Chapter 22
Liam
Let It Go – James Bay
The apartment block we were waiting outside was a whole lot better than the one the day before. The area wasn't so run down, and at least the security door on the building was closed.
There was an open-fronted auto shop next door, where the buzz of hydraulics, metal tools being dropped, and men yelling at each other over the noise filtered out to the sidewalk.
The sharp smell of motor oil mixed with the distinct aroma of trash from an industrial-sized dumpster hit the back of my throat, making me swallow hard.
When I looked at Charity she had her hand over her mouth and nose, her eyes hinting at tears.
“I don't think it's that bad,” I reassured her, but she didn't look convinced. Her blue eyes darted warily around, taking in the litter strewn around the dumpster. She jumped when a car backfired close by, the sharp crack echoing off the concrete walls.
“Maybe it's better inside,” she suggested, her voice muffled behind her hand.
“I'm sure it'll be fine.”
Then, as had become our habit over the last couple of days, I took her hand in mine, feeling the slight tremor in her fingers, and led her to the apartment building.
“She might not let us in.” Charity looked up at the side of the building, toward the eighth floor where Lola's apartment was. The afternoon sun bounced off the windows.
At that moment, a woman pushed through the door with a stroller.
I grabbed the door and held it open for her.
She didn't thank me, but I let it slide.
“She won't be able to refuse us now, will she?” I winked at Charity and urged her inside, wondering what the hell had happened to me. I didn't wink at women.
Thankfully the elevator was working, and even though it stank of piss and had graffiti scratched into its metal walls, it rumbled us up eight floors quickly.
The floor vibrated under our feet with each mechanical groan.
When it juddered to a halt the doors stuttered open onto a clean, uncluttered landing.
It was basic gray stone flooring with grubby cream walls, but the odor of disinfectant was pungent and fresh, and it was clear why Lola had made the move here. It was a huge step up.
“It's this one.” Charity took a deep breath, the air noticeably fresher than downstairs, and pressed the buzzer. The sound echoed faintly through the door. “Do you think she can see it's us?”
I shrugged. “No idea.” I looked around the door and the landing but couldn't see any cameras. “We'll soon find out.”
Clearly she didn't, because when Faith flung the door open she was smiling with a wallet in her hand.
“Shit.” She dropped her head and groaned. “I thought you were the delivery guy.”
Charity gave a one-shouldered shrug. “Well, it's not. It's us.” She glanced at me and that normal confident smile of hers fell flat. The need to wrap her in my arms and protect her was getting more insistent. Like an angry sore I couldn’t ignore.
“Let me guess, Lola.” Faith crossed her arms over her chest, her chin jutting out angrily.
“Yeah, Lola.” Charity stepped forward, her voice firm despite her exhaustion. “She thought we should talk, and she's right. We're coming in, Faith.”
When Faith hesitated, I watched Charity's patience finally snap.
“I drove for hours to get here because I was worried sick about you.
I haven't slept, I've been suffering this damn heat looking for, and I know you stole from Mrs. Rodriguez.” Her voice rose with each word.
“The least you can do is talk to me so we can figure this mess out.”
“You'd better come in then,” Faith snapped. “I wouldn't want to upset the golden child, now would I.”
Instead of backing down, Charity's jaw tightened. “Cut the crap, Faith. I'm tired of being your verbal punching bag every time you screw up.”
Faith turned and stormed into the apartment ahead of us, clearly angry. When I heard a bang further into the apartment, followed by the sound of something being dropped, I realized Faith was taking her frustration out on whatever was in reach.
Charity paused in the doorway, momentarily deflated by her sister's reaction.
“You've got this,” I whispered. “But remember you can't force her to come home.”
She looked up at me, determination mixed with exhaustion in her blue eyes and nodded before following Faith inside.
The apartment was small but surprisingly bright.
Afternoon sunlight streamed through a large window that overlooked the auto shop.
The constant mechanical noise from next door created a steady backdrop of industrial sounds, air compressors hissing, metal clanging, muffled conversations.
The living room felt cramped with a worn brown sofa that sagged in the middle, and the air carried a faint smell of instant coffee and cleaning products.
