Chapter 2 Sabrina Holland
Greenville, South Carolina
Present Day
Tap. Tap. Tap.
“Hey in there. This is the Greenville Sherriff’s Department.”
My eyes popped open. I pushed my body forward, fighting to climb into the front seat. Gear shifts and knees were not meant to collide. Jesus heard my cry. It was difficult, but I managed to sit.
The sound of the Velcro zipping free as I detached my window coverings was usually welcome. It signaled a new day, a quest for sunshine after a night of securing my privacy. But this morning, the tearing grated against the surge of fear I felt. Cops were scary for many reasons—chief among them being that it was illegal to sleep in a vehicle. My system went into fight-or-flight mode when I heard a tap on the window. I lowered the window, then locked my hands at ten and two on the steering wheel before peeking out at the officer.
I recognized him. For that I was grateful. At least I could hope for some kind of grace from one I kind of knew. I hoped, but I still followed the drill.
Keep your hands where they can see them and ask permission to do everything.
“Good morning, officer.” A rebellious yawn slipped through my lips.
“You can’t sleep here, miss.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I got tired last night...”
“No point in that. I know you live in this van,” he said, scrunching his nose as he took a sideways glance at it. I knew what he saw—faded paint, a rusted bumper, dented wheel wells, and balding tires. “I talked to you when you were parked in the Home Depot lot a few weeks ago. We have a list of you grifters.”
Grifters.What was that even? And I was on a list.
“License and insurance.”
I swiveled my neck to glance behind the passenger seat and spotted my purse. “Is it okay if I get my bag? It’s behind the seat.”
The officer looked around me, behind the passenger seat, and replied, “Slow and easy.”
I forced a closed-mouth smile despite hearing blood thundering through my ears. I removed my right hand from the wheel and reached for my well-worn hobo bag and pulled it to the front seat before fumbling around for my wallet. Once I had it, I used both hands to work the license free from its holder.
“My insurance card is in the glove compartment.”
He nodded again, and I reached over and opened the glove compartment and removed my insurance card and registration just in case he wanted that too.
The officer’s radio crackled to life. He reached up to his shoulder and pushed the bottom for the walkie-talkie and spoke.
I caught sight of myself in the rearview mirror. Ugly bags stole the beauty of my amber-colored eyes. It was eight o’clock. I hadn’t fallen off to sleep until after four.
“I’m giving you a verbal warning this time, Miss Holland. You can’t sleep here anymore. None of you can.”
He didn’t take my documents. He walked back to his car and got inside. Relieved he’d gotten summoned to a more important call, I released the tense breath that was lodged in my chest and raised the window, leaving only a crack for some fresh air. I’d lived to die another day.
I looked to the right. The parking lot of the Walmart was filling up, but not enough that shoppers would need this space I’d parked in. The assistant manager must be on early duty this morning. He was the only one who called the sheriff to report us “grifters” sleeping in the lot.
Once upon a time, all Walmart stores allowed people to park their cars overnight. There was an urban legend about Sam Walton having been homeless once, therefore having empathy for homeless people. But it wasn’t a company policy. In the Greenville stores, permission depended on who was working.
I pushed the seat back, climbed across it to reach for my cell phone, and plugged it into the charger. I hadn’t been able to pay the bill that was due two days ago, so the service was disconnected, but I had a few things downloaded that I could listen to while I made my morning cup of tea.
I unlocked the door and stepped out of the van. After a long stretch and another yawn, I reached into the cargo space and removed the caddy that held my morning routine items, put it on the passenger seat, and slipped back inside.
I plugged in my portable electric kettle and poured water from a bottle of water into the metal cup and pressed the power button. Then I reached into the caddy and removed my toothbrush and paste. I did a quick brush, rinsing with the remaining water from the bottle. I ran a disposable wipe over my face. Once the coating of night was gone, I looked at my reflection in the rearview mirror. The luggage under my eyes carried my exhaustion. I looked way too old for twenty-seven.
I tapped my phone until I got to the recording I kept in my files. Most days I didn’t listen, but on mornings like this one—mornings that started rough—I needed to remember that I’d been happy once. I pressed the app.
Hey, Rina, it’s me. I’m sorry about earlier. I... You’re right. It’s time. I’m not afraid of what I have with you. You’ve never hurt me. You’ve always been there for me, and I love you.Silence for a moment. A tear leaked out from under my eyelid. My insides ached. I wiped my eyes and sat up straighter.
Let’s do it.
