CHAPTER FOUR
I DIDN’T GET MUCH FARTHER before remembering I’d left my bag in Dad’s room. For a few seconds I debated whether to go back and get it, but decided to make my way home without. The keys to my apartment were in my jacket pocket, and as it was six thirty on a Friday, I could get by without my phone and wallet for the night. It was the weekend. Most of my clients wouldn’t expect answers before Monday, and my social life had been on hiatus for years. Besides, I could check email and social media on my laptop when I got home. I had some emergency cash in a coffee jar at the apartment, something Dad always insisted I do.
Still, I hesitated, right up until a rare taxi drove past. I flagged it down and hopped in, grateful for the shelter and warmth it provided, my cheeks already numb from the wind.
“Good evening, miss,” the driver said as he smiled at me in the rearview mirror, the gap between his front teeth half a finger wide. “Where to?”
“Sherman Street, please,” I said, and, deciding to be up-front and honest about my situation, added, “I don’t have any money—”
“I’m sorry, miss.” His smile faded as he put the car back in Park. “No money, no ride. I’m afraid you have to get out of—”
“But I have some at home. I’ll run up and get it—”
“No.” He shook his head. “I really can’t. I’ve been taken for those rides more than once.”
“But—”
“Look, you seem nice, and so did they. Since then I don’t make any exceptions.”
Despite pleading with him again, it became clear he wouldn’t give in. I fumbled for the handle before stepping out of the car and watching him drive away, my heart sinking straight to my sneakers. These were my two options: walk home or go back to the hospice to get my bag, but I couldn’t face Dad, not after I’d upset him so badly, and I certainly couldn’t face my mother.
I’d call Nurse Jelani from my neighbor’s apartment as soon as I got back to make sure Dad had settled. He needed his rest and I’d return first thing in the morning. Decision made, I set off, heading for Casco Bay Bridge.
The light had long faded, spindly shadow-fingers elongating as they’d inched their way across the streets. I slowed my pace, winded from the effort of walking so fast. No point wondering when I’d become so out of shape. I’d never particularly been in shape, unless pear-shaped counted. Photographic evidence readily demonstrated the soft, pudgy kid I’d been during my elementary years. The ugly duckling fairy tale I’d desperately wished for had never come, and I’d morphed into an equally pasty-looking adolescent in high school. Every year I’d remained the odd one out, unpopular, a misfit, a nerd with teeth too big for my face and puppy fat I’d never got rid of. The other girls had thick, shiny locks, about as diametrically opposed to my curly blond mop as you could get, and their gravity-defying breasts and backsides could’ve given a freshly picked peach an inferiority complex.
I pushed away the memories of being made fun of, called names or ignored, tried to leave them behind, although they still followed me down the road, snapping at my heels. As much as I insisted it was years ago, that I should get over myself and none of it mattered anymore, the scars were still there, ready to be picked—or quashed with yet another bagel or muffin my mother would have tut-tutted over and told me not to eat.
I focused on the walk home, longing for my crappy little apartment. I’d lived there for a few years now and wouldn’t be upgrading anytime soon, not since I’d started the website business six months prior. Going out on my own had never been a burning desire—my mother was right about my lack of ambition, if little else—but when a former boss’s hands had wandered once too many, I’d semipolitely told him to stop, or I’d report him to HR. The next day I was laid off, told my IT support role had been cut because of “efficiencies,” ironically by the woman who turned out to be my boss’s girlfriend.
In a way it was a relief. I’d been unhappy there for a while but too scared to do anything about it. I’d never been the type to make decisions unless I got some kind of shove.
My business had increased, and I’d acquired a couple of regular maintenance contracts. Quite the contrast from the third month in, when I’d had none and couldn’t make rent. Seeing no alternative, I’d asked Dad for help, which he’d been happy to provide, my promises of paying him back falling on deaf ears.
“Consider it a gift, Freckles, okay?” he’d said. “End of story.”
The thought of my father took my breath away. Although I wanted to cling to it forever, I attempted to rid my mind of the image before it sliced my heart straight through. Instead, I allowed myself to think about Dad not being my real father—no, not real, biological—and debated whether it mattered. Did it make me less upset he was dying? Stop me from caring?
I shook my head. He was my dad, the one person I’d always looked up to, who’d always tried to be there for me. He’d read to me every single night he’d been home, taught me how to fish, how to ride a bike when I’d been terrified I’d fall. He was the one who’d encouraged me to take computer sciences, applauded when I told him about my new business venture. And amid all that, he’d taken the brunt of my mother’s fury whenever he possibly could so I didn’t have to.
No way could I let him think I hated him for hiding the truth. His intentions had no doubt been to protect me, as he always had, but what about him? When had he found out he wasn’t my father? Had he always known, or discovered it later? Had it had something to do with their divorce?
Walking faster still, I hoped Dad would be awake when I got home. I wanted to talk to him now so I could tell him I loved him no matter what, and when he was ready and strong enough, maybe he’d give me some answers.
About fifty yards from my building’s front door, the winds picked up, carrying with them the smell of sea salt, and stripping leaves that still desperately clung to the trees. I buried my chin in my scarf and dug my hands deeper into my pockets. The sky was completely black now, hardly anyone left on the streets save for someone a short distance behind me, the clunk-clunk sound of their boots on the sidewalk echoing in my ears. Had they been there long? I hadn’t noticed because of the deafening noise of my thoughts.
I glanced over my shoulder, saw a tall man dressed in black walking behind me, and who, judging by the length of his strides, seemed in as much of a hurry as I was.
I slowed to let him pass, but instead of him walking by me, a heavy hand gripped my shoulder. At first I hoped he had an inappropriate way of asking for the time or directions, but when I spun around, his hoodie covered the top half of his head, and the shadows obscured the rest of his face. Other than the tip of a badly shaven chin, and the ghostly white skin beneath, I couldn’t make out any of his features. Something shiny in his right hand caught my eye. I looked down and gasped at the knife glinting in the moonlight.