Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
Wolf
Wolf woke up to a different world.
He was in a strange room with white curtains in a white bed covered with a fat white comforter.
The walls were palest blue with a border of stenciled flowers near the ceiling.
It was a feminine room, and for a moment he didn’t know why he was in it.
But then he remembered. His mom had died and Camellia Rio had brought him home to her own.
He was mildly embarrassed, and then worry crept in.
A soft tap came on his bedroom door, and when it opened, an older version of Camellia peered in at him.
Her blue eyes were a shade lighter than her daughter’s, and her hair was just as long, but its multiple shades went from silver to dark gray.
He’d met her last night and struggled to recall her name.
She leaned in. “You’re awake. Good. If you’re groggy, it’s a sedative hangover.” When he raised his eyebrows in surprise, she said, “Don’t worry. I’m a nurse. Retired now. That’s why we live so near the hospital. I used to walk to work more often than not.”
“That’s why Camellia got there first, I guess.” He closed his eyes, rubbed his head.
“Food will help, and I’ve got plenty.”
“You’ve been too kind already, Mrs. Rio. I couldn’t—”
“It’s already cooking, so don’t make a fuss. And it’s Erica. I can bring it up here or—”
“I’ll come down.”
“Bathroom’s down the hall, first door on the left.” She pointed as she said it. “I left a change of clothes in there for you. My late husband’s, and he’d be overjoyed to share them. They’ll be too wide and too short, I reckon, but good enough to get you home.”
“I should get back to the hospital.” He blinked three times, unsure of why. “Shouldn’t I?”
“No, hon. No need to go back there. I called and checked in, and she’s already been moved to the funeral home.”
The words hit. He felt the blow. His mother was at a funeral home. It didn’t make sense to his mind. And then it made less. “But I didn’t even pick one yet.”
“Your mamma left her wishes with the staff. Apparently, she’d made her own arrangements.”
Trying to take care of him. Even while she was dying, she was looking out for him.
“I’ll see you downstairs when you’re ready.” She pointed again. “First door on the left,” she reminded him.
So he followed directions, because it felt like the easiest thing to do and maybe the most he could manage at the moment.
He showered, he dressed, he thought about how different his mother was from Camellia’s.
If he’d brought home a raggedy stranger, she’d have only greeted him at the front door to close it in his face.
Cilla didn’t trust strangers, nor abide them sniffing around, nor had Grandma Sage.
But there he was in the home of strangers on the day after the worst night of his life, sitting at a table with two women who did the things only women could do.
They soothed and healed and comforted with their voices, with their eyes, with food, and that caring felt great, except for his underlying suspicion of ulterior motives.
Then again, he’d seen tears in Camellia’s eyes at his mother’s bedside, and when she’d held him, he’d felt her sadness even beyond his own.
In his experience, however, people were never this nice without a reason. He just didn’t have the energy to know or care what it was. He ate the breakfast, which was delicious, thanked them for their kindness, and told them he had to go.
Camellia followed him to the door. “I’ll give you a ride back to your truck.”
“Hospital’s within walking distance, your mom said.”
She nodded. “About a fifteen-minute walk. I can give you directions.”
He held up his phone, where a walking route to the hospital already filled the screen.
“Do you um…want to reschedule that talk? You really should have all the information.”
He nodded. “Yeah, just…not now. Not yet.”
“Okay,” she said. “I get it.” She lowered her head. “I’m really sorry about your mom,” she said. “Be okay, okay?”
“I will. She’d kick my ass otherwise.”
The door was open. No snow remained from the night before—it was too warm for that. It was a chilly, gray, wet morning. He held onto Camellia’s eyes for a moment longer than felt casual. “I don’t know how to thank you for…all this,” he said.
And she said, “I do.”
There it was. The ulterior motive, the reason for all the kindness. He knew there had to be one. “Really?”
She nodded. “Yeah. Let me help you find your birth family. I promised your mother. My mom knows that, because I don’t have a lick of professional discretion where she’s concerned. She’ll never let me hear the end of it until I help you find them.”
He was so surprised he couldn’t think of an answer.
She said, “You have my number. Call me when you’re ready, okay?”
He sort of nodded. She went back inside and closed the door. At the window to the left, her mother waved at him.