We’d be married for almost five years. Losing him wasn’t as fresh as it had been, but still, how had five years passed so fast? A better question was, how had I let it all fall apart so quickly?
I swiped at my eyes again and tapped the phone for the music player until I found my favorite morning worship song. Then I dropped a tea bag into the hot water, added a packet of honey, and pulled out of the parking lot. It wouldn’t do for me to be sitting here when the cop came back around.
After a quick trip to the gym for a shower, it was time to go to work at Kakes, which was a bakery. The interior boasted a state-of-the-art commercial kitchen that produced goods, but there were also four mini kitchens they rented out to independent bakers. I worked in the rental center a few days a week, signing people in and out, cleaning—whatever was needed. I also got to use one of the kitchens when I had a job. A job as a cake decorator using fondant flowers, icing, and colors to create show pieces. I was a baker too.
I was off from Kakes today, but I had a birthday cake due to a customer tomorrow. My plan? To deliver it early this evening so I could collect my money, get my phone turned back on, and buy some food other than ramen noodles. My last three paychecks had gone to my quarterly insurance bill on the van. I’d only had a few cake jobs. Those paid for my gym membership and put gas in my tank and noodles in my stomach, but little else.
The lemon-flavored cake I was decorating had been cooling overnight, so it was ready for the magic. I ran an offset spatula around the layers and released them from the pans and onto wax paper on the surface of the woodgrain island.
“What masterpiece are you turning that into today?”
Kevin Rose’s voice cut through my peace like a housefly beating its wings near my ear. He happened to be the owner’s son, so I couldn’t tell him to mind his own business like I wanted to. However, I didn’t have to meet his eyes. He was an okay guy, but eye contact would only invite him to linger. I liked to work without an audience. I reached for a serrated knife to level the cake’s layers. “This is for a twenty-ninth birthday party.”
“Twenty-nine seems like a silly year to make a big deal out of.”
I sighed, standing upright to inspect my work from an elevated view. “All birthdays matter. There’s an alternative, you know.”
Kevin chuckled. Real throaty like he had spring pollen lodged in his throat. I could feel him moving closer.
“I’m just saying... most folks do a big deal for twenty-five, thirty, and then forty.”
“I think people do what they want.” I sliced the top off the second layer and put it aside.
He leaned across the island. He wasn’t wearing a hair net, and he was sure to open his mouth again. I raised the knife sideways like a weapon and said, “Back up. No spittle on my cakes.”
He did as I told him but kept watching as I worked. “You’re fast.”
He was right. I’d learned to work fast. You do that when you pay for space by the hour. I sliced the caramelized sides off.
“And always the perfectionist,” he added, admiration in his tone.
I appreciated the respect, so I finally looked at him. “Your mother should hire me to bake for her.”
“She will as soon as she gets an opening,” he said.
The promise of a full-time baking job had been in the plan, which was why I kept a foot in the door with the part-time work, even if it was cleaning up. This kitchen—any kitchen—was my happy place.
When the cake was done, I loaded it into the van and drove the ten-mile ride to my customer’s house in Simpsonville, praying the whole time she would be there to receive it, especially since I couldn’t call first. Fortunately, I pulled into the driveway at the same time as Mrs. Halstead. She was the one paying the bill.
I followed her into the enormous kitchen, placed the box on the oversize marble island, and pulled the top open. Her inspection was slow and thorough, but satisfaction lit her eyes immediately. “This is beautiful, Sabrina.” Even I marveled at the elaborate five-layer masterpiece. It was pink and green—sorority colors. I’d alternated round and square cake layers. Pearls and flowers trimmed the seams of each layer. I created an open jewelry box for the topper. The box held a handkerchief with “29” etched on it and was surrounded by more pearls spilling over the inside. It was all fondant. All art. “It’ll be the hit of the party.”
“Do you want me to transfer it to your refrigerator?” I asked, knowing they had one on the back porch for such things as this. She’d purchased several cakes from me.
Mrs. Halstead was busy with her phone. “If you will,” she asked, finally giving me her attention. “Is a check okay?”
I cut my eyes to the clock on the microwave. It was already four-thirty. If I had any delay, I would miss the bank and not have my phone for another night. That was not safe when you slept in a van. “I’d prefer Zelle.”
I opened the back door and the fridge doors and then came back for the cake.
By the time I finished, Mrs. Halstead turned her phone around and showed me the transaction, which included a nice tip.
“Thank you, ma’am,” I said. I was grateful her phone rang, because she took the call, giving me an easy escape out of the house and back to my van, where I peeled out of the driveway three hundred dollars richer.
