The Illusion of Annabella (27 page)

“Don’t beat yourself up.” I twist down the heat of the burner and sprinkle a little salt and pepper on the chicken. “Sometimes it’s better not to know everything about your parents.”

“You think so?” she wonders, setting the bag of cheese on the counter beside the stove.

I keep my back to her.  “I know so. The only reason I knew she hated it is because I overheard her talking to Dad once about it. She said the kitchen was starting to feel too stuffy and she needed a break.”
A break from all of it,
she had told him.
 But I don’t tell Zhara that.

About a week later, my dad took on the responsibility of cooking, even though he sucked at it and worked at the store all day. I didn’t think much of it until now, but he almost seemed desperate to please her.

“Do you think Mom and Dad were happy?” Zhara sputters, sounding terrified.

I reel around, clutching onto the counter for support. “Why would you ask that?”

She shrugs, examining her fingernails. “Sometimes, I just wonder if they—if anyone—is truly happy.”

Where’s this coming from? I haven’t told anyone about the letter. The more time that passes, the less it feels like I should.  But I still haven’t brought myself to burn the piece of paper yet, holding onto it for some insane reason. I’ve read it so many times, obsessing over each word, and wonder if my dad did the same thing.

 “Are we really talking about Mom and Dad?” I ask, getting a knife and fork from the drawer to cut up the cooked chicken. “Or you?”

“I’m not sure.” She angles her head forward, staring at her feet. “It’s just hard sometimes, you know, to always put on a happy face.”

“You don’t always have to put on a happy face, Zhara. No one expects anyone to be happy all the time, and no one should be happy all the time.”

I used to think my mom was happy all the time, but I was so wrong, and looking back, I realize I was extremely blind. Through the way she always seemed to be searching for a hidden talent in art, fashion, antiques, and all sorts of other hobbies. How she tried salsa dancing but hated it. How she’d disappear for hours in her room sometimes. How she’d get these sporadic impulses to get out of the house.

“Let’s just go do something,” she’d say. “Anything at all, as long as it’s not sitting around in the house. I can’t take being bored any longer.”

“Someone has to be happy in this family,” Zhara mutters, interrupting my thoughts. She tucks a brown curl behind her ear. “No one else seems to want to smile anymore.”

“You’re allowed to be sad sometimes—we all are. And trust me, crying can be . . .” I search for the right word that sums up how I felt the other night after I let it all out and cried. “Kind of therapeutic, I guess.”

“Mom wouldn’t want me to be sad,” she mumbles, her hand falling to her side. Then like lightning, she goes from cloudy to sunny, forcing a bright smile as she looks up at me. “Dinner smells delish.”

I want to pry more out of her, but before I can even start, someone knocks on the front door.

“I bet it’s Luca,” she singsongs as she tears open the bag of tortilla shells.

“Maybe.” My nerves are jumbled as I cross the kitchen to the foyer.

What do I say to him? How do I explain that I wasn’t really crying over the kiss without going into detail about my whacked out brain.

 When I open my door, I realize I have bigger problems than cute neighbor guys I’ve been ignoring.

The wind is howling, the air chilly from a storm brewing, and in the middle of the madness, is Miller. He’s standing on my front porch with his hands stuffed into the pockets of his torn jeans. His blue hair is flattened on one side, dark circles reside under his eyes like he hasn’t slept in days, and red lines cover his cheeks, as if he’s been scratching at his skin.

“What’re you doing here?” I ask through the screen door.

He rubs his hand over his eyes, then scratches his arm. “I just wanted to see you.” His gaze darts over my shoulder then lands back on me. “Can I come inside?” Without waiting for me to answer, he reaches for the screen door.

Shaking my head, I grab the handle and hold tight. “You need to leave. Now.”

He grunts in frustration, dragging his hand down his face and stomping his foot. “Come on, Annabella. I really need your help.”

“I’m not giving you any money, if that’s what this is about.”

He scowls at me but quickly tries to dazzle me with a grin. “Look, if you loan me a hundred bucks, I’ll give you half of what I buy. I can even get you some of those pills you like.” He waggles his eyebrows at me. “You gotta be going super fucking crazy at this point, being locked up without anything.”

“I’m fine,” I lie through my teeth, and I know he can hear the unsteadiness in my voice. “Now, go away.”  I step back to close the door when he grabs the handle of the screen door and yanks it open.

“I just need a hundred bucks.” He shoves me into a wall as he pushes his way inside, tracking in mud and leaves all over the floor. His eyes drink in the marble fireplace in the living room, the stairway, and the chandelier hanging from the ceiling. “Fuck the hundred bucks. I want five hundred.”

“I’m not giving you any money.” I square my shoulders and stab my finger in the direction of the door. “Now get the hell out of my house.”

“You’re such a greedy bitch,” he snaps, his gaze dithering from me to the front door, then he shuffles right and bolts for the stairs.

I skitter around him and block his path, spreading my arms out to the side of me. My legs are trembling. My heart is erratic. I’m scared to death. And all I can do is feel it—feel it all. “Get the hell out!”

“Anna, what’s going on?” Zhara appears in the doorway of the kitchen, clutching a tortilla shell in her hand.

Miller’s attention zones in on her, and that sick feeling in my stomach that I felt the night he held me down to the bed spreads throughout my body.

