Keep Her Safe

  “Meet you up there in a few.” He nods to the black duffel bag. “Can I carry that for you?”

  “I’ve got it.” I’m guessing he slid the metal box in with the money.

  I watch his long strides and his lean, strong body as he heads for the main lobby, wondering if he’s going to grab his things and bolt. No . . . Noah’s not the type to run.

  And neither am I.

  I ease out of the passenger seat, covered in soot for the second day in a row, a bag of pills in hand. Dr. Coppa was alarmed that my mom didn’t last even a day in rehab. After I told him we had lined up Desert Oaks—with financial help from “a friend”—he made me call them and confirm her spot for tomorrow morning before he’d give me enough medication to get her through until then. It’s a lie, of course. I can’t use that money, now that I have a good idea where it came from.

  Still, we can manage the worst of her withdrawal symptoms, at least for tonight.

  But what about the rest of it? I asked the nurses about this police officer who supposedly visited. They were adamant that no one—especially the police—visited Dina Richards this afternoon. They even checked the visitor logs in front of me.

  So that means she’s either lying or delusional.

  Or the hospital is lying.

  Or someone snuck in to scare her into running, and Noah is right—I have no idea what we’re dealing with here.

  * * *

  “Don’t make me regret this,” I warn Cyclops as I release him from my grip inside the motel room. Surprisingly, he let me carry him to the second floor. His nose hits the ground in an instant and he runs off to sniff out every corner of the room. And, hopefully, not urinate in them.

  Mom’s drowsy gaze drifts over the bed, the TV, and the curtains, her eyes tightening against the light. Whatever bit of energy she mustered to run from her hospital bed is long gone. A sheen of sweat coats her pale forehead. “Is this where you stayed last night?”

  “Yeah.”

  Her fingers smooth over the duvet cover. “With Noah?”

  “He’s in the room next door.”

  “I’m glad to see Jackie raised him right, at least.” She eases herself onto the bed gingerly, as if the frame might not be stable enough to hold her hundred-pound frame. “It’s nice here. Quiet.”

  “Here. Drink some water.”

  She accepts the bottle from me with a shaky hand. “They brought this woman into the wing, after you left. She was hysterical.”

  “Probably her first overdose.” The first time in a long time that woman has had to face her demons sober, and that must hurt more than all the physical withdrawal symptoms, combined. I know because I went through the same thing with Mom, her first time in the hospital after OD’ing. I could hear her wails down the hall.

  Only now I have to wonder exactly what those demons calling out to her have been saying.

  Fourteen years.

  It’s been fourteen years since I wrapped my arms around my dad’s broad shoulders, since he kissed me good night.

  Fourteen years since he was shot and killed, and labeled a criminal.

  Fourteen years since my life was turned upside down.

  And here we are, my entire life turned upside down again in the span of twenty-four hours.

  As much as I want to interrogate her about . . . well, everything . . . I can tell she’s minutes away from throwing up if she doesn’t lie down. I toss my purse to the dresser, realizing that every last possession I have is in there. “Get some rest.”

  “Where’s the box?”

  “It’s safe.”

  She folds herself into bed. “Bring it to me. Please.”

  Something in her voice stops me from dismissing her. I fish it out of the duffel bag and set it on the nightstand beside her, careful not to let her catch a glimpse of the money.

  She gazes at it for a long moment. “You opened it.”

  “Of course I did.”

  I expect her anger to flare, for her to yell at me. The look of resignation on her face takes me by surprise, even as weary as she is.

  “Is this stuff about Dad?”

  “Everything is about him. It always has been.” Her voice is barely a whisper as she flips open the lid and rifles through it. “And now I have so little left. Just this box. And you.” She lifts the picture of Noah and Dad on the driveway, her thumb sliding over Noah’s face. “And him.” She smiles sadly. “Do you remember Noah?”

  “Not really.”

  “He was a good boy.” The wistful smile touching her lips slips away. “When I lost your dad, I lost Noah too.” Slowly, she places the picture back inside. She closes the lid. “I wondered if he’d come looking for us.”

