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My mother is gorgeous in her slim-fitting red sequined dress and slicked-back blond hair. Like always, Mom is the center of a group. People are naturally drawn to her, and she naturally loves the attention.
The band has progressed onto jazz, and my mother’s movements seem to flow with the beat. I need to go to the bathroom, and I’ve waited too long in the hopes Mom would maneuver her social networking away from the front of the tent. It never happened, so here I am—standing with a full bladder, in a golden gown, being gawked at by a group of aging women. The smile becomes harder to hold.
“Hi, Mom,” I half whisper, half choke. There are way too many eyes on me.
“These are the ladies from the Leukemia Foundation. Ladies, you remember my youngest daughter, Rachel. ” My mother graces me with a smile I thought was reserved only for my brothers: one of pride.
They all comment on how it’s nice to see me and how beautiful I look and ask Mom where we bought my dress. I move like a bobblehead while my clammy fingers twist behind my back.
“I loved the speech you gave the other night,” says an elderly woman to my right. Her pungent perfume hits me wrong, and I concentrate on not gagging. I nod, and the gesture only encourages her to speak more.
To the left and a bit across from me, I catch sight of a lady my mother’s age touching Mom’s arm. Mom introduced us earlier—Meg is her name, I think. She was Colleen’s private nurse. They both stare at me, and my heart sinks with the knowledge that I must be their topic of conversation.
“You’re right,” Meg says to Mom. “She does resemble Colleen. ”
The woman to my right continues to talk about the speech I made at Colleen’s event. I make fleeting eye contact because I’m more interested in overhearing my mother.
“She’s not as outgoing as Colleen,” Meg adds.
“No,” Mom responds with a hint of sadness. “Rachel’s a little quieter. ” A very dramatic pause. “But her father and I are helping her with that. She’s made huge improvements over the last two years. All on her own. ” I hear the pride. “All without therapy. ”
I miss therapy. I miss having someone to talk to, someone who can empathize with what it feels like to walk into a room and have fear and anxiety consume you to the point that you can’t breathe. But what I don’t miss about therapy is how my family regarded me as if I was breakable, as if I was weak.
“With each day, she reminds me a little more of her sister,” Mom says.
I remind her of Colleen. I should be happy. I’m becoming what my mother wants. But right now, I want to cry.
“I’m sorry,” I interrupt the older woman, who’s still droning on. “I need to excuse myself. ”
Chapter 17
Isaiah
I STAND ON THE EDGE of the crumbling brick wall built to protect people from the thirty-foot drop. In the distance, high-rises glimmer and thousands of white twinkling lights circle the city. Each light represents a neighborhood, a house, a home, a family, a person—people who are wanted. It’s the last night of December and it’s fifty degrees. Great for a guy who doesn’t own a jacket.
Forty-eight hours have officially passed since I met Rachel. I’ve thought about her; her beauty, her laughter, that shy smile, our kiss. She discovered a deep hole in my chest and somehow filled it with her existence. Now she’s gone, leaving me alone, leaving me hollow.
Glancing around the panoramic scene, I know I would have brought her here. This place has been abandoned for decades, and few care that you can still drive up the steep hill as long as you move the flimsy wooden barricades.
Sixty years ago, teenagers made out here. Legend says the braver ones drag raced the winding mile road and played chicken at the top where no wall exists. When I teeter on this ledge, I wonder if the drivers who flew over the drop tried to stop or if they were begging for an excuse to end it all.
I would have loved to see Rachel’s expression when she saw the city like this. But Eric and his crew are watching everyone closely as they search for her and the two college boys. I refuse to be the link between Eric and Rachel. She’s safer without me. She’s better off without me. Besides, it’s not like anything would have happened between us.
Movement in the brush catches my attention, and I turn to see a shadow emerge.
“You are so damn predictable,” says Abby. I finally discern her features as she joins me on the wall. Like always, she wears a fitted blue hoodie and even tighter blue jeans.
I have a million questions, but stick with the important one. “What are you doing here?”
“Tradition, jackass. ” Not caring that thirty feet below is nothing but sharp rocks, she sits on the wall and dangles her legs over the edge. “I have a gift for you. ”
Still mad over losing my rent money, I angle my body away from her. “Leave, Abby. ”
“Cut the attitude. That was business. This is friends. Do you want your gift or not?”
The two of us have an odd relationship. We met when we were ten. My then foster father used to take me to the auto shop I work at now, and she used to play in the alley behind the garage. We struck up a friendship that never went away and never stopped being odd. Abby is the longest steady relationship I’ve had with one person, which makes her special.
Special means I’ll put up with her shit. With a sigh, I sit, leaving several feet between us. “How did you get here?”
