Twisted
Authors: Lisa Harrington
TWISTED
Copyright © 2014 Lisa Harrington
This edition copyright © 2014 Cormorant Books Inc.
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The publisher gratefully acknowledges the support of the Canada Council for the Arts and the Ontario Arts Council for its publishing program. We acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund (CBF) for our publishing activities, and the Government of Ontario through the Ontario Media Development Corporation, an agency of the Ontario Ministry of Culture, and the Ontario Book Publishing Tax Credit Program.
LIBRARY AND ARCHIVES CANADA CATALOGUING IN PUBLICATION
Harrington, Lisa, author
Twisted / Lisa Harrington.
Issued in print and electronic formats.
ISBN 978-1-77086-413-9 (pbk.).â ISBN 978-1-77086-414-6 (html)
I. Title.
PS8615.A7473T85 2014 JC813'.6 C2014-905118-2 C2014-905119-0
Cover art and design: Angel Guerra/Archetype
Interior text design: Tannice Goddard, Soul Oasis Networking
eBook development:
WildElement.ca
Printer: Trigraphik LBF
Printed and bound in Canada.
The interior of this book is printed on 100% post-consumer waste recycled paper.
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CONTENTS
CHAPTER 1
S
he mills around the kitchen with an air of familiarity. I don't like it. I don't like her. I have my suspicions, but that's all they are, suspicions. She pops up the cap on the dish soap and fills the sink with water.
“I can do that, Mary,” I say.
Giving me a dismissive wave, she slides in a stack of dirty plates.
Frustrated, I sit there at the table, trying to think of a way to get rid of her.
Once she has everything in soaking, she comes over and sits beside me. “The minister did a wonderful job. It was a fairly good turnout, don't you think?”
I lift the corners of my mouth. Not a real smile.
She sniffs, pulls out a crumpled tissue from under the sleeve of her black dress, and wipes her nose. “I'm going to miss her terribly.”
Liar
. I stare back, taking in her blonde hair streaked with grey, red lipstick, ivory powder packed like clay into the wrinkles on her face. So different from my mom, but yet here she is, my mother's oldest and dearest friend. Mom must have been blind. She was blind about a lot of things.
I keep quiet, and Mary pinches her lips together at my silence. I think she knows I suspect. After a moment she says, “Your father isn't too happy about you leaving.”
“Vince isn't my father,” I correct. “And he doesn't care what I do.”
“Of course he does. Don't say things like that.” She scolds me as if she now has the right or something.
“Well, I'm eighteen. He can't stop me,” I say.
She gives me a disapproving look. “And what about your mother's café? Who's going to run that?”
“Vince will probably sell it.”
“She loved that place. He'd never do that to her memory.”
I raise my eyebrows. Who is she kidding? “
You
could always run it.” I throw it out there just to see her reaction.
Immediately she becomes flustered and claps her hand to her chest. “I know nothing about that kind of thing. I sell
real estate
.”
“Right.” I nod. “Of course.”
She gets up from the table and returns to the sink. I want to laugh at her attempt to get me to stay here. I know it's an act. She can't wait to see the back of me.
Then she starts to hum. It grates on my nerves, like something digging at the inside of my skull. She keeps rinsing out the same coffee mug, wiping the same spot on the counter. It's so obvious she's killing time, waiting for Vince. Probably wants him to walk in and see her acting all domestic. She's going to have a long wait. He's been MIA ever since the funeral. My guess, he's at the cabin. He could be gone for days.
Finally I can't take it anymore. I stand and noisily slide out my chair. “I have to pack, Mary.”
“Well,” she huffs. “I can see you're not going to listen to a word
I
say.” She dries her hand on a dish towel and reaches for her purse. “Tell your father if he needs anything, anything at all, he can just call.”
“He's not my father,” I say again.
She sighs. “I wish you would show him a little sympathy. This has been extremely hard on him. He loved your mother very much.”
I fold my arms.
