Chapter 13
THIRTEEN
KIRA
The thing about my mother is whenever we’re around other people, it’s like a switch is flipped.
She has to put on that shiny outer version of herself. Even if the other person is someone she’d describe as the help .
So Isaak being there and distracting her with his long, inane explanations of what’s been going on and where he’s at with his so-called “investigation,” keeps her out of my hair while the make-up artist begins layering my face with goo.
“Oh, my word!” I hear Carol exclaim from the couch behind us as Isaak recounts the night he was hired and we found the bloody animal on my bed.
“Why didn’t you call, Kira darling? I would’ve taken you in in a second. You know I’ve got the room here, and I haven’t changed a thing in your old bedroom. Why are you staying at some hotel like a hooligan when you could be here where it’s safe?”
“I assure you, Mrs. Roberts, I’m keeping your daughter safe. You have my word.”
There’s a silence, and with my eyes closed, I can’t see what Carol might be concocting next. I knew this would be coming, though, from either her or Drew as soon as they found out what was really going on. Frankly, I expected it days ago, as soon as I ditched her guard.
“And what exactly are your credentials, Mr…?”
“Luther. Isaak Luther. I went through the training to get my personal protection officer license from the Texas Department of Public Safety, of course. But my real credentials were earned the good old-fashioned way. I fought for our great country, Mrs. Roberts, in the conflict in Afghanistan. Do you and your husband support the troops?”
I struggle to keep a straight face while the make-up artist continues her work. Damn. Isaak not only listens, he’s smart on his feet, too. I feel ashamed for assuming things about his intelligence level because he was a soldier and didn’t go to college. I’ve been a real bitch.
“Oh well, of course,” my mother says, her Southern accent suddenly getting a little thicker. “And thank you for your service. But I-I-I just struggle to see how that kind of… practical experience translates into personal protection work.”
“Oh?” Isaak says, voice as silky as honey. “I’d have thought it was obvious. I’m good with weapons, calm in tense situations. I’m disciplined, and I know how to be on alert for enemies.”
Which is why he sees you for the snake in the grass you are, Mama, even though you snow everyone else who meets you .
“Well, I’m sure my husband would be pleased as punch to meet a young man who served. He wasn’t able to himself, you understand. He’s got a bit of a club foot, but he is a true soldier in Christ who puts on the armor of God every day, I assure you that. And there is no one he respects more than our brave young soldiers who protect this great nation.”
“I look forward to meeting him.”
“Well, if you’ll excuse me,” Carol says. “I’ve got to go see to my girl. It’s her big night and all.”
I keep my eyes closed and brace for impact as she approaches.
“What a nice young man,” she says, loud enough so Isaak will overhear. But then she scoots in close to me, ignoring the make-up artist working on my eyeliner.
“The bodyguard I hired for you was the top of the line,” she hisses in my ear, barely an audible whisper. “And you went and hired some unpedigreed gorilla off the street behind my back? Are you really that pathetic and selfish? Just think of how worried your father and I have been. Not to mention Drew!”
All my muscles go tense. Here it is. I should have known there was no avoiding the Carol Special: scolding, demeaning, and blaming.
“I texted Drew,” I say. “He knew I was fine.”
And if she hadn’t been using her bodyguard to spy on me in the first place, I would have kept him. But when he reported back every time I went to Carnal , I’d get nonstop phone calls from Carol asking me what I was doing at a sex club and what that would do to her reputation.
“Oh, so you texted Drew but not your mother ?” Carol cries, still in a whisper. “I’ve been having palpitations again,” she says, hand to her chest. “Do you even care how your selfishness affects me? You’d be happy if I just died , is that it? Then you’d get your inheritance even faster.”
I wilt in the chair.
She’s a narcissist. This is just classic DARVO , I try to remind myself. Deny. Attack. Reverse Victim and Offender.
She’s always needed to be the victim, even when that meant making a villain of me as a little kid. My whole childhood, I was so confused— was I actually the bad guy like she kept implying? I didn’t feel bad in my heart, but she said I was.
So my thoughts spun and spun, trying to make sense of a puzzle that had no answer. And my little brain would double-check things to make sure I’d done them perfect, just in case. Still, I’d have always ended up doing or saying the wrong thing. Being bad or selfish.
Until I was so wound up with anxiety and OCD symptoms that I sometimes had difficulty leaving my bedroom as a teenager. Which she said I did because I was trying to punish and embarrass her.
