Vicious Cycle (4 page)

Either that, or they wasted a lot of her time.

She met them as they entered the store. “Hi, may I help you?”

The mother looked disinterested. “We just want to look around.”

“Great, feel free.” Barbara handed them her card. “I’m Barbara. Just so you know, I’m not just a salesperson; I’m an interior decorator. No extra charge.”

It didn’t seem to impress them, but she followed at a distance so she could help the moment they had a question. She needed another big sale, and she wasn’t going to let this family get away.

L
ance told himself he wasn’t doing anything wrong taking his sister’s car, because he almost had his driver’s license. In three months, the whole driving thing would be a non-issue. Having to wait until sixteen was ridiculously random, anyway, especially when a baby’s life was at stake.

The shallow reassurance didn’t soothe his conscience. If his mother found out about this, he’d be grounded until he was thirty. He’d just have to get the car back before she got home. But calling Jordan wouldn’t cut it. He couldn’t convince her of anything over the phone, especially if she was high. But if he stood with her face-to-face, maybe he could sway her.

He dropped into the driver’s seat, jabbed the key in the ignition, and started it up. Emily’s Accord wasn’t the car he would have chosen. He was more of a Corvette kind of guy,
or maybe a convertible Mini Cooper. But the only wheels in his future were those on his skateboard.

He adjusted the mirror and checked himself out. He looked good behind the wheel. Comfortable, like he drove all the time. His mother let him practice a lot, and he was a natural, if he did say so himself.

As he backed out of the driveway, Lance called Information on his cell phone, asked for an address for Maureen Rhodes. After a moment, the computer texted him the address—1630 Simpson Road. He knew right where it was.

He drove the few miles to Simpson Road, constantly checking his rearview mirror for flashing blue lights.

The street was filled with old, mildewed houses with rusted cars on cement blocks in the yards, garbage molding in torn trash bags on the street.

He drove past them to a stretch of woods, the trees providing a stark contrast to the dilapidated neighborhood. After half a mile or so of woods, a lone house came into view. The house number was painted in fading, dirty white on the rusted black mailbox. 1630. This was it.

The yard was unkempt and overgrown. The paint on the house was peeling, and in places the eaves hung unevenly, apparently rotten. New Day was a palace compared to this.

He left his car parked on the street and walked across the yard that was mostly dirt and tall clumps of weeds. The screen door was torn and crooked on its hinges, and the front door was open. He knocked on the frame.

“Come in,” somebody yelled.

Feeling awkward, Lance opened the screen and stepped inside. At once, he was hit with a rancid mixture of scents. Rotten food, body odor, cigarette smoke … He coughed, wondering if he should go back outside, but he didn’t want to be rude.

Beyond the front room, in the kitchen doorway, he saw Jordan’s mother with a cigarette hanging out of her mouth. Maureen was skin and bones, no more than ninety pounds of knobby joints and angular skeleton. Some of her teeth were rotten, and her chin had that look of toothless age. Her hair was greasy and hung in her face; dark circles sank under her eyes. When she saw him, she took the cigarette out of her mouth and stared at him. “What do you want?”

“Um … is Jordan here?”

She squinted as she blew out smoke, then pushed past him and looked out the screen door. “I was expecting somebody else.” She turned back and studied him. “Oh, you’re that girl Emily’s brother, right?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said. “We’re worried about Jordan because she left treatment. Is she here?”

“She ain’t feelin’ good. Come back another time.” She opened the screen door, dismissing him.

But Lance hesitated. “Please, Ms. Rhodes. I just want to talk to her for one minute.”

“I told you, she’s sick.”

“Sick how? Is the baby okay?”

She put the cigarette back in her mouth, narrowed her eyes. “Son, that’s none of your business,” she said. “Now I’m expecting company, so I need you to leave.”

The house didn’t look in any condition for company. He glanced through the small living area to the kitchen. There were dirty plates and glasses all over the counter, and garbage spilled out of a trash can. The carpet was caked in mud and dirt, and cigarette butts lay wherever they’d been dropped.

Lance heard another car arriving outside, and Maureen opened the screen door. “There they are. Finally. Now, go on. I can’t have you here.”