“She wasn't herself for a long time, you know,” she reminds me, like I need reminding. “Long before we knew what was wrong.”
“Yes, I'm sure it was terrible for him. I'm just happy he had a shoulder to cry on.” I cross the kitchen and hold open the screen door.
She shoots me a nasty look as she brushes past me.
I SMELL HIM BEFORE
I see him. My heart sinks. I was hoping to be long gone by the time he resurfaced.
He leans against my bedroom door, an almost empty bottle of some kind of amber liquor in his hand. He looks sweatier and puffier than usual. His white shirt is unbuttoned at the top and stained under the arms. There are other stains. A splotch that's brownish red, another that's translucent, probably grease. His green tie hangs limply from his front pants pocket like a wilted plant.
I start packing faster, scooping stuff off my bed and stuffing it in the duffle bag. My hair falls forward â a curtain so I don't have to look at him. I hear him slowly circle the perimeter of my room like an animal stalking its prey. I feel his eyes on me. My mouth goes dry. He's going to try to stop me. I strain my ears, listening for the sound of Caroline's car on the gravel. Nothing.
“It would kill your mother, you leaving,” he says. His words are sloppy, all running together, but I'm used to “Vince speak” and can easily translate.
“She's already dead,” I say flatly.
“This is your home. Your place is here.”
The idea of staying, having to share the house with him ⦠I swallow down whatever's inching its way up my throat.
The bottle sloshes as he takes a drink. “You think that college dipshit is going to welcome you with open arms? That he's going to be happy to see you? He's moved on by now.”
At that moment I hear the
beep-beep
of Caroline's horn. My body floods with relief. But Vince hears it too. Our eyes lock, and we both stand perfectly still. The horn sounds again, breaking the spell. He lunges toward me and grabs my arm. His breath almost blinds me. With my free hand I push hard against his chest and wrench myself free.
I catch the handle of the duffle bag as I run for the door. He comes after me, but I'm faster â his movements are slow and clumsy, like he's wading through deep water. Once in the hall, I yank my door closed behind me and hold on tightly to the knob. My hand shaking, I slide the deadbolt across. It snaps into place with a click, trapping him inside â just as he did to me all those nights.
Bet he regrets the day he installed that lock.
WHEN CAROLINE SEES ME
running toward the car, she reaches across and flings open the passenger door. I toss my bag in the back and collapse into the seat.
“Drive,” I say.
She puts the car into gear and backs out of the driveway. “Are you okay?”
“I am now.”
Like a good best friend, she knows better than to ask any more questions.
As we pull off the lane onto pavement, I feel my heart rate slowly return to normal. The last traces of a late autumn sunset beats in the side window, and I roll it down a crack to let in some cool air. The car is instantly filled with the smell of low tide. Will I miss it? Being close to the water?
There's water in Halifax
, I tell myself.
We pass by the Jenkins farm. All the cows are clustered along the fence. It's like they know I'm leaving and they've come to say goodbye ⦠or maybe it's just going to rain tonight.
Caroline and I drive in silence the whole way up the Cape John road.
In the village I see Alex and Jessica coming out of the KwikWay. I wave. They wave back. They don't know this is the last time they'll ever see me, that I'm never setting foot in River John again.
After a while the quiet feels too heavy. “Thanks, Caroline,” I say. “I don't know what I would have done ⦠you know ⦠how I'd make the bus.”
“No worries. I'm always looking for an excuse to go into Truro.” She smiles and looks at me sideways. “Frenchy's has âfill a bag for five bucks' this weekend.”
We both fall silent again. I can't bring myself to make small talk.
This time she speaks first. “The funeral was nice.”
I nod and pick at something crusty on the armrest.
“The lilies,” she says. “This time of year. How did you get them?”
Mom's favourite flower. “Mary got them somewhere.”
Caroline winces. “Sorry.” Then after a moment: “You still think she and Vince are messin' around?”
“Yup.”
