I Wish (19 page)

“Nothing. It’s just different with him.” Her fingers reached out to smooth my hair. “I’m sorry, baby. You don’t get to be a kid anymore, and I can’t even promise when I’ll be able to be the adult again. I’m just…sorry.” Turning, she shuffled to the bathroom. The lock clicked.

I stayed huddled against the doorframe for far too long, hoping she would come out. I wanted to talk more. I wanted to solve things. But there was only silence from the bathroom and a clock ticking down the hall.

My brother would be home soon. I didn’t want him to find me waiting in her doorway looking sad. Pushing away, I trudged to the front porch and peered down the street. No sign of Henry.

Good. I could hide before he came home from the pool party. Time to go back inside and find something useful to do.

So why weren’t my feet moving?

I looked around. There was a light breeze blowing. It was a gorgeous day, but I couldn’t take it in. Grant had a right to be angry. I’d been stupid and wrong and jealous. Of his effect on her. Of her effect on him.

I rubbed my tattoo.

The porch swing squawked. I turned toward it and found Grant there, watching me through narrowed eyes. The air hummed between us.

“I’m sorry, Grant.”

“Apology accepted.” He hadn’t snapped back at me. Instead, he chose words of forgiveness. Two simple, disappointed words. I had no defenses against them.

Like one of those summer storms that seem to pop up out of nowhere, my insides churned into a liquid mess. I squeezed my eyes shut and swallowed hard, trying to force back the tsunami of emotion roiling inside me. The effort robbed me of strength. I reached forward blindly, bumped a pillar, and hung on as if it were a lifeline.

The swing clanked and rattled abruptly. “Was there anything else, Chief?”

“No.” I bowed my head, draping my face in a curtain of hair, and hoped that he would
just go
.

The tread of his feet approached and then paused on the top step. “What are you competing for? Crystal’s sanity is not a prize to be won.”

His words broke the dam around my feelings. Once the first moan slipped past my lips, the rest spilled over. All of the day’s bad feelings pushed down, forcing me to my butt and squeezing my chest so tightly that I could hardly catch my breath.

Where was all the misery coming from? My family was surviving. We had a house to live in. We paid our bills most of the time. I had things under control. So why cry now?

“Tell me what’s wrong,” he said.

“I hate this.” I pounded my palms against my thighs and sucked in breaths.

“What do you hate?”

“Everything.” I hated breaking down in front of him. No, it was more than that. I hated breaking down, period. Yet here I sat, huddled on the top step, shaking uncontrollably and dripping tears. “I hate that Mom’s depressed. I’m sick of wearing the same old clothes and eating the same old food. I’ve said
no
so many times that Henry’s stopped asking. And I’ve forgotten how to let people be nice to me.” I pressed cold fists to my hot face. “I’m so tired of being alone.”

“You’re not alone. I’m here.”

“Not for much longer, and then I’ll be even more lonely than before.”

The boards creaked as Grant settled beside me on the top step. He didn’t speak. He didn’t touch me, but I could feel his presence as intensely as if he’d cradled me in his arms.

Anguish bled out through my tears. I leaned against the railing, too weary to even prop myself up. I wished I could be a boring high-school senior, the kind who worried about GPAs and boyfriends and applying to out-of-state colleges. I wished my life could return to normal. And I had a genie, dammit. Yet the things I wanted most, he couldn’t give me.

“It’s okay to ask for help.”

I shuddered at his statement. What if people refused? Nothing would change except I’d be embarrassed.

“They might say
yes
.”

I angled my head to see him better. “You aren’t supposed to read minds.”

“I don’t have to.” His lips twitched. “Your thoughts scroll across your face like captions.”

Lovely. I had no secrets from him anymore. “What a charming set of faults I have.”

“You’re human.”

“Compared to what?”

“Lacey.”

He’d called me by my first name again, yet this time he hadn’t even realized it. Not that I would point it out, because I liked the sound of my name on his lips.

Before I could say anything else, a car rumbled to a stop before our house. A car door slammed. Flip-flops snapped up the driveway.

“What’s going on?” Henry asked, charging up the first three steps. He put himself between me and Grant.

I scrubbed at my cheeks with the back of my hand. “Nothing. I’m okay.”

