“I know you’re upset with me. And I understand.” She adjusts in her seat. I can practically hear her heart thumping louder. Or maybe it’s mine. “I’ve been keeping things from you for a long time, which has backfired, putting you in danger that I never saw coming. And I’m so sorry, Lana. I had no idea.”
“I know you didn’t,” I say gently, wanting her to know I don’t blame her for Vic’s crazy. “Vic Thorne isn’t your fault.”
“But what happened to his father is.”
Seventeen years ago, at the start of my senior year in high school, I came to this island with the Harrison family to help care for their young son. I loved their life and being a part of it in every way. My family didn’t understand. Most of my life, it seemed as if my mother and sisters never understood me. But the Harrisons did in a way that made me feel accepted … like I belonged with them.
Have you seen my white cardigan?” I ask, carefully folding my coral floral sundress to avoid wrinkling it as I set it in my pink plaid suitcase.
“Um … I may have borrowed it,” Allison says, coating her lips in a shiny pink gloss while sitting at our shared antique vanity. “I think it’s in the dirty clothes.”
“Allison,” I groan in exasperation, “I thought I told you to ask before borrowing anything. I really need that sweater for this weekend.”
“Sorry,” she says, wrinkling her nose. “I don’t think it’s really dirty. I only wore it for a little while when I walked with Janet to 7-Eleven.”
I rifle through the hamper and pull out my rumpled sweater, shaking it out. Holding it to my nose, I inhale hints of Allison’s freesia lotion. It’ll clash with my Clinique Happy perfume, but maybe if I air it out, the scent will fade before I need to wear it. I grab my jean jacket as an alternative for the cool nights on the island.
“Where are you going tonight?” I ask Allison as she twists a lock of hair back and secures it with a butterfly clip.
“I told Shandra that I’d watch Morgan for her.” She stands and adjusts her plaid miniskirt low on her hips.
“Then why do you look like you’re going on a date?” I ask, eyeing her cropped short-sleeved cashmere sweater. It accentuates the curves that makes her look much older than her fifteen years. Curves that I still don’t have even though I’m two years older.
“No reason.”
“Is she paying you?” I ask, knowing our downstairs neighbor has a habit of taking advantage of my sweet sister.
“She said she’ll only be gone for a couple hours,” she explains weakly.
“The last time that happened, she was out all night, and you totally freaked and had to call Mom home from work because you didn’t know what to do.”
“That was one time.”
“I just don’t want you getting mixed up in her mess.” I zip my suitcase and set it on the floor.
“It’s not like that. I just feel bad for her. She doesn’t have anyone.”
“She has an entire family. They own this house, remember? And they live on this street.”
“You know what I mean.”
I didn’t. But it wasn’t worth arguing about. Shandra had a habit of needing favors and knowing who to ask for them. When it came to babysitting her four-year-old son, that usually meant suckering Allison into watching him for “an hour or two,” which almost always meant until she stumbled home with some random guy after the bars closed. I don’t understand that lifestyle. I’m not judging. I just feel bad for that poor little boy who seems to get shuffled around to whoever’s free, so his mother can still go out and party. I can’t even imagine what it was like to become a mother at nineteen, but from what I can see, Shandra isn’t exactly devoted to finding out herself.
She moved in downstairs six months ago. Her mother couldn’t tolerate being woken in the middle of the night, so she had her move in with Kendall, her cousin, who was already in the apartment below ours. The house has been in their family for forever. And we’ve lived on the second floor for pretty much that entire time, and some member of the Wolfe family has always occupied the first floor. A rotation of family members in transition in their lives until they eventually move out to live with someone else. That’s their family rule—no live-in boyfriends or girlfriends. Family only.
Doesn’t mean they don’t sleep over … practically every night. I know because Shandra’s bedroom is below ours. And this house is old. The walls are thin, and apparently, so are the floorboards. We can hear every moan. Whimper. Neglected cry. Every fist connecting with a wall … and sometimes a person.
My mother can frequently be heard banging on their door or the floor with a broomstick if she can’t be bothered to go downstairs. And when it gets really bad, she has the police department on speed dial on our cordless phone. It’s gotten to the point where they know what she’s calling about before she says more than a couple words.
I don’t like that Allison goes down there. I can only imagine how disgusting the apartment is. But she adores Morgan. And it may be the only time the poor boy is bathed and changed into clean clothes. Every time I see him on the front porch with his mother, while she’s smoking and chatting on the phone, he’s only wearing a saggy pair of greying superhero underwear, his belly stained with juice. His nose is almost constantly running, making his face slick with snot and dirt. But no matter how filthy he looks, he always has a toothy smile for me when I climb the front stairs, offering whatever toy he’s playing with for me to take, probably hoping for someone to pay attention to him.
I smile and wave but keep walking up the stairs through the front door. I avoid interacting at all costs. Shandra knows I babysit. But there’s no way I’m doing it for free. And I wouldn’t be caught in that lice-infested apartment if my life depended on it.
But Allison is too kind for own good. She doesn’t care what’s dribbling down Morgan’s sticky belly. She always picks him up whenever she sees him. And that’s usually when Shandra disappears inside, still chatting on the phone, abandoning him with Allison.
“You have someone coming over while you’re babysitting, don’t you?” I accuse, knowing she’s putting way too much effort into her appearance to go downstairs to wash dishes and bathe Morgan like she always does.
“Justin may stop by and help me,” she says dismissively like it’s no big deal.
“Does Mom know?”
“Mom’s working tonight.”
I smirk and shake my head. “Be careful.”
“Mom!” Helen bellows from the hallway, her stomping footsteps heard from behind the closed door. “Mom!” she yells again when she enters the apartment.
“I’m in the kitchen!” our mother responds, her booming voice probably overheard by our neighbors across the street.
“Can I borrow the car?” Helen hollers from the front door, choosing to carry on the conversation at an obnoxious level instead of seeking out our mother in the kitchen a room away.
“No, I have to work tonight!”
“What if I drive you to work?”
“What do you need it for?”