Scattered Colors (15 page)

I couldn’t get what Stella had told me out of my mind. He’d come to school with bruises before? A part of me was scared at what I might uncover if I dug deeper, but I couldn’t let it go. I
needed
to help him, even if that was just by being a shoulder for him to lean on. When the final bell rang for the day, I headed straight for home, walking at a much faster pace. I knew what I needed to do. I was going to get Parker to let me in whether he liked it or not.

Nerves fluttered around in my belly like a million hummingbirds had just taken flight. I’d dumped my messenger bag right inside the door as soon as I’d gotten home, not bothering to step completely inside before I locked up behind myself and headed in the direction I watched Parker take almost every night once we finished watching the sunset. I’d never walked through the wooded area between our houses, but I reasoned it couldn’t be that difficult to get to the Owens’ house; it
was
right next door, after all. I made my way through the dense trees, following along what appeared to be a small path, hoping it would lead me in the right direction. A few minutes later, the trees cleared and a house, not too much unlike my own, came into view.

My stomach turned over as I walked up the porch steps, my heart lodged in my throat. As I reached up to knock, I noticed my hand shaking. I wasn’t sure why I was so nervous; I could only guess I was afraid of how Parker would react to seeing me at his front door. I wanted him to know I was there for him, but I was worried he’d lash out again when I tried to talk. As usual, my emotional reaction to anything having to do with Parker was extreme. I was just there as a friend, for crying out loud, so why was I so worried?

I knocked on the wooden door and waited…and waited some more. Just as I lifted my hand to knock again, I heard the sound of the deadbolt turning. Moments later, the door swung open, revealing an older woman with Parker’s same brown hair and dark eyes. But where Parker’s eyes always held so much emotion, the woman’s before me were blank, glazed over. It wasn’t her eyes that were the most bothersome thing about her, though; it was the fact that she’d answered the door wearing nothing but a thin slip. The ivory silk was rumpled and stained in multiple places. I tried to avert my gaze back to her face, uncomfortable with her lack of clothing, when I noticed her brown hair was matted and tangled, like it hadn’t been washed or brushed in days.

“Uh, hi…” I stammered, trying desperately not to stare at the mess of a woman in front of me. “Um, is Parker home?”

Her head cocked to the side as she regarded me like I was speaking a foreign language.

“I-I’m a friend of his…from school,” I continued lamely. “I live next door.”

“Oh!” she shouted excitedly, startling a jump from me as she clapped her hands. She went from showing nothing to being boisterous in the blink of an eye, like a switch had been flipped. “Come in, come in!” She grabbed hold of my hand and pulled me through the door, slamming it shut behind us.

I lost my footing as she practically dragged me into the living room, almost stumbling to the ground before righting myself. She flopped down on the couch and pulled me with her, never once releasing my hand.

“So, you’re friends with Parker?” she asked, it was then I noticed her words were coming out slightly slurred. Was it possible she was drunk…? At four o’clock in the afternoon?

“Yes, ma’am. I just moved here not too long ago. I met Parker my first day here.”

“Oh, that’s so sweet,” she garbled. “You’re such a pretty girl.”

“Um, thank you,” I responded uncomfortably, not quite understanding what was wrong with Mrs. Owens but knowing she wasn’t in her right mind at that moment.

“Oh!” she shouted. “How rude of me, where are my manners? Are you thirsty, sweetie? Can I get you something to drink?”

Parker’s mother bounced from one thing to another so quickly I felt like my head was spinning. I’d just wanted a chance to talk to Parker in private, but I felt like I’d just stepped into a twilight zone.

“Oh, no, thank you. I’m fine, Mrs. Owens. Is Parker home?”

Her bleary brown eyes pointed up toward the ceiling as if she had to think hard for the answer to my simple question. “No. No, I don’t believe he’s home. He’s at school. He had school today. My boy’s so smart. Did you know that? He’s so, so smart.”

I tried to smile in an attempt to placate the erratic woman when all I really wanted to do was get the hell out of there. “Yes, ma’am. He’s very smart. You’ve done a good job with him.”

“Yes,” she whispered, sounding almost broken. “He’s a good boy.” Something akin to sorrow flashed over her features, only to disappear so quickly I’d almost missed it.

“Mrs. Owens, are you okay?” I asked cautiously, unsure of how she would act next.

“Food!” she shouted, startling a jump from me as she bolted up from the couch. “Let me make you something to eat.”

“Mrs. Owens,” I started quickly, “I’m fine, really. I’m not hungry. You don’t need to go to any trouble.”