  “Jackie gave him our address. She sent him here.”

  “He had nothing to do with what happened to your father.” She closes her eyes. “Don’t be so hard on him. He must be hurting a lot.”

  She’s singing a different tune from the day she told me Jackie Marshall died, strung out and incapable of showing the smallest amount of compassion, even for the son who found his mother dead in their kitchen.

  “I know what you think of me, Grace. But maybe when I explain it all, it’ll help you understand this . . . Me . . .” Her words start to drift. Probably the anti-nausea medication she took on the way here. It always knocks her out when she’s this weak. “Maybe you won’t hate me so much.”

  “I don’t hate you.” A lump forms in my throat. “But I can’t do this anymore. I can’t walk through our front door every day, wondering if it’s going to be the day I finally find my mother dead. Do you know what that does to a person?”

  Silent tears meet my words.

  Minutes later, she’s fast asleep.

  And I’m left with a thousand questions.

  I open the adjoining door and find Noah’s side already open. He’s sitting in a chair, his legs splayed, his frown shifting from the sheet of paper in his hand to Cyclops, who’s sniffing through the backpack in the corner. “How is she?” Genuine concern fills his voice, and it pulls at my heart despite my fiercest attempts to keep my anger fueled.

  “Asleep.”

  “She wasn’t looking good back there.” His gaze skates over me from head to toe. I know I’m covered in soot and I should shower.

  But first, I need answers.

  “Tell me everything, Noah. Everything.”

  * * *

  “She said Betsy’s name?”

  Noah nods solemnly. “I think it had something to do with the papers she burned in the sink. There was a piece left, with a date. April something, 2003. I can’t remember which date exactly, but it wasn’t too far off the day Abe died.”

  I guess we’ll file that under “suspicious things Jackie Marshall was hiding.” The list is growing. “But why is ‘Betsy, 2002’ written on the back of my mom’s school picture, then?”

  “I don’t think that’s your mother.”

  “That’s impossible. Look at her.” I hold up the picture for emphasis.

  “People write names and dates on the back of school pictures to keep track. Your mother was in her midtwenties in 2002. That girl is way too young to be her.”

  I stare at the youthful face, comparing it to my memories of my mom before all the drugs started ravaging her, aging her terribly. Same eyes, same color hair, same jaw structure. Her nose looks daintier and her cheeks are fuller, but that’s not unheard of for a girl that age. “Then who is she?”

  “I’m hoping Dina can tell us that.” Noah drops his gaze to his hands. I note the way his shoulders sag, as if burdened by an enormous weight. Have they always been like this, and I hadn’t noticed, too wrapped up in my own turmoil? “Did she say anything about the box while you were in there with her? About what was in it?”

  “Nothing useful, but she’ll be awake soon. She can’t sleep for long stretches when she’s detoxing.”

  He sighs, setting the copy of the newspaper article on the bed beside him. “I’ll see if I can track down any
thing about this bust when I get back to Austin. Harvey Maxwell is an ADA at my uncle’s office.”

  “And you think he’ll tell you the truth, if he did something shady?”

  “There’s got to be a good explanation for this.” Noah’s forehead wrinkles with worry.

  More like he’s praying for a good explanation. He likes this Maxwell guy.

  “You mean a good explanation, like there must be a good answer for why your mom had my dad’s gun holster?”

  Noah bows his head.

  He’s not at fault here, I remind myself. “When are you going back?” I ask with a softer tone.

  “I don’t know. Soon.”

  Despite Noah’s lies and evasiveness, disappointment pricks me. I push it away as I study the picture of the man with the sloped forehead and squinty eyes, who Noah recognized but didn’t tell me.

  I wonder how long he would have kept that to himself, had my mother not run from the hospital today.

  Noah fumbles with the leather band around his wrist. “I’ll run out and grab a pizza for us, and some soup for Dina.”

  I snort. “Good luck getting her to eat.”

  “We have to try. And food for him, I guess.” He scowls at Cyclops, who has made himself comfortable on Noah’s bed and is busy gnawing at an itch on his back leg. The bedspread is covered in sooty paw prints.