My brother leaned over to peer in my face. “You look awful.”

“Thanks for the honest assessment,” I said, biting back an unexpected urge to giggle, “but really, I’m okay.”

Henry turned to Grant, scowling. “Did you do something to her?”

Grant shook his head. “I did not. If your sister says she’s fine, I suggest you believe her.”

The two guys stared at each other, my brother with eight-year-old aggression, my BSB with mild patience.

It was adorable.

Henry smiled first. “Cool. What’s for dinner?” He ran past us and into the house.

“Are you sure you’re okay, Lacey?”

I looked up. Eli stood on the sidewalk, fists in pockets, taking in the sight of messy me and calm Grant. I rose unsteadily and wobbled down the steps, holding onto the railing for support. “I’m fine. Just having a hard day. Hard week. Hard…everything.”

“All right.” With deliberate care, he looked at Grant. A silent message passed between them, the air vibrating with tension.

What was that all about? It felt weird and out of place. I took a step closer to Eli and tried to smile gratefully. “Eli, I’m sorry about what I said earlier.”

He nodded.

“Thanks for bringing Henry home.”

“Sure. Any time.” He swung around and headed for his Mustang.

Once Eli’s car had hummed around the corner, I turned back toward the house. Grant had vanished. I flopped onto the bottom step and stared dazedly into the yard.

I’d left something off the list of problems I’d recited to Grant. I was tired of pushing away my friends.

Status Report #16
Saturday’s Wish: Floors

Dear Boss,

You need not worry about my exposure to the spectrum of human emotion. I experienced more variety today than I care for.

There have been numerous times in my career that my masters have treated me like a common servant. It is something I ought to be accustomed to. Coming from Chief, the slight cut deeper. Crystal and Henry have treated me as an equal from the moment they met me. It made Chief’s attempt to demote me all the more raw.

The scene changed so rapidly that I could hardly adjust. She flowed from angry to distraught in a matter of moments. Her loss of control—her abject misery—nearly undid me.

Why is she unhappy with Crystal’s attempts to improve? Surely it doesn’t matter who brings about the change.

I cannot figure my mistress out. She is unlike any human I have ever met.

Humbly submitted,
Grant

H
omework was light on Monday, and I didn’t have to work. That gave me a couple of hours where I had nothing planned. I knew exactly what I would do with the time.

Slipping open my desk drawer, I rummaged around until I found the last of my favorite Pomegranate Red nail polish. After spreading an old towel over my quilt, I sprawled on the bed and tackled my toes first. I had barely started on my left hand when a car pulled into the driveway. I only half-listened, confident that the vehicle would back up immediately and drive off. It didn’t.

Had someone given Henry a ride home from school? A quick glance at the clock told me it was too early.

Pushing up on my knees, I looked out one of the dormer windows. An unfamiliar car idled behind our Focus.

That was odd.

Skipping down the stairs, I flung myself out the front door and waited on the top step, tense and not sure why. A woman slid from the car, a blue shoulder bag clasped in one hand and a notebook in the other. She clopped up the sidewalk on stilettos.

Nothing about her—not the silky white designer dress, the perfect makeup, or the funky jewelry—indicated a government official, but somehow, I knew she was. My mouth went dry. “May I help you?”

She held out her identification. “I’ve come for a home visit. May I speak with Crystal Jones?”

I looked from her face to the image on the card. Now that I’d seen her up close, I would’ve guessed her closer to college age than old enough to be a government drone. I peered at the tiny print on the glossy card. Camarin Paxton, Department of Social Investigations. A shudder rippled through me. Did I look as horrified as I felt? “My mother’s inside. Let me ask her.”

“Thank you.” The woman smiled politely, walked around me, and moved with serious speed to the door.

“Excuse me?” I hurried to catch up. “It’s pretty quiet in the house. She might be napping.”

“Perhaps you could wake her.” From the porch, Ms. Paxton studied our car, still gleaming from Car Repair Day, and then the front flower beds. Her nose twitched.

This could not be happening. It was like someone had dropped me into the middle of a horror movie. The lines sounded familiar, just like I’d imagined them. The setting was expected, but there was no real sound, only a hollow popping in my ears.