It wasn’t great but it was better than I’d expected.
In the twenty minutes that we'd been inside the apartment, the sisters had barely spoken.
There'd just been a tense silence you could practically cut into, broken only by the persistent drip of water from the kitchen tap and the occasional rumble of traffic outside.
Faith looked at anything but Charity, the peeling paint on the window frame, her fingernails, the threadbare carpet, while Charity stared at her younger sister like she was afraid she would run if she took her eyes off her for a second.
Two mugs stood on the chipped wooden coffee table, the liquid a deep brown and cold, a thin film forming on the surface. It seemed neither of us could stomach the sludge that Faith had reluctantly made for us.
Finally, having had enough of the suffocating atmosphere, I cleared my throat. “As much as not catching up has been great, I think you both need to start talking.” Faith grabbing a cushion and hugging it, looked more determined than ever to not talk to her sister. “Want me to be Oprah?”
Charity giggled quietly and the sound of it made me smile, easing the tension like a warm breeze.
The beautiful sound made me realize that I'd missed it.
Not her laughter as such, but laughter in general.
I hadn't allowed for a whole lot of it in the last fourteen years.
There was something about Charity's, though, that made my heart miss a beat before swelling with warmth.
“Why did you run, Faith?” Charity asked, her voice barely audible above the auto shop noise. “And how did you even get here? You don't have a car.”
Faith shifted uncomfortably on the sofa. “Lola knew a trucker who was heading this way. He gave me a ride.”
“A trucker?” My voice sharpened, protective instincts clearly triggered. “You hitchhiked with a stranger?”
“He wasn't a stranger to Lola,” Faith said defensively. “And he was perfectly nice. Talked about his grandkids the whole way.”
“Why run, anyway?” Charity leaned forward, her voice full of concern. “Mrs. Rodriguez could have helped you.”
Faith's neck stretched as she stared her sister down. Defiant. “What exactly do you think I needed her to do for me?”
“She told us you owed someone money. Is that the reason you left?”
“It was a loan shark guy, so how the hell could she help with that, unless she had a spare fifteen hundred?”
Charity looked at me, but I sat back into the uncomfortable sofa cushions, feeling the springs protest under my weight.
The money I could help with if necessary, but otherwise this was their jig, not mine, no matter how much I wanted to shake Faith and tell her how damn good she had it with Charity looking out for her.
Thinking back to Mallory, if I'd just put in half the effort with her that Charity had with Faith maybe she wouldn't be six feet under.
“I would have helped you if you’d asked. We all would have helped you get back on your feet. Find a place, get a job, get the money together,” she paused, her fingers working nervously in her lap, “kick the booze and stop making the wrong decisions because of it.”
Faith drew in a breath and threw the cushion she was hugging to one side.
“And what the hell do you think I'm doing here?” she cried, dropping her feet to the floor.
“I have a place to live, I think maybe I have a job, and as for the booze I haven't touched a drop since you dropped me at the old lady’s house.”
“What?” Charity cried. “You can't just give up like that, Faith. It's too dangerous.” She leaned forward so far she was almost sliding off the edge of her seat.
“I'm not an alcoholic, Charity. I'm just a fucking idiot who—like you said—makes the wrong choices when booze is involved.
I need help in so many ways, but kicking booze isn't one of them.” Her shoulders rose, almost touching her ears, her whole body tense with frustration.
“Like I said, I haven't had a drink in six days, and I have to be honest,” she exhaled a heavy, weary breath that seemed to deflate her entire frame, “being away from Sweet Maple Falls has helped with that.”
“But how can you say—”
I placed a hand on Charity's forearm, feeling the rapid pulse at her wrist. “Let her speak, Sunshine.”
Faith looked in my direction and raised an eyebrow, but I ignored it, watching her until she looked away and linked her hands behind her neck. The movement making her look younger, more vulnerable.
“Being around Mom and Dad is suffocating,” she said, her voice cracking.
“I know they love me, but it doesn't stop them seeing me as a replacement for Hope,” she held up a hand, “and don't say they don't, because they do.
I don't think even they realize it, Charity, but they do. I was their second chance with her.”