Lance started toward the door but then heard someone
in the hallway. He turned around. Jordan came into the living room, wearing leggings and a big, baggy T-shirt. Her face looked pale and had a gray cast, and her long brown hair was tangled. “Lance, what are you doing here?”

She’d been crying. Her face was swollen and puffy, and her hands trembled. Her stomach still looked bloated, but nothing like it had the last time he’d seen her. “Jordan, you had the baby?”

“Yeah, this morning,” she muttered.

Maureen let the screen door fall shut and gave her daughter a stern look. “Go back to your room and get the baby. They’re here.”

Maureen went outside, letting the screen door bounce shut behind her. Jordan stepped to the window and peered out.

“Are you all right?” Lance asked quietly.

Jordan stared at the man and woman getting out of the car. “Those people. I don’t want them taking my baby.”

Lance followed her gaze. “Who are they?”

“My mother and my brother have some kind of deal worked out. I don’t want it.” She wobbled, as if she might pass out, and caught herself on a chair.

Lance grabbed her arm and steadied her. “Are you okay? Shouldn’t you be in the hospital?”

“My mom wouldn’t take me. I had her here at home.”

“At home? Why?” She didn’t answer. “Jordan, where’s the baby?”

“My room.” She straightened as another car pulled into the yard—the blue Dodge he’d seen at New Day when her family visited. Zeke got out of the car and went to the visitors, greeting them like they were old friends. “Finally, he’s back,” she said bitterly. “Mom sent him to get diapers and bottles, but he probably stopped off to get high.”

“Is the baby okay?”

Her voice flattened. “I don’t know.”

He twisted his face as he tried to make sense of this. “Has a doctor seen her?”

“No.” She turned to a table near the door, moved papers and clutter. “Where is the other set of car keys?”

The couple with Maureen and Zeke closed their car doors and headed to the porch. Jordan backed away from the window. “Lance, I need your help.”

“Okay. You want me to take you to the hospital?”

As the visitors reached the porch steps, Jordan turned and ran back up the hall.

“Jordan!” Lance called after her.

The bedroom door closed, and he heard the lock click as her mother ushered the couple in. The screen door squeaked as they stepped into the house.

The man and woman were well dressed. They glared at Lance. “Who’s this?” the man asked.

“Some friend of Jordan’s,” Maureen said. “Kid, I told you to leave.”

Zeke pushed in past the others and stared Lance down. “You hear her, dude? She told you to go.”

Lance didn’t move. “Ms. Rhodes, Jordan doesn’t look good. She should be in the hospital and so should the baby. If you won’t take her, I will.”

“I’ll take care of Jordan,” Maureen said. “Don’t you worry about it.” She stormed through the house and yelled, “Jordan, bring the baby! We’re waiting.”

Lance just stood there, astonished at what was happening. “Ms. Rhodes, are you giving the baby to them?”

She swung back around, her eyes glowering. “How many times do I have to tell you to get out of my house?”

“Jordan’s upset about this,” he said to the couple. “I
don’t think she’s ready to give the baby up.” Maybe they would listen. No adoptive parents wanted to deal with an indecisive birth mother, did they?

But the man’s eyes flashed. “Get him out of here, Maureen, or we’re calling the whole thing off.”

“No!” Panic crossed Maureen’s face. “He’s leaving!” She took Lance’s arm and pushed him toward the door.

Lance jerked free. Something wasn’t right here. Jordan was being railroaded. He moved back toward the hall. “Jordan! Jordan!”

She didn’t answer. Apparently, she didn’t want him here any more than her mother did. But hadn’t she said she needed his help? What was that about, if she was going to lock herself in her room?

“I’ll get the kid myself!” Maureen yelled. She pushed Lance out of the way and tried Jordan’s doorknob. Locked. She banged on the door, shaking the house.

There was still no answer.

Lance heard Zeke’s heavy footsteps rattling up the hallway. The rage on his face startled him.

“You! Out now, or I’m gonna smash your face in!” Zeke grabbed Lance by the shirt and dragged him back into the living room.

Lance tried to pull away. “Maybe I should just call the police!” He jerked free, pulled his cell phone out, and started to punch in 911. Zeke grabbed the phone and threw it against the wall. When it hit the floor, he crushed it with his foot. Then he picked up the pieces and threw them out the door.