He didn’t know how he felt about taking Camellia Rio up on her offer. He didn’t feel the need to replace his dead family with a new one.
The only thing he felt sure about right then was that he wanted to lose himself in his mom for a little while, in her words, in those diaries.
So after a detour to the funeral home—he got the info from the hospital—he headed home, got comfortable, and picked up where he’d left off in his mother’s diaries, and in her life.
Cilla
Later, same day or maybe early the next
It’s night now and we’ve been on the road for so many hours I’ve lost count.
Twenty minutes ago, the driver finally made a stop—probably he had to pee as bad as I did.
When I pulled back the tarp, I spotted a big neon sign across the entire roof of the place.
“LUCKY’S TRUCK STOP—SHOWERS, MEALS, SUPPLIES! ”
When I first got out, I couldn’t tell where I was. The license plates on the vehicles in the parking lot came from like a dozen different states.
It was getting dark again. I didn’t see any road signs, but I was pretty sure I was far enough from home to be safe and I had to pee so bad I could hardly move.
I went into the diner. A juke box was playing kind of low, and people sat in booths and in stools in front of a counter. I asked a waitress for a basket of fries, then headed for the restroom.
There was a whole shower room back there, and I could smell the soap and the steam. A shower would be nice, but I was afraid I wouldn’t have enough time.
When I came back out of the restroom, I checked outside to be sure my ride was still there, and it was.
A pretty waitress handed me a big cardboard basket overflowing with French fries and a whole handful of ketchup packets. “I gave you extra,” she said with a wink.
“Thanks.” I said it on autopilot, taking the fries but paying no attention to the waitress.
I wasn’t sure which of the people at the counter was driving the truck I was riding in, and I skimmed their faces, trying to guess.
The whole time I was in there, I was worried my ride would leave without me if I took too long.
My bike was still in the truck, and I didn’t want to lose it.
There was a payphone in there. I thought about calling my mom. But then I figured she’d see where I was calling from and send the cops to drag me back, and what if the next time my stepdad tried to sell me, I couldn’t get away?
It’s blowing my mind how something told me to get out of there. How did I know?
I bought a blanket and pillow in a cute little “travel bundle,” plus two bottles of Coke, and a box of Hostess Twinkies. Then I took my fries in one hand, my bag of purchases in the other, and I went back to the truck with my haul.
So that was the whole deal. I’m back in, way more comfy with my blanket and pillow, eating my fries and trying not to leave grease stains on the pages as I write.
What was up with the people in the truck stop, though?
There were men and women, travelers and waitresses.
A few of them looked at me and it made me nervous, but nobody came up to me and asked if I was okay, or if I needed help.
I was relieved, not to have anybody bugging me and maybe figuring out I was a runaway.
But shouldn’t they care? Shouldn’t a 14-year-old alone in a truck stop in the middle of nowhere raise a few questions?
It seemed weird. I was so worried about getting caught and sent back, but instead, it kind of feels like I’m invisible.
Guess I’ll put this down and read a while. I still have my Greek mythology book in my backpack. I’m afraid that’s one book the library’s never getting back. Maybe I’ll mail it someday. After I read it a thousand more times.
I love mythology. In the stories, before she was a monster, Scylla was a princess who’d betrayed her father. My name is Cilla, and my father betrayed me.
Willow, Sky Dancer Ranch
“How’s your mom?” Drew asked.
Willow’s little, blond aspiring-private-eye cousin was standing in the doorway of Wes and Taylor Brand’s home on Sky Dancer Ranch, looking worriedly past Willow, who’d answered her knock.
Willow nodded. “She’s upstairs. Dad won’t let me near her. Doc Elena’s with her, giving her a sedative, Dad said. He said I should leave her alone for a while.”
“Jeeze.”
“Yeah, he’s really pissed.” Sighing, Willow stepped back to let Drew inside, closed the door, and led her toward the kitchen. Her petite cousin glanced up the staircase when they passed, but Willow wanted to avoid seeing her father again at the moment. She felt guilty as hell.
“But your mom? In bed? With a sedative? She’s one of the kick-assiest women in the family.”
“I know.”
“Next to you, I mean. You come by it honestly.”