  I sigh. “Come on. I need your help, before you go anywhere.”

  “With what?”

  “Something you’re not going to like . . .”

  * * *

  Noah frowns at the half-full tub of warm water. “Shouldn’t we be using dog shampoo?”

  “Do you have any?”

  “I can buy some.”

  “No point adding extra stops. You need to be here when my mom wakes up. We’ll only get a small window of time where she’ll feel up to talking.” I grab one of the towels off the rack. “Hold him down for me.”

  With a heavy sigh, Noah reaches over his head and pulls his T-shirt off, tossing it on the counter.

  Leaving me staring at his bare chest. “What the hell are you doing? I said hold him down, not get in with him!”

  “You think he’s gonna be calm about this? That shirt is all I have left.”

  “Fine, whatever.” I peel my eyes away, feeling my face burn as I recall a naked Noah in this very spot yesterday. “Cy, come here!” I whistle.

  The mangy dog trots into the bathroom, oblivious.

  “I hope Vilma was wrong about the rabies,” I mutter, lifting him in.

  With a soft curse, Noah kneels beside me and seizes Cyclops’s wiry body. Cyclops lets out a low growl as he squirms, and Noah’s arms cord with tension.

  “Quiet. Unless you want to go back to the Hollow alone,” I warn in a sharp voice.

  As wild as the dog is, Cyclops stops growling, as if he understands.

  The combination of water and soap releases a putrid smell of soot, wet dog, and things we’re probably better off not identifying. “Oh, God.”

  “Yeah,” Noah agrees with a grimace.

  I try not to breathe through my nose, shifting my gaze away. It skates to Noah’s bare shoulder beside me, to the thin silver lines decorating the muscular contours. How a dog Cyclops’s size could fit its jaws around that shoulder is hard to believe, but I’ve now seen how scrawny Noah was when he was little.

  And yet Noah’s here to help me, unhappy, but with barely a complaint.

  “Thank you.”

  “If the little asshole is gonna make my bed his, then I don’t have much choice, do I?”

  “Thank you, for getting him out of there.” I feel like I’ve been saying those two words to Noah a lot lately, and yet not nearly enough.

  His eyes land on mine. They’re all the more striking up close, a kaleidoscope of blues that draw me in like a cool pool on a blistering-hot day. “Your neighbor makes me nervous, too. She basically forced me.”

  “The ninety-year-old shrunken woman who might break with a strong wind and doesn’t speak English forced you? How exactly did that go down?”

  His mouth curves into a playful smirk. “She’s persuasive.”

  “I’ll bet.” I picture Vilma going head-to-head with a guy Noah’s size and can’t help but chuckle at the mental image. “Anyway . . . He would have been a goner if they had caught him. So, thanks.”

  Noah’s gaze drifts to my lips. “I figured that would bother you.” His voice is softer, deeper, and it stirs something inside me.

  “Yeah, it would have.” It would have more than bothered me. If Noah had sat there and let it happen, I doubt I would have forgiven him, regardless of his childhood stray trauma.

  Cyclops starts squirming.

  “He is one filthy animal.” Noah’s nose crinkles at the blackened water as he holds on tight.

  “This is probably his first bath . . . ever.” I laugh as I scrub the dog’s neck and back, unable to avoid Noah’s hands. Quietly reveling in the feel of them beneath my own. “Here—I need to rinse him.” I pull the plug and get the handheld sprayer.

  Noah manages to hold him down for another ten seconds before he snarls and twists his body to snap at Noah’s wrist. With a curse, Noah scrambles away, falling onto his back. Allowing Cyclops to leap out of the tub, knocking me over in his mad, soaking-wet dash out of the bathroom.

  I lose my balance and tumble on top of a sprawled-out Noah.

  “Well, that was fun,” he mutters, his head falling back to thump against the tile.

  “Did he get you?” I’m hyperaware of how smooth and hot Noah’s bare skin feels against my hands as he inspects his wrist.

