years together on this earth. Ever since my father’s heart started breaking down on him, she’s been glued to his side. Every family function, every spare minute, she’s calling him, texting him, rushing from work to sit in the waiting room until he gets out of surgery.

She’s a tough broad, and I can say that because she’s my sister, but I’m one hundred percent positive she’s nothing but fluffy marshmallow on the inside. The hard exterior only functions to protect that.

“Do you remember how to get to the lake house?” Dad peers down his nose at the silverware, flipping it back and forth before lifting it to inspect for dried food remnants. “It’s been a while.”

“Of course,” Noelle says. “It was our favorite vacation spot growing up.”

She’s lying.

She says that to make my father feel better. It was his favorite spot. We dreaded it. Once a month, from eighth grade until our senior year, we had to make the drive to Lake Tahoe, to the expansive cabin equipped with everything teenagers might possibly need to have a good time . . .

Like fishing poles.

Tackle boxes.

Campfire rings.

Butterfly nets.

Binoculars.

And bugs.

My father liked that we took a break from technology once a month. Said it recharged us. My mother liked the fact that we were temporarily cut off from outside influences of the friend variety. She never liked a single acquaintance of ours she met. Still doesn’t.

“We’ll be there,” Noelle says. “I’ll ride with Crew and we’ll meet you there.”

“Three-day weekend.” Mom lifts a finger in the air. “We’re making it a three-day weekend. Arrive Thursday night and stay until Sunday.”

Dad pretends to read a drink menu. We all know he doesn’t drink. His entire Promise Makers empire would crumble if anyone caught him enjoying so much as a wine spritzer.

“Can’t wait,” I lie.

T minus four weeks until my life implodes in my hands for the second time.

* * *

“
T
hanks again for watching Emme
.” I scoop my daughter from Calypso’s arms. I waited hours for this. Lunch with my parents only solidified the fact that I’d much rather hang out with a toothless, drooling, dirty-diaper smelling mini human than Conrad and Susan any day of the week.

“Any time.” Calypso runs her hand along Emme’s back and steps away. She won’t make eye contact with me, and her hands can’t decide what they want to do. She touches her face, then her hair, then her hip. She tugs at her shirt before ambling toward a stack of mail at her kitchen able and rifling through it.

“Everything okay?” I ask.

Calypso drops the mail and rests her palms at the small of her back. Her lips spread wide, but her smile is forced.

“Yeah. Of course.”

I don’t believe her. I’ve been playing poker too long, and I’m well fucking aware that people tend to wear their thoughts on their outsides more than they realize.

“No, something’s up. I can tell.”

I bounce Emme in my arms. The constant movement is soothing and silences my mind as I try and get a read on her.

Calypso’s face scrunches as she stacks books. It takes me a few seconds to see she’s putting them in alphabetical order. Gone is my easy, breezy Calypso. I want to ask if she’s on something, but I don’t want to offend her.

“You can talk to me,” I say. “You know, if you ever need to.”

She nibbles the inside of her lip. I wonder how raw and red it is. I bet she’s been doing it most of the afternoon, judging by how high-strung she is.

“Presley called earlier. There’s a situation at the store. I need to go in. Been trying to figure out how I’m going to deal with it.” Her speech is choppy. But it makes sense. Her store is her life.

“Anything I can help with?”

Loose, sandy waves fall in her face as she shakes her head and insults me with another phony smile.

“Okay . . .” I slip Emme’s diaper bag over my shoulder and show myself out.

Noelle is still at my apartment when we return.

“Holy shit, Crew. What are you going to tell Mom and Dad?” She’s been dying to have this conversation all afternoon. And we kind of already did. Silently. We don’t need to talk to know we’re on the same page.

“I don’t know, Noelle.” I spit my words. “Obviously haven’t thought that far yet.”

“You’re lucky Calypso saved your ass. Seriously.”

“Thanks for the reminder.”

She takes Emme from my arms and squeezes her. “I hate that Mom and Dad aren’t going to love her as much as we already do.”

“Do we really need to beat a dead horse, Noelle? I fucking get it. You don’t need to remind me over and over and over.”

Heat creeps from my neck to my ears, and my fists clench.

“Jesus, Crew. Don’t take it out on me.”

“You sound like a God-damned broken record. It’s annoying as hell.”

Noelle covers Emme’s ears. “Baby ears.”

I roll my eyes. Sometimes I can’t take it when Noelle switches gears like that. One minute she’s grating on my last nerve; the next minute she thinks she’s a fucking stand-up comic.

“I’ll help you figure something out,” she says.

“It’s not your problem.” My words are a low mutter.

“Oh, hey, first you should do that DNA test thing,” she says. “Just to be sure. No sense in giving dad a heart attack if she’s not yours. I mean, I’m ninety-nine point nine percent sure she’s yours, but you need to know for sure.”

“Already handled it,” I say.

Her brows lift. “Wow, you’re on top of something that isn’t a fake-breasted bimbo for once?”

The other day I took Emme with me to check on a project. I did the swab in my truck and shipped it off ten minutes later after swinging by the post office. Should have results in four weeks or less.

Just in time for Easter.

“God,” she says. “What if Dad has a heart attack at the lake house and we’re twenty minutes from the nearest hospital?”

“Dad’s not going to die.”

Noelle huffs. “Don’t be so naïve. You don’t work in a hospital. You don’t see what I see. Life and death is very real, Crew. We can’t all live in the moment and walk around all invincible.”