I pushed past her. “I’ll go inside and see if my mom’s up.”

“If you don’t mind, I’ll come with you.”

“My mother sleeps in the nude.” Lying made my neck turn red.

“All right, Miss Linden. I’ll wait in the living room.”

“Fine.” I gestured toward the couch before disappearing down the hallway.

When I opened the door to Mom’s bedroom, I discovered a disaster of epic proportions.

Mom was curled in a fetal position in the middle of her bed, wearing Josh’s favorite outfit—drawstring shorts, Carolina Tarheels T-shirt, once-white socks. More brightly colored T-shirts lay scattered about her, like a memorialto-Josh quilt that had yet to be stitched. I closed the door softly and crossed to the bed. “Mom, what happened?”

Her fingers absently smoothed a shirt. “They still smell like him.”

I resisted the urge to touch one, to bury my face in it. “Why did you take them out of the closet?”

With an effort, she shifted her gaze to mine. “I have to sort his clothes for the yard sale.”

Selling Josh’s things? This was the first I was hearing about it. If Mom was ready for such a big move, I would be happy for her, but it seemed like too much too soon. I sucked in a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “You don’t have to do that, Mom. We’ll put his clothes back in the closet.” I held out my hands. “Can you sit up?”

She struggled to sit and swung her legs over the edge of the bed. Hunched over, hands pressed between her knees, she stared mutely at her toes. The new haircut clung to her head in sweaty hanks.

If Ms. Paxton got a glimpse of this Crystal Jones, Henry and I would be in foster care by nightfall.

“We have a visitor. She needs to talk to you,” I said, my brain racing. What were the alternatives?
Think
.

“Tell her to go away.”

At least Mom’s voice was clear. “I don’t think we can tell her to go away.” The Carolina T-shirt had a large tear at the neck. “We need to change your top.”

She didn’t budge, flinch, or show any indication of having heard me. I grasped the hem and yanked it off, then found a clean one and pulled it over her head. Thankfully, she roused herself enough to slide her own arms through.

Time was shrieking past. What if Ms. Paxton came searching before I was through? How much time would she allow me to “wake up” my mother?

“Listen to me. This lady is going to ask you about our family. You have to keep the answers simple.”

“Why does she want to know about us?”

“I don’t know, but don’t give out too much information.” I tugged Mom to her feet. She didn’t wobble. Good. “Let me answer the hard questions. Do you understand?”

She nodded. I looked into her eyes. They were glazed, almost lifeless.

All Sunday, she had been fine, but not today. She was too far gone to fake her way through this interview.

I rubbed the tattoo.

Granted emerged from the master bathroom. “What do you need?”

“It’s my mom.”

His gaze snapped to her. Masking a shudder, he strode quickly across the room and stood by her side. “Crystal?”

A sigh whistled between her lips. “I’m not good.”

“It’s okay.” He took one of her hands and then looked at me. “What can I do?”

“Have you completed today’s wish?”

“Yes.”

Crap. What was I going to do?

“Miss Linden?” a voice called from the living room.

Grant’s lips thinned. “Who is that?”

“A social worker.”

“Indeed?” Anger blazed in his eyes.

“We have to get Mom out of here, Grant. You have to take her away.”

“What do you mean?”

“I
wish
my mother would disappear for a while. Please.”

“Chief, what are you asking of me?”

“Can I take tomorrow’s…request today? On credit?”

“I’ve never had someone ask that before.”

Heels clicked on the hardwoods, stopping outside the kitchen. “Miss Linden?”

I stepped closer to him. “Please. Tomorrow’s wish. Right now.”

He glanced at the door and then back at me, his face tightening. “The guidelines don’t allow for it.”

“They don’t forbid it either. Please. Mom trusts you.”

He gave a decisive nod. “Fine. Open the window.”

I ran to the window, twisted the lock and raised the sash. When I spun around, Grant stood by the bed, my mother cradled easily in his arms. Her head rested against his shoulder.

“Where are we going?” she asked, her eyes closed.

“For a walk.” He met my gaze. “Any further instructions?”

“Use your best judgment.” I searched his face. Why was he angry?

The heels clopped to the bedroom door. The visitor rapped hard. “Did you find your mother?”