26. Olive

26

OLIVE

T he kitchen feels different.

I wander my gaze around the counter, searching for things that have been rearranged, newly bought items, old items replaced. The curtains in the kitchen window are a different color, I think. They’re yellow. Were they blue last time I was here? Or was that the bathroom?

My chair scrapes on tile as I shift and twist to look behind me. It could be my imagination, but everything feels so different.

Dad strolls into the kitchen, an overly chipper smile tilting his lips like he’s going to try to make this less awkward for us. Like we’ll all get back to being a happy family.

“Morning, dear,” he says to Mom who stands over a waffle iron billowing with steam. He kisses her cheek then picks up the paper she left on the counter for him. “Is this for me?” he asks, lifting the mug I saw her pour a minute ago.

She smiles tightly and nods. It’s the same interaction I watched every morning of my childhood. She can swap out the curtains, but some things never change.

Dad clears his throat when he sits down at the table with me, newspaper and coffee in hand. Things were awkward last night, but adrenaline was still pumping then. I woke both my parents by pounding on the door, and when they opened up, they said my face was ghostly white.

I’ve never cried so hard in my life. When they asked me what was wrong, I didn’t tell them about Alik. I recalled everything that had happened with Creeper as if it had just taken place, and I told them about the men who tried to kill me in the hotel before I’d dropped off the radar. My mother cried quietly while my dad stewed, his anger not directed at me for once.

I never wanted to come here. If I’d had the means to disappear on my own, I would have. I’ve made my mother shed enough tears in my life, and I vowed that this would be the last time. I’d take whatever money they could give me and leave their lives, and Vegas, for good.

But to my utter disbelief, my mom demanded I stay. That it was too dangerous. That I was still her daughter.

I cried harder.

She cried harder.

And now, sitting in her kitchen the next morning while she makes her Sunday waffles in her heels with her burnt-smelling hair curled, it’s awkward as hell.

My dad offers me a section of the paper, and I take it for the sake of having something to stare at. Mom plates the last waffle then grabs the butter from the fridge just as the doorbell rings. We all glance that way, but Dad is the only person to make a move. Probably because it’s doubtful anyone but him would have company here. Mom is polite , Mom has acquaintances , she makes pies for the bake sales, but she doesn’t have friends. Dad doesn’t either, not really. But he has his work.

His corrupt work.

As he gets up to leave, I watch Mom sit down at the table and wonder if she knows what he’s been up to. They have the most boring marriage imaginable. If they were a color, it would be beige.

There’s no way she’d be okay with what he’s been doing.

“So.” She clears her throat as she slides my plate toward me. “Other than the obvious… How have things been for you?”

I stare a moment at her awkward smile that’s trying so hard to be sincere, then I pick up the syrup and drizzle it over the waffle.

“Fine.”

“Dad told me you’d found a job… Will it still be there once Dad takes care of this Creeper person?”

Dad won’t be taking care of Creeper. He’s working with him.

I cut into my waffle and feel tension ease at the realization that my mom doesn’t know what my dad has been doing. She’s still good. Too good for us.

“I don’t think so,” I say, which is sort of a lie. The answer is no. I got a job working a hot dog stand at a kids’ indoor playground. Apparently, my lack of eye contact creeps some parents out. I made it a month before they fired me.

Before that, I was a dog walker, but I think some could sense the evil in me or something because I kept getting bit.

Before that, I stocked shelves at a supermarket until one of my coworkers found my sketchbook that had drawings of them in it. Which might not have been so bad if they’d been alive in the sketches.

You get the picture. I’m a fuck-up.

“Oh, that’s a shame,” Mom says, but I can tell she’s just stalling. She wants to ask me the big question. The only one that matters to her.

“I’ll find something,” I assure her. “I’ve been clean for over a year now, so maybe I can handle something a little more high-stress. That would open a lot of options.”

Her lips part as she blows out a breath, looking dizzy with relief as she nods. “That’s quite an accomplishment.”

I nod. “Thanks.”

“And have you uh…” She clears her throat. Here comes the big question. “Has your medication been working?”

Have you killed any more people, dear? Done anything that’ll add ten years to the bags beneath my eyes?

I’m sorry, Mom. Fuck, I’m so sorry.

“Yeah.” I point to where Dad went. “I mean, I’m sure Dad told you… I had a bit of a scare because I lost my memory one night, but it turned out to be a false alarm. I uh…” I sigh. “I’d been drugged. That’s how I ended up at that house, Mom. I swear to God, I haven’t gone near anyone from my old life, and?—”

“H-hold on.” She lifts a manicured hand. “I’m not sure what you’re talking about. You were drugged?”

“That’s how I ended up in the hospital a few weeks ago,” I say. “Not like drugs drugs, but like a put-you-to-sleep type of drug. A lot of assumptions were made, but?—”

“You were in the hospital?” Her eyes widen, and she grips my hand as she leans toward me.

He didn’t tell her.

She stares at me, waiting for more, but I’m speechless. I will anger to rise at my father, expect it to, but instead, my eyes water.

She didn’t know.

It wasn’t because she doesn’t love me anymore.

She just didn’t know.

“Oh, honey,” she says, deflating when she sees my tears. She brings me to her chest and holds me the way I’ve needed her to so many times over the past year. I don’t deserve it. I know I don’t deserve it. And maybe that’s why my father kept it from her. Maybe he knew she deserved better than to hear my string of bad news. Maybe he knew she deserved better than me.

“Mom?”

“Hmm?” she asks, rubbing her hand over my back.

“I’m really happy to be home.”