She doesn’t waste any time on niceties. “What do you mean, Charlotte, about distance?”
“Elle . . . ,” I begin. “First, I feel ridiculous.” I pull at a thread on a pillow, suddenly nervous. “I like you, and I think you’re a good kid—”
“But you think since I’m from the wrong side of the tracks, I must be trash?”
“Huh?” Shaking my head, I lean forward, tossing the pillow aside. “Not at all what I was going to say.” She stares at me expectantly, her lower lip trembling.
“What I was going to say was that I tend to keep to myself. I have a hard time trusting people, and right or wrong, it affects the number of people I allow into my life and the boundaries I set with them.”
“And you think we need boundaries?”
“My therapist thinks boundaries are . . . useful.” I gently smack my forehead. “This is the kind of information I shouldn’t share with you, because I don’t know anything about you. You showed up on my doorstep in the middle of a storm and gave me a fictitious story about your life, and it reads like one of my literary novels.”
“Yes, I lied to you,” Elle says, her voice coming out strong, “about some aspects of my life. And I’m sure you heard Courtney mention I’m a foster kid—that’s true. I live with a woman named Diane and two other kids she fosters.”
“Your parents are really both deceased?”
“Yes.”
“Your foster mom, is she really a nurse?”
“No, Diane’s the opposite kind of person.” Elle adds, “The kind they typically treat in the ER.”
“Meaning?”
“She’s clueless.” Evidently feeling the need to clarify, she continues, “Diane isn’t a bad person; she’s just lost and gets in her own way. She’s reckless with her spending and lives for only today. I don’t fault her; I mainly feel sorry for her. I know she doesn’t mean to punish us by ignoring our basic needs. She’s just incapable of taking care of herself, let alone us.”
Miffed, I mutter, “Then she shouldn’t have you.” Elle doesn’t disagree, but I can see the frustration on her face. Foster care is a world I know nothing about, and I’m sure she’s used to everyone giving their opinion but no one providing an alternative.
“What does she do for work?”
“Retail.”
“Is she married? Or is there someone who helps, like a significant other?”
“Depends on the week,” Elle says bluntly. “But not currently.”
“Who did you live with after your mom and dad died?” I replace the pillow on my lap. “Not like it’s any of my business, but I just wondered if you went straight into foster care.”
“My grandma, until she passed.”
We sit in silence, both lost in our own thoughts until she speaks again. “She passed shortly after my dad. It was too much for her—she had a lot of health problems, and the loss of my parents was a lot for her. I’m lucky she took me in and made it as long as she did.”
“Thank you for sharing.” I give her a genuine smile. “I mean it. I know it’s tough to discuss unpleasant or difficult things.”
“Why do you go to therapy?”
I consider Elle’s intent for a moment, and whether she’s being flippant or sympathetic. I decide on the latter. “Because it helps to discuss trauma in your life. In order to move on from what my therapist calls the ‘wreckage of the past,’ you have to get comfortable with your demons.”
Elle suddenly looks uncomfortable, and I decide we both need a break from the serious discussion we’ve been having.
“I’m sorry, I haven’t been a good host. Would you like a beverage?”
“Um . . . yes, please.”
“Tea, pop, water?”
“Water, please.”
“Bottled okay?”
“Let me grab it, Charlotte.” She rises to stand. “Would you like something?”
“The same. Cold ones are in the fridge.” I lean back against the couch, my hands moving to rest tranquilly on my belly.
CHAPTER 21
Elle
I head into the kitchen, noticing a contrast from the other night. This time, it looks cozy and welcoming in the afternoon light, and even with the size, it has a feeling of comfort. It’s different from the way it seems in the middle of a tornado watch, when you feel like you’re a cast member in a horror flick. Especially when a basement and a deranged woman are involved.
The sun filters through the half-open blinds of the french doors, shining on the polished concrete floor. A small window over the farmhouse sink looks out onto a grassy side yard. I gaze at the wooden privacy fence, painted a shade of cream.
It’s like the picket fence we hear about as children.
Marriage. Two kids. A dog. House. And a white picket fence to complete the package. Speaking of which, a pink and blue box on the island catches the corner of my eye.
I pull out two bottles of water and stare at the minimal contents inside. After resting them on the counter, I unscrew one, taking a large swig as I scan the open box in front of me.
Pregnancy tests.
How did she know?
Ashamedly, I stare at the belly I’ve been trying to disguise under oversize sweatshirts and baggy jeans or sweatpants. Clearly, I didn’t do a good enough job of hiding it. If Charlotte noticed, then everyone must be able to tell.
Shaking my head, I realize it doesn’t matter. What matters right now is that she got me the tests for a reason.
But when I examine the contents of one of the boxes and count the plastic wands, I see that one is missing.
It dawns on me as Charlotte hollers from the other room, “Find them okay?”
I jump, screeching out a pathetic “Yep.”
Charlotte’s possibly pregnant?
Holy shit. At this stage, I can’t wrap my brain around the announcement. You need to take a test, I demand, and that’s the most important thing right now. Confirmation. You can’t ignore what’s going on any longer.
Would she notice if there was only one left?
There’s another box, unopened and intact, still in the plastic bag.
Before I can change my mind, I shove one in the waistband of my leggings and meet her back in the living room. I give her my biggest grin as I push a water into her hand. “Mind if I use the bathroom?”
She starts to protest as I walk toward the hall bathroom. “Wait, it’s, uh, it’s broken.” She seems flustered, her cheeks coloring. “The handle, it’s not flushing properly.”
“Oh, um . . .”
“Just go upstairs and use the hall bath up there.”
“Sure thing.” Carefully I make my way upstairs, holding the banister, since I get out of breath quickly these days. The open railing of the two-story foyer means I’m under a microscope even from below, and she can watch every step I take.
The first door is wide open. I presume it’s a bedroom, probably a guest room, since it’s perfectly clean but empty save for a queen-size bed, dresser, and side table.
Noise from the television startles me as it drifts upward.
The second door is partially closed, and when I peer in I can tell it’s an office, a desk against one wall with a built-in window seat underneath a large window.