“Hey!” Lance yelled. “That was my phone!”

As Lance charged him, Zeke grabbed him by the throat. Jordan’s brother was skinny from drug use too, but he was several inches taller than Lance. Zeke’s wild eyes suggested
he could snap Lance’s neck without a thought. “You leave now, you little cockroach, and if you say one word to the police, I’ll find you and rip your head off. Got that?”

Lance knocked Zeke’s hand away. “She’s your sister,” he choked out. “The baby’s your niece!”

Zeke took him by the collar, ran him to the door, and threw him out. Lance tripped going down the front steps and landed on his hands and knees in the crabgrass. Getting quickly to his feet, he looked for his phone. He found the pieces in the dirt, the glass front smashed. He tried to turn it on, but it wouldn’t power up.

Sweat dripped into his eyes, despite the chilly wind. He looked around, dazed. He couldn’t go back in. Zeke might kill him.

He rushed back to Emily’s car, slammed the door, and locked it in case any of the lunatics inside came after him. Then he pulled onto the street. He’d hurry home and call 911. Maybe it wouldn’t be too late for the police to help Jordan.

But as he turned the corner onto the next street, a baby’s cry ripped out. He slammed on the brakes and looked into the backseat. A newborn baby lay on a pillow on the back floorboard, eyes screwed shut, face red, crying as if it understood perfectly the mess it had been born into.

L
ance got out of the car and threw open the back door, lifted the baby off the floorboard. The tiny child was wrapped in a towel, squirming and grunting as he held her. He looked out the back window. No one was following him. He half expected to see Jordan running up the street to get her baby. Clearly, she had taken it out of the house through her bedroom window and put it in his car. No wonder she hadn’t answered Lance when he’d called out to her.

Where was Jordan now? What did she expect him to do? He put the pillow on the front seat and laid the baby down. Carefully, he worked the seatbelt around the pillow, knowing this wasn’t safe. He sat there a moment, trying to decide what to do. His phone was smashed, so he couldn’t call his mother or the police.

He had no choice but to take the baby home. There was
no way he could return her to that chaos. She could be killed or given away to strangers. Jordan had said she needed his help. Well, he was going to help her.

The baby kept crying, so he put his finger in her mouth, wondering when he’d washed his hands last and wishing he had something to feed her. Jordan hadn’t left him a thing—no bottle, no pacifier. He drove home carefully, slowing around curves and turns, stepping on the brakes gently so the baby would stay put.

When he got back to his house, he didn’t park Emily’s car down the driveway where it had sat for a year. Instead, he pulled up to the garage, opened it with the remote on the visor, and drove inside, closing the door behind him. If any of the neighbors saw this it would be too hard to explain.

Carefully, he slid his arms under the baby’s, lifted the little thing off the pillow. She was so light, so fragile, so tiny. He held her out in front of him, studying her. Jordan had diapered her with a hand towel and safety pins, but the baby had nothing else on. She started to cry, so again he pressed her to his shoulder, careful to hold her head as he took her into the house and back to his room.

She wasn’t even a day old, but she was a living, breathing baby, the same one he’d felt kicking when Jordan had let him touch her stomach at New Day. This baby was a miracle. The fact that she’d survived her mother’s first few months of pregnancy, when Jordan was still using meth, proved that God was looking out for her. To be born at home, in such neglect, to a meth-addicted mom who was practically a kid herself …

Jordan’s thinking was muddled, yet she’d thought clearly enough to save her baby from that couple who’d come to take it.

He jostled and patted the baby, trying to make her stop crying, as he racked his brain for what to do. If he called his
mother, she would certainly call in the police, and they’d take the baby away from him before Jordan had the chance to come and get her back.

The baby finally stopped crying. He had done something right.

“See?” he whispered in a soft voice. “I’m not gonna hurt you. I’m your friend.”

Carefully, he laid the baby on his bed and covered her with part of his bedspread. Raking his hands through his hair, he took a few steps back, trying to decide what to do. If the police got involved, who knew what would happen to her? Maybe something good. Maybe they would get Jordan out of that house and arrest everyone else.

Or they might give the baby right back to her family, which meant she could be adopted by that strange couple, or set on a lifelong track of foster care, going from home to home. He couldn’t let that happen to her, could he?