Minutes after I paid my phone bill, the familiar sound of life came to it. I went to my favorite café and ordered a sandwich. Just as I was about to place a call, a text message came through.
It was from my grandmother. It simply read: I need you to come home.
I called her and got no answer... over and over. Is something wrong with Grandpa? Is he worse?
The emotions of fear and worry collided in my chest. I slid out of the booth just as the server was delivering my food.
“I need it to go,” I said.
Once I had my food, I made the drive up to the eastern part of Greer. Traffic wasn’t a problem in this section of the city. I made lefts and rights until I reached my destination. The sun had set, and the large Magnolia trees outside of the house were giving sleepy Southern vibes like they always did.
I pulled in the driveway, not sure how I would be received, especially since I’d skipped calling first, but my giving Ellen a heads-up would be a mistake. I needed the element of surprise, even if it was selfish of me to use.
The front door of the house opened, and a familiar figure appeared on the porch. I exited the van and walked to the bottom of the steps.
Ellen Guthrie wrapped her arms around herself. Seeing the van always made her sad. She hated to see it coming, dragging with it memories of her dead only child. It had been his before it became mine.
“I have to go to Georgetown.”
“You should have called.” Ellen dropped her arms. “I’m about to plate her dinner.”
“Would you wrap it up?”
“You’re going tonight?”
“It’s my grandfather...” I pushed through the words. “I want to get there as soon as I can.” Tears pricked the back of my eyes. I struggled to finish my thought, which was to make sure Kenni got to spend time with him in case he didn’t live much longer.
A small figure appeared in the screened door and then flew onto the porch. “Mommy!”
My heart exploded with a burst of happiness. I took a few steps closer, but Ellen grabbed Kenni’s outstretched hand. “Slow down before you fall and bust your teeth out,” she said letting Kenni’s hand go.
I opened my arms and my four-year-old flew into them.
“I was making a picture, Mommy.”
I never tired of hearing that name. My baby’s warm body melted into mine. I stroked her arm and kissed her. “Is the picture for me?”
“No. It’s for Nana,” she said, looking over her shoulder at Ellen. She whispered conspiratorially. “But I cou’ give it to you.”
“That would be nice,” I said, glancing over Kenni’s shoulder to meet Ellen’s wary eyes. “I need to get on the road as soon as possible.”
Ellen shook her head and went inside. Ellen didn’t like this. Didn’t like me not calling. Didn’t like me taking Kenni. The last few months had been rough, and our interactions had become strained. So rough and so strained that I’d been thinking this area might not be the right place for Kenni and me anymore. Kenni had been spending more nights with Ellen than I wanted because I’d been working a second job in a warehouse during the evenings. Sometimes I did a double shift. I was trying to save up for another apartment. Being evicted from the last one meant I needed a hefty down payment. At first Ellen was happy to help with Kenni, but more and more she kept asking if I wanted her to take guardianship of Kenni while I figured things out. The conversation always went the same.
“I’m not giving up my daughter, Ellen.”
“I’m not asking you to give her up.”
“I just need help,” I said.
I softened the no she was hearing between the lines by mentioning the fact that she already had her hands full. Ellen ran a personal care home for the state. Her extra bedrooms housed elderly clients who couldn’t live alone. She’d hinted more times than I wanted to hear that she would downsize her client load to make a bedroom for Kenni, but she’d never explicitly extended that offer to me too.
“You know you would need to go to training and have a background check and a drug test.”
She mumbled the list without making eye contact. I could read between the lines. Ellen didn’t want me in her house. She still blamed me for Kendrick’s death. We had that in common. I blamed me too.
“Mommy, am I going whif you?” Kenni asked.
I kissed her again, this time on the forehead. “Yes.”
“For how many days?” The child held up her hand and raised three fingers.
The most time Kenni had spent with me in recent months had had been two days at a time, and that was only when I could rent a motel room for us. Kenni wanted more. She always wanted three days.
I took Kenni’s hand and kissed her pudgy little fingers. I looked up at the intimidating two-story Cape Cod that had everything a child needed to be comfortable. I’d been forced to leave my baby here while I chased normal, but this wasn’t the only house that would welcome my daugther. I thought about the timing of my grandmother’s text. The way she worded it: I need you to come home.
Georgetown wasn’t technically home. I spent summers and some holidays there. Although I’d lived in Greenville my whole life, Grandma always considered her home to be my home. I’d been praying for God to fix my living situation. I looked at Kenni, remembered her question: “How many days?”
I said, “I’m not sure, baby.” I thought, Maybe forever.