The apartment seemed to hold its breath, even the auto shop noise fading into the background as her words hung in the air.
“They were always going to have you, Faith. Why can't you see that?” Charity reached for her sister, but Faith moved further along the sofa, the old springs creaking with her movement.
“Maybe they would have, but we'll never really know. With Hope gone all I've ever felt is that whatever they did with her they did with me, that they were trying to rewind time. I'm my own person, Char.”
Charity gasped and I guessed it was the use of the nickname. It had hit home, and when she relaxed back into her chair, the fabric making a soft sighing sound, she looked like she was ready to finally listen to her sister.
“I'm sorry, Faith, I should have put more importance on how you were feeling.” Charity swallowed. “Instead of just thinking you were being a brat.”
“Why would you?” Faith shrugged, her voice softer now.
“I barely spoke to you or Mom and Dad. I could hardly admit it to myself that I was lost. I guess that's why I started to play up.
I was a teenager, full of hormones and unanswered questions, wondering why I didn't fit into the mold my parents were trying to push me into.”
Charity licked her bottom lip, one of her nervous habits I'd noticed.
“I think I knew,” she said, twisting her fingers together— her other tell that she was stressed.
“Hope loved dancing and Mom insisted on you joining a dance class.
And when Dad took you fishing with him, I did wonder why when that had been his and Hope's thing.”
“It’s not your fault.” Faith moved closer to Charity and took her hand, sandwiching it between her own.
“And you have to stop blaming yourself for everything that goes on with our family.
You're not to blame for Hope dying and you're not to blame for me being a mess-up, or even Mom and Dad for thinking that maybe they could have a little of Hope back if I were a little different.”
The apartment fell quiet except for the distant sounds of traffic and the auto shop next door. Both sisters seemed to be absorbing what had finally been said out loud after years of dancing around it, the weight of truth settling between them like shadows at dusk.
Charity nodded slowly. “And you're not to blame for Mom's stroke, Faithy. It's too much cholesterol, not exercising, and too many homemade pastries and pies. Not to mention genetics. You know Grandpa had a stroke at the same age.”
Faith blinked, her eyes bright with unshed tears. “I had no idea.”
“Seems like we've all been a little blinkered.” Charity took a deep breath, like she was letting the truth settle into her bones. “Okay, so what do you want to do?”
Faith looked between us both and smiled, the first genuine expression I'd seen from her. “I want to stay here. Lola and I get along great and I'm sure I'll get a job soon.”
Stretching my legs in front of me, my boots scraping against the thin carpet, I cleared my throat.
“I know a guy who works construction here.
He's always looking for someone reliable to work the office. Someone who can put up with the shit you get from a load of construction workers.” I raised a brow. “Think you can handle that?”
I didn't know what I expected from Faith. A mouthful of abuse and her telling me that she didn't need my help, probably, but a huge smile and a gasp of shock? No.
“You'd do that for me? After I'd been such a little turd to you and my sister?”
I nodded. “I'd do that for you, Faith. But there's a couple of stipulations that go with it.”
She rolled her eyes. “Go on.”
“First you apologize to Charity for being a turd to her, too.”
“But—”
“No buts, Faith. And there's more.”
“Why am I not surprised?” She flounced back, pulling her hand from Charity's. “Go on.”
“You also call your parents and talk to them. Tell them exactly how you've been feeling. It might be hard to get them to understand, but you won't be able to move on if you don't.”
“Anything else, or are you done bossing me around?”
“You let me put some damn decent locks on your front door and windows and fix that damn dripping faucet in the kitchen.”
As if on cue, the tap let out another persistent drip, the sound echoing through the small space.
She waited for a beat and then nodded. “Fine. And thanks, because that tap is like water torture.”
Charity heaved out a sigh of relief—the sound mixing with the distant rumble of an engine starting up next door—and mouthed a silent thank you to me.
“I have tools in my truck, so maybe call that delivery guy and double your order and find out where the hell he is, because I'm starving.”
As I took my phone out to call my construction buddy, and Faith and Charity shared a hug, it felt like I'd just given them the whole damn world.