What the fuck kind of woman gaslights their kid like that?
Still I can’t help myself from playing into her script. Giving her the supply she’s so desperate for. “Of course, I don’t want you to die, Mama. I love you. I’m so sorry you’ve been having palpitations again. Have you seen Dr. Palmer about it?”
“Oh, what is he going to say? That I need to watch my diet and eat less red meat? I can barely eat as it is with the nerves and all the stress of the wedding.”
I sigh, feeling the oppressive weight of interacting with her settling into my bones. Every time, I tell myself I won’t play these ridiculous games with her. But then, every time it’s just easier to fall into her trap and become the small, small girl I used to be. “You look great, Mama.”
“Don’t lie to me,” she casts an arm dramatically to the side. “Look how bloated I am.”
She contorts in her chair to stick her stomach out, even though it means her ribs are sticking out, too. The woman looks like a scarecrow but thinks she’s fat. Again, in my head, I just keep ticking off clinical definitions. Body dysmorphia. Arrested development.
But as the daughter who’s played this game too many times, I know the words she wants to hear, so I supply them. “That’s ridiculous, Mom. You’re so skinny.”
She looks at herself in the mirror beyond me, turning to the side. “You really think so?”
My mother’s mindset is perpetually that of an insecure young girl. I know why she is the way she is. I’ve met her mother, who is also a trip.
Carol’s critical eyes turn from herself to me, and I brace. Because on days like today, all the knowledge in the world of why she is the way she is can’t save me when?—
“Why are you letting yourself go like this, darling?” She frowns at me, then pinches my belly.
“Hey!” I jump, and the makeup artist yanks back from my face.
“I’m going to need you to sit still,” the make-up artist says.
“Mom,” I hiss, fury biting through my veins. “Don’t touch me.”
“Don’t touch you? I grew you in my body for nine months and gave birth to you. Forty-nine hours, I labored. The purpose of children is to bring joy to their parents. Proverbs 10:1. Instead, you bring me nothing but pain. Some days,” she sighs, “I think it would’ve been best if I’d miscarried you like I did your second brother.”
It’s stupid that her words can still hurt me. But without a doubt, the arrow lands somewhere south of my heart and north of my belly, lodging there right in my sternum, and I feel myself bleeding out on the inside.
Sad. She just makes me so sad. Like I’m nothing. Like maybe I should just fade away into the gray. Every time I see her, it makes me want to lie face down on the floor and not get up for a long, long time. Weeks. Maybe never.
“Enough,” comes Isaak’s deep voice, closer than where I last saw him. My eyes pop open, making the make-up artist jump back again with the eyeliner pen.
But Isaak’s now standing over the three of us, and he looks pissed.
“That’s enough, Mrs. Roberts. You’re never going to speak to your daughter like that again.”
My mother looks up at him in total shock. But she gets her wits together quickly enough.
My breath catches in my throat. I’m like a frozen rabbit, terrified of what will come next.
“How dare you speak to me like that in my own house? You’re fired!” She points dramatically toward the door. “Get out! Now! Or I’ll have you thrown off the premises.”
The arrow in my chest digs in further, robbing me of all breath now. Oh god, I can’t breathe, I can’t breathe. I don’t know what I’ll do without Isaak. He’s been the only anchor keeping me tethered to the ground this week.
“If I go, Kira goes.” Isaak calmly steps back and leans against the wall with his arms crossed. His eyes move from my mother’s to catch mine. He gives a small, meaningful nod, eyes intense. He’s not going anywhere.
Finally, I’m able to suck in a breath, and I nod back.
“If he goes,” I say, finally able to find my voice again, “I go.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Carol snaps. “It’s your engagement party.”
“Then why don’t you go check on the caterers to make sure everything’s in order while my make-up gets finished?” My voice gets firmer with every word. “I’ll see you at dinner.”
She makes a little squeak, eyes darting from me to Isaak to the make-up artist before she finally twirls on her foot and stomps from the room. “Your father’s going to hear about this!” she declares loudly before she pushes through the door, slamming it behind her.
“What a bitch,” the make-up artist mutters under her breath.
My gaze connects one more time with Isaak’s, and I try to convey all the gratitude I feel as relief slowly sweeps through my chest, the arrow finally dissolving.
“All right, relax, and keep your eyes closed, or we’ll never finish,” the make-up artist says, and dutifully, I close my eyes. But only because I know Isaak will still be there, protecting me.