Ties That Bind (33 page)

S
kylar stared into the barista's eyes, her hands shaking. The food court at the mall buzzed with activity. A tall, thin woman stood twenty feet away, watching Skylar's every move. Despite the woman's slender build, she carried herself like an intimidating tyrant. Her dad had hired her, saying she was a bodyguard of sorts.

Yeah, one to protect Skylar from herself. She didn't need a bodyguard. She needed drugs.

“What kind of coffee?” The kid drummed his fingers against the side of the cash register and glanced at the line behind her, impatient with Skylar's lack of response.

If her mind would clear for even a second, she would give him an answer. It'd been three days since her last dose of Ritalin, and her body knew it, had known it within eight hours of popping the last dose.

“How about regular coffee, a large?” He raised his eyebrows, looking hopeful.

She nodded at his suggestion, and he flew into action. He seemed able to move at warp speed, while her whole world dragged along in slow motion. Was the sick feeling in the pit of her stomach from the news? It had hit so fast—like the flu—fine one hour, down for the count the next. Her whole life had changed in the few seconds it took her mom to stammer and cry her way through saying, “Honey, you're not our biological daughter.”

Part of her wished they hadn't told her. It would be easier just to keep coping with the hand she'd been dealt—the only daughter of a dysfunctional couple. That had to be better than being the child of religious extremists. What could they offer her—repression and oppression? No thanks. She'd rather stick to becoming the best performer possible. Lots of performers used. It wasn't a big deal!

The young guy behind the counter slid the coffee to her, and she passed him a five-dollar bill before walking off.

“Wait. Your change?” He pressed the buttons on the cash register.

Ignoring him, she continued toward a table near the entrance. The woman who watched her every move stepped up and took the change. She was part of the ultimatums her dad had laid down.

Hypocrite. Nicholas Jenkins had spent years doing whatever he wanted, including seducing a teenage girl when he was thirty-five! And he dared to judge her?

She pulled out her phone. Why wasn't he here yet? They'd said five thirty, and it was five thirty-five.

All of time moved slower without her drugs. Minutes felt like hours, or they felt as if they didn't exist at all. Maybe the drugs had played a trick on her and she'd imagined her mom saying that awful thing to her.

She scooted a chair away from a small, round table and sat, watching for Quill. When her mom had told her the news, Skylar had screamed words of disbelief. Then her mom had dropped Quill's name. Skylar had halted all other rivers of conversation and focused on that one tributary. Her mom said she could call him if that would help her to believe or come to grips with her new reality.

New reality.
“Great, as if my old reality wasn't insufferable enough,” she mumbled.

The thin, tough-looking woman narrowed her eyes and took a few steps toward her. Skylar held up her hand and shook her head. She wasn't losing it. Not yet at least. She was just talking to herself, which clearly was cause for concern when sitting by oneself at a table in public.

Her mom said Quill knew the Amish family really well, and then she gave Skylar his phone number. So where was he?

Her feet and legs jiggled and bounced without her consent.

Dad had run Cody off, and she hadn't heard a peep from him. Her dad then ransacked her bedroom and her car, confiscating every stash she had—maybe. She might have some hidden in the outlet behind the head of her bed. But how could she find out since he had someone watching her every second of the day? She couldn't search for any hidden drugs. Not now, anyway. Did she really want them? To ravage her mind until she was unsure what was real and what wasn't?

Probably…if given the chance.

She gulped down the coffee, hoping it would ease the effects of not having Ritalin. The clock on her phone said it was five forty-eight.

A man wearing a ball cap hurried toward the mall entry she and Quill had used nearly three weeks ago. She couldn't see his face under the bill. Once inside, he paused, searching the food court. Quill. He didn't have that easy-going expression he'd had the day they met, but he didn't appear unpleasant either, just uncomfortable. He spotted her, walked to her table, and sat down, a weak, comforting smile on his face. She could tell it was forced.

“Hey, sorry about being a few minutes late.” His voice was pleasant, as if it hadn't been inconvenient to drive from a job site to meet her here.

Skylar couldn't manage to form any words. How could so many things be going through her mind and yet she couldn't express any of them? The questions were jumbled, like a twenty-car pileup on the highway—mangled metal and lost lives.

Quill shifted in his chair. “How are you?”

His question carried weight. He actually cared. Why?

She shrugged, in no mood to answer any more questions. Her dad had asked a gazillion too many. “What happens now?”

Quill drew a deep breath. “Since you're not a minor, some of that is up to you.”

Skylar rolled her eyes. She couldn't even go pee by herself since her dad had read the lab results on Saturday morning. Miss Tall-and-Thin was proof of that. A hired gun without the actual gun. Skylar didn't know what she'd expected to happen after having the drug test. She'd hoped to get to the mailbox before her mom and discard the lab results. If that didn't happen, she'd hoped the envelope would get tossed in the mail basket at home and be forgotten. Maybe her drama teacher was right. Maybe she based her life on the delusion of dreaming.