“My mom told me Mary always had a thing for Vince in high school, even though he was your mom's boyfriend.”
My head snaps up. “Yeah? So?”
“I'm just saying, maybe she never got over him.”
“Are you making excuses?”
Caroline gives me a horrified look. “Shit no! Like there'd ever be an excuse.”
I watch her shift uncomfortably in her seat.
“Why wasn't Kyle at the funeral?” she asks â her attempt to change the subject.
“He had a term paper due. Plus it's a two-hour drive, if he could even find a ride. I told him not to come.”
She scrunches up her nose. “Still ⦠your girlfriend's mother dies ⦠you think he'd show.” She never hid the fact she wasn't his biggest fan.
“His parents were there,” I say. “That was enough.”
“Does he know you're coming?”
“No.”
“So you're just going to show up?”
“Surprise!” I exclaim, but my voice sounds deadpan.
She raises her eyebrows.
“What?” I twist to lean my back against the door. “You don't think he'll be happy to see me?”
Shrugging, she says, “You should have given him a heads-up, that's all. What if he's not there?”
“He's working on his paper. He'll either be at his residence or the library,” I answer.
“I just don't want to see you get stuck.” She gives me a worried look. “You know ⦠you could always call Aidan, like if you can't find Kyle.”
The mention of Aidan's name causes a million different emotions to churn together in my stomach. I turn away from her and stare blindly out the window.
“I saw him at the church,” she says. “I forgot how cute he was.”
I keep staring out the window so she can't see my face. I can't believe he was here.
“But then he disappeared,” she continues. “Did you see him, talk to him?”
“No,” I whisper.
“Oh.” She coughs. “Well, it was really crowded. I don't think he stayed long. He didn't go to the reception.”
“If he had wanted to talk to me, he would have found me.” I sigh. “I don't know what we would have said to each other anyway.” I turn from the window. “Wait. Why did you say I could call him, like if I got stuck?”
“I heard him talking to Stevie. He's in Halifax.”
I digest this bit of information.
“At least there'll be another person in town that you'll know,” she says. “You should get in touch with him. He is your brother after all.”
“Step,” I say.
“Fine. Stepbrother. Whatever.” She looks at me sideways. “Lyssa. You can't still be mad at him for leaving, for getting a life.”
She doesn't know the half of it. No way would she understand the rest. And I can't explain it to her. Aidan made it bearable. He promised he'd always be there for me. Then one day he left without a word, leaving me alone.
He never got in touch. Never told me why.
We haven't spoken in over two years.
I missed him every day. And I'd get so mad at myself because I missed him.
I still miss him.
Caroline has her lips pressed firmly together, chin all puckered and dimply. I know she's annoyed with me. I should say something, make up an answer. But I'm too tired, so I let the moment pass.
I close my eyes and pretend to sleep. About an hour later we pull into the bus station parking lot. Caroline turns off the ignition and reaches for her purse. “You've got a long wait. I'll come in and stay with you, keep you company.”
Without thinking, I say, “No.” She looks hurt. “It will be easier to say goodbye here, now,” I add quickly. “Instead of saying it later.”
After a second she nods, and we both slowly crawl out of the car. She opens the back door and passes me my bag.
“Thanks again for the drive,” I say, but my words are drowned out by the roar of a bus leaving the parking lot.
Caroline stretches out her arms and wraps me in a hug. She squeezes me tight. I pull away first. Though it's dark, I can see a film of water in her eyes.
“I can't believe this is it. That this is goodbye,” she says in a gravelly voice.
“I know.”
“Email me or something. Keep me in the loop. Let me know how you're doing.”
“I will.”
We hug one last time. “Bye, Lyssa. Good luck,” she whispers into my hair. “And break down and get a friggin' phone, would ya?”
I smile. “Goodbye, Caroline.” I thought it would be harder to say. I sling my bag over my shoulder and walk across the lot to the entrance of the station.
I don't look back.