  “He didn’t break my skin. It was a warning . . .” He sighs. “I swear to God, Gracie. It’s never-ending with you, isn’t it?”

  I don’t know why, but that makes me burst out laughing—a deep sound rising from my belly, until my whole body is shaking. I should be peeling myself off him but I can’t move—I’m laughing too hard.

  He peers up at me, an unreadable expression on his face.

  “What?” My heart starts pounding in my chest.

  “Nothing, I just . . .” His words drift, and I can see that he’s changed his mind about what he was going to say. “I was trying to decide who’s dirtier now—you or your stray dog.”

  I elbow him in the ribs as I roll off.

  * * *

  “You have to eat, Mom.” I set the container of chicken broth on the nightstand next to her.

  She dismisses it with a pinched nose. “Everything is making me nauseous. Even that pizza . . .” She has some color in her face again, at least, but I know that she’s not exaggerating. At least she’s in that happy lull, though, after the harshest of the drug’s effects have worn off, but before the heroin withdrawal symptoms come back with a vengeance.

  Noah’s immediately on his feet and closing the door to his adjoining room, where the offending smell permeates the air. “Gracie’s right. You need to put something besides all this medication into your body. That’s why you have no energy.”

  She offers him a weak smile as he returns to sit on the edge of the bed beside her. “You still call her Gracie.”

  He collects the bowl and spoon. “It’s all I know.”

  “Abe called her that. Gracie . . . or Gracie May . . .”

  Slowly, Noah slips a spoon’s worth of soup into her mouth. “I remember watching you feed her like this.”

  She swallows with only a slight grimace. “Do you really?”

  His mouth twists into a boyish grin. “I’d make faces at her, and she’d get so excited she’d slap your hand away.”

  “Her food would end up all over the wall. Drove me bananas.” Mom begins to laugh, the rare sound bringing a prickle to my throat. “I never had the heart to scold you for that.”

  He slips another mouthful of soup into her. And another, and another, like some doting son, as they reminisce about summer barbecues in the backyard, and games we used to play, and how my dad used to keel over from laughing w
hen I’d dance around in nothing but a diaper, my hips swaying and my arms waving above my head. I quietly listen and watch.

  But talk of my dad also brings the tension slithering back into the room, like a snake coiling around its prey, squeezing tighter and tighter until I’m unable to focus on anything else.

  My mom feels it too; I can see it in her pained eyes as she studies Noah’s face, who sits quietly, biting his bottom lip. Waiting, as if he’s suddenly afraid to push her.

  I’m not. I’ve been waiting years for proof of her quiet accusations. “Tell us what you’ve been hiding. Now, while you can handle it.” How long before her attention wanes, before she’s more focused on keeping down her soup than letting loose skeletons she’s been so adept at hiding? Ten minutes? Half an hour?

  Her eyes fall to her lap, where her hands are entwined tightly. “I don’t even know where to start.”

  I flip open the metal box and pull out the first mystery. The picture of my mom that might not be a picture of my mom. I hand it to her.

  She smiles weakly as she studies it. “That’s probably a good place to start.”

  My mother gathers her thoughts, as scattered as they may be. I have to keep reminding myself that she’s far from well, even if she’s lucid.

  “The first time I introduced Abe to your nan was when I was six months pregnant with you. She insisted that we make the trip from Texas to Arizona. She and Brian wanted to meet him before you were born.”

  Mom says I met my mom’s stepdad, but I was too young to remember. Nan kicked him out a year before we moved out to Tucson. But I heard enough of Nan’s offhand unflattering comments to figure out that they hadn’t parted on good terms.

  “So we drove here for Christmas. She insisted we stay in the trailer. All of us—Abe and I in one room, your nan and Brian in the other . . .” She drags a finger along the picture. “And Betsy, on the couch.”

  Noah was right.

  “Betsy is my little sister. Well, half-sister,” she corrects. “Nan had her with Brian when I was ten.”

  My mouth drops open. “Why haven’t I met her? Or even heard of her?”

  “You did meet her. We came back to Tucson for a visit when you were three.”