“I doubt I get any say. This new-daughter thing is my dad's excuse to trade up. Maybe even get a daughter he likes. He hates religion, but he's willing to send me to live Amish?” She scoffed. “That doesn't even make sense…except it's his chance to dump me. How very convenient for him.”

“He thinks about things a bit oddly. I won't argue with that.”

“You've met him?”

“Saturday afternoon.”

“I need to pull up my grade in psychology, not quit school!”

Quill leaned forward, more engaged than ever before. “Would you be allowed to go to school if you enter rehab?”

“You know about that too?”

He leaned back, nodding. “Maybe you should consider your options and try to think in terms of what's best for you over the long haul—rehab or getting to know a family you didn't realize existed until yesterday.” His voice remained calm, but his eyes showed unease.

She couldn't keep the life she had now. Both choices—entering rehab or living with an Amish family—would see to that. At least rehab had modern conveniences—electricity, some television privileges, occasional use of a landline phone, and other people her age who could identify with drug use. But she hated the idea. Becoming involved with a different family, especially an Amish one, didn't sound appealing either.

“You know,”—Quill picked up her coffee and took a sip—“you aren't losing anything by getting to know the Brennemans.”

Somehow his willingness to drink after her, to treat her as if they had a true closeness, did an odd thing inside her, and she craved more. “Is that their”—or should she say
my
—“surname?”

“Yeah. I know it feels awkward and scary, but this news doesn't change who you call mom and dad unless you want it to. And you've gained a wonderful family, one who would be pleased to meet you.”

“They want to or they feel obligated to?”

“Definitely and positively want to. When they learned the swap was a possibility, they contacted me to uncover the truth, and they've been steadfast in their desire to spend time with you.”

“Yeah, that's all great and wonderful until they get to know me.”

His eyes held a depth of understanding she found eerie. “You're twenty. I doubt even you know the real you yet.”

Oh, she knew herself incredibly well. “It all feels like something from a movie.”

A faint smile lifted his lips. “Well, if it is, I haven't seen it.”

“Yeah, but you haven't seen many movies, right?”

“True. I've been living Englisch five years. That's sixty months, and I've seen about thirty movies. I've given your lifestyle a chance, and I like it…most days. Why not give living Amish a chance? How many people can say they were born Amish, raised Englisch, and then, as an adult, lived Amish for a while?”

Skylar sipped her coffee, thinking. Quill had eased her mind a little. “What are they like—my birth parents?”

He looked pleased with her question. “Well, your mom and dad are hardworking, kind people who pull together daily—”

“Wait.” Skylar couldn't help but interrupt. “They're still married?”

He seemed confused, and then a hint of sympathy crossed his face. “Yes. Definitely. They like each other to boot, and you have four sisters and five brothers.”

“Geez! Who has that many kids?”

He chuckled. “Yeah, it's a lot, but the Amish have big families.”

“And you're sure they want to meet me?”

“I promise. I was there when they first saw you…at the play.”

She couldn't pull her eyes from his face. “Oh.” Him buying tickets was a cover. He'd peppered her with questions to learn when she'd been born, and when her answer lined up, he took the Brennemans to see her in the play.

He reached across the table, tapping it gently. “Look…”

When he didn't finish his sentence, Skylar decided to prod him. “Well?”

He rubbed his face, looking stressed and thoughtful. “There's one more thing…”

“Could you possibly drag it out a little longer?”

“Wow.” He paused, staring at her. “Sometimes you sound just like Susie, your eighteen-year-old sister.”

She couldn't make herself acknowledge having a sister. In her life she was the one and only child of Brandi Nash and Nicholas Jenkins and the center of the universe for her mom. “That's what you were going to tell me?”

“No. But my news isn't bad, just surprising. One of your siblings is a twin brother.”

“You're kidding me.”

“I'm not. His name is Abram.”

“A twin…” How weird was that. “I'm going from no siblings to nine siblings, and one is a twin. I can't wrap my mind around it.”

“I'm sure.” He tapped his index finger against the tabletop, looking grieved.

It dawned on her that the Brenneman girl who was really a Nash was losing a lot. “What about the other girl?”

“Other girl? You mean Susie?”

“No, the one who was swapped with me. How's she doing?”

Quill stared at the tabletop. “As far as I know, they plan to tell her late this afternoon—once everyone is home from work or school. It'll hit hard. But she'll come around.”

“I bet she will hate me.”

“Nah. She won't even be angry with you.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I know her, and she wouldn't blame you for this mess any more than she would blame herself or Abram. You were all innocent newborns. She has great reasoning skills when it comes to difficult situations.”

“You know her well enough to know how she thinks?”

“Yeah, I do.”

“Is she the one you were telling me about?”

He nodded. “That's her. But don't tell anyone that, okay?”

“I won't. I swear. What's her name?”

“Ariana.”

“If they weren't religious enthusiasts, I might not mind the idea of getting to know them.”

“All you have is a clichéd view of who they are.”

“What if they don't like me?” As soon as she voiced it, she wished she'd kept that thought in her head. What a silly thing to ask someone.