“Who’s this?” A silent threat blazes in Miller’s eyes as his lips curl to a smirk. “That your sister?”

I hold his gaze. “She’s just a friend.”

“You’re such a liar.” He looks me dead in the eyes, and I can’t see anything but hunger in them. A hunger to feed whatever’s rotting inside him, the addiction for the next hit, the need to numb whatever it is he doesn’t want to feel.

Is that what I looked like a month ago?

“Always have been.” He shoves me back and barrels up the stairs.

“Call the police,” I yell at Zhara as I scramble up the stairs after him.

Where did he go? Where did he go?

I dash down the hallway, peeking into every bedroom and my dad’s office. When I find him in my parents’ bedroom, I just about lose it.

“Get out!” I yell, storming inside. 

My outburst only seems to encourage him. He frantically dumps out the dresser drawers, pouring watches, wallets, old clothes, and photos all over the floor.

“There has to be some money in here somewhere.” He pokes his head inside the closet. “Poor people don’t have a house like this.”

“Dead people don’t have money,” I say in a desperate move to get his attention.

He stares at me like he’s seeing me for the first time. “Your parents are dead?”

“Yes.” I sink down onto the edge of the bed, which is still made exactly how it was seven months ago. “So, please, just get out.”

He rubs his jawline. “Maybe I should just be asking you where the money is. I mean, if they’re dead and you still live here, then they must’ve left you some.” He gets amped up as he paces the floor. “Dude, this is so much better than I thought. I totally lucked out with you.”

I hate Miller in that moment, more than I think I’ve ever hated anyone. Even worse, I hate myself for ever letting him touch me, for thinking that it was better to be high and in his arms than living in reality with my brothers and sisters.

“I’m not giving you any money,” I say, rising to my feet.

He stops pacing, and his brow cocks. “You wanna bet?”

My chest heaves as I struggle to breathe normally. “Yeah, I do.”

My gaze darts to the door.
One . . . two . . . three . . .

Sucking down all the pain in my leg, I run for the doorway. My muscles knot in protest, but I make it out of the room and sprint down the hall. It feels like I’m learning how to walk again, one foot in front of the other, my leg in so much pain I see spots. Just like how life has felt for the last seven months. Like I’d forgotten how to live, and was drifting around blind, and now suddenly, I’m here, seeing everything, and all I can do is take it one step at a time.

As I almost reach the stairs, bony arms enclose around my waist, and I’m jerked back.

“Let me go!” I shout, slamming my head back.

His grip constricts as he trips toward my parents’s room. “Not until you give me some money! I need it! Don’t you get it!”

We crash into walls, step on each other’s toes, and finally stumble to the floor. I flip over onto my stomach and clamber to my feet.

Miller jumps up and chases after me. “You’re making this more complicated than it needs to be, Annabella!”

“It’s Anna,” I growl, whirling around and backing up toward my parents’ room with my gaze locked on him. “And I’m not about to give
you
any of
their
money.”

I’m not about to let any part of my parents fix this mistake for me. No matter how much I loved my mother and wanted to be like her, I refuse to be like her, refuse to make any more mistakes without thinking about the consequences they have on others. I won’t give Miller any of my family’s money, won’t give him a reason to come back asking for more.

I am my own person.

Enraged, Miller lunges and topples over me. Blood rushes to my head as we tumble to the floor. I blink through the dizziness, preparing to fight when he’s pulled off me.

“Are you okay, Anna?” an officer asks from above me while another drags a fighting, furious Miller down the hallway.

Nodding, I sit up and press my hand to my tender forehead. “I think so . . . Wait, how do you know my name?” I squint at the officer who has hazel eyes and cropped brown hair that looks around the same age as Jessamine.
Is he one of the cops who arrested me?
It clicks. “
Milo
?” Jessamine’s Milo. “When did you become a cop?”

Milo chuckles as he offers me his hand and helps me to my feet. “Since about a month ago. Heard a lot of things about you, too, but I didn’t think I’d get called out to your house this quickly.”

“I didn’t . . . It wasn’t me.” I massage my leg, knowing by morning it’s more than likely going to be swollen. But the fight was worth the pain.

“I know. I’m just messing with you. Zhara explained what was going on.” He nods toward the stairway. “How about we go downstairs and sit down, so I can take a statement from you.”

I do what he says and limp down the hall for the stairs. Zhara hugs me the moment I step foot into the foyer and cries against my shoulder.

“It’s fine. Everything’s going to be okay,” I tell her, just like my mother used to do when we were hurt or scared.

I feel strangely calm, but I think it might be shock setting in. Miller was never the nicest person in the world, but he was never as angry and desperate to get drugs as he was tonight. It makes me fear what I would’ve turned into if I’d stayed with him that night in the cabin, if I hadn’t said no and walked away.

If I’d chosen to keep giving up.

After we sit down, Milo asks a few questions without pushing too hard, and I give him the details he asks for.

Loki shows up toward the end of questioning and immediately flips out when he sees Milo sitting with us, in full police uniform. “What happened?” he asks, rushing up to Zhara and me.

“We’re all fine,” I assure him, and then give him a quick recap of what I just told Milo.

“Good God, you scare the shit out of me.” He loosens the tie around his neck—the one Tammy gave him. “When I saw the cop car outside . . .” He shakes his head. “Well, I thought they were here because of you.”