“Oh, you pretty girl.” She smiled. Her pupils were a little more dilated than normal as her gaze bounced across my face. “You’re a special friend of my Parker’s. What kind of mom would I be if I didn’t take care of you?”

With every passing moment, I grew more and more uncomfortable with my surroundings. Mrs. Owens’ erratic behavior had me wishing I’d just gone into the comforts of my own home when school got out. I felt like I should have been doing something to help the unstable woman before me, I just had no clue as to how.

“Oh, please don’t,” I called out as Mrs. Owens headed into the kitchen. “You don’t need to trouble yourself. Really, I think I’m just going to head home anyway.”

“No! No, no, no. Don’t do that. I’m sure Parker will be home any minute.” I listened as cabinet doors opened and slammed closed. The clanking of dishes echoed through the kitchen into the living room. “I’ll make you my special lasagna. Parker always loved my lasagna. It’s his favorite, did he tell you that?”

I opened my mouth to protest when the sound of glass shattering and a cry of pain had me running into the kitchen. Parker’s mother was on her knees on the tiled floor, hunched over and cradling her right arm tightly to her chest. The sight of blood staining the front of her slip and dripping to the floor caused my heart to drop into my stomach. I vaguely recalled the crunch of broken glass beneath my feet as I rushed to her.

“Oh, God. Are you all right?” Kneeling down before the fragile woman, I pulled her arm away from her body to inspect the wound. The cut along her forearm was deep, dark red blood oozing from the open flesh at an alarming speed. Scanning the kitchen counters, I spotted a dishcloth by the sink and lunged for it, wrapping it tightly around her arm.

“I-I dropped the dish,” she stuttered as tears poured from her glassy eyes. “Please don’t tell Parker. He’ll be so upset. So upset. You can’t tell him.”

“I think you need to go to the hospital. This probably needs stitches.”

“You can’t tell him. You can’t tell him,” she said over and over. Her eyes were no longer on me as she repeated the same sentence. It was as though she were mumbling to herself.

I pulled the towel away from her arm with shaky hands to see that the bleeding had thankfully slowed. “Here, hold this tightly,” I instructed, pressing the towel back to her arm. “I’m going to call for help.” My nerves were going haywire as I tried to think of who I could possibly call. I didn’t have Parker’s cell phone number, my father wasn’t home, and I didn’t know if a cut to the arm warranted a call to 911. But I didn’t feel like there was any other option. I had no idea what to do in situations like the one I was currently experiencing.

Just as I reached into my pocket to retrieve my phone, the front door opened. “Mom, I’m home.”

My skin broke out in goose bumps as the sound of crying carried from the kitchen. My eyes darted down to the table just inside the entryway. The mail was scattered across the top of it and sitting right there, clear as day, was the reason why I always made sure to rush home before my mom had a chance to check the mail.

Oh, God, no no no
.

A brochure for the indoor swim camp Toby had been enrolled in stared back at me in all of its bright, glossy glory. After that awful day years ago, I always tried my damnedest to beat the mail carrier home. Even though he’d been gone for years, we still constantly got junk mail from all the organizations Toby had been a part of growing up. It was my job to make sure it was all thrown out before Mom ever got the chance to see it, but after my run-in with Freya that morning, I left school and spent the rest of the day driving around aimlessly, needing to get my head on straight.

I screwed up.

As I ran to the kitchen, my father’s voice pounded in my head like a drum.
This is all your fault. This is all your fault.
I could only pray I hadn’t made it home too late.

When I skidded to a halt outside my kitchen doorway, the sight before me caused my blood to freeze in my veins. My heart felt like it stopped beating for several grueling seconds.

“What are you doing here?” I asked in shock before the fear drowned out all reason. “What the fuck happened?” I shouted. Blood covered my mother’s arm and the front of her nightgown, pooling on the floor around her. Nausea twisted my stomach into knots at the sight of it and I was transported back in time to that god-awful day years ago.
This can’t be happening again
, I thought.
Please, God, don’t let it be happening again.

“I came to see you,” Freya spoke hurriedly. “She insisted on cooking. I tried to stop her but she broke a dish and cut her arm.”

It wasn’t what I had feared. It was just an accident. The relief that took hold of me only lasted for a split second before humiliation hammered into me like a battering ram. Freya was standing in my kitchen with my bleeding mother curled up at her feet. That humiliation quickly twisted itself into an emotion I had grown so used to over the years, the only defense mechanism I had…anger. It ran through my blood like fire as I pushed past the wide-eyed, frightened girl before me to tend to my mother.

“Christ, Mom. What were you thinking?” I seethed as I inspected the wound.

“I’m sorry, sweetie,” she cried as she leaned into me, letting me take all of her weight.