Chapter Two #2
See. Prime example of why I stay out of their business.
* * *
I followed Dad to the break room.
“Close the door behind you.”
That’s not terrifying.
I closed the door, and it felt like my fate was sealed. An awkward minute passed between us before he addressed me with his arms folded over his chest, mimicking Daisy’s earlier stance.
“How long will you deign us with your presence this time?” he asked. His pain, disappointment, and resentment echoed loud and clear when he spoke. The guilt was overwhelming. I knew I was hurting my family, but I couldn’t be here. It was too painful.
“I leave Sunday.”
“Where are you going?”
I shrugged.
“Of course. If fly by the seat of your pants were a person, it’d be you.”
“Yep… that’s me.”
“Kiyah, my sweet child. You are not in a position to be so glib,” he remarked sternly. “Where have you been?”
“Chicago.”
He chuckled, slid his hands into his pockets, and sauntered to the window.
He’d much rather look at the dumpster behind the building than at me.
“I would’ve thought you were on some remote island.
The phones don’t work in Chicago, Kiyah?
Or maybe it only works for Daisy? That’s a peculiar cell phone service.
I could’ve sworn all my children were on the same plan, and last I checked, you could call from Chicago. ”
“I’m—”
“Your mother… you have one hour to see your mother, or there will be serious repercussions. Daisy will accompany you because you must be expediently fitted for your bridesmaid’s dress.
We will have dinner as a family tonight, and I expect you to be presentable.
As usual, your bedroom is ready. Please steer clear of Grant this week.
The two of you are explosive when you’re in the vicinity, and I have enough on my plate already.
I can’t afford to play referee between you and Grant.
This week is about Daisy and her doomed-from-the-start nuptials to that mean little girl Anthony raised. ”
I snorted.
“Maybe it’s Ms. Simone’s fault that Nori is the way she is,” I suggested.
Dad shook his head. “No, it’s Anthony’s fault—I’m certain. He indulged that child’s every wish. Nori had that man wrapped around her fingers as soon as she crossed his threshold.”
He didn’t lie. Nori was spoiled with a capital “S.” She had two cars by the time she was sixteen: a weekday Volvo and a weekend Mercedes-Benz convertible.
Her Sweet Sixteen had to run Uncle Ant’s pockets over $1 million, and when she graduated high school, he gifted her a sailboat.
Nori Powell put the “high” in high maintenance and the “drama” in Drama Queen, but Daisy loved every bit of her.
“Is there anything else?”
He faced me and reached into his pocket, pulling out his wallet. “I want you in my office bright and early Sunday morning at 8:00 AM for our talk—not 8:01—8:00.”
“Yes, sir.”
I jumped slightly when he slapped his credit card on the counter. “Welcome home, Kiyah,” he said before breezing out of the break room.
Tears welled in my eyes, and my fists balled at my sides before I snatched up the card and followed him.
I snapped the card down on the reception desk, making him pause in my tracks.
“Thanks, but no thanks,” I spat before storming out of the building.
I climbed on my bike and snuck a glance at Grant’s office.
He was peeking through the blinds at me again. I waved, and they snapped shut.
This week will be… something.
* * *
“Mom? Where you at?” I called out, hoping my voice would carry to wherever the hell she was in the mansion I grew up in.
“Kiyah? Is that you?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I mumbled, staring at the hairless creature that greeted me at the door. “Who the hell are you?”
The black cat gave me a lazy meow before skulking off to parts unknown. My attention was stolen from the gremlin-looking cat when the sounds of hurried heels clicked through the bottom level. My mother tackled me, and I had to brace myself against the wall to prevent us from falling.
“I’ve never wanted to hug and strangle you so much in my entire life,” Mom admitted, sobbing as she clutched me tightly.
“Are you sure about that?” I joked, trying to mask the bubbling emotions that threatened to overtake me.
“I think the time you and Grant snuck out of the house to participate in a drag race in your brand-new car you were gifted on your sixteenth birthday tops the fucking cake.”
I grinned at the memory behind my mother’s back.
Dad and Mom gifted me a sweet-ass black suped-up Toyota Supra for my sixteenth birthday, and I couldn’t wait to burn rubber.
I was in first place until that sore loser slammed into me from behind.
I spun out of control and collided into a tree.
I woke up hours later in the hospital with a broken collarbone, a severe concussion, and two concerned and enraged parents.
Shockingly, Grant was more on the receiving end of Dad’s wrath than I was because, I quote, “Grant, you’re the eldest, and you’re old enough to know better. ”
Needless to say, they never replaced my car. Dad said he only owed one car per child; whatever happened after wasn’t his business.
He may have only owed one car per child, but he never said anything about motorcycles.
She pulled out of my embrace and gave me a once-over through her glistening eyes.
“Have you been eating, Karma? You lost weight.”
I rolled my eyes. Mom began calling me Karma after I took off the summer before law school. I was virtually a ghost for a year—sending the occasional postcard to let them know I was still alive. She said I was karma biting her in the ass for how she ran away from her parents when she was younger.
“I’ve been eating,” I replied.
“You’re not doing drugs, are you?”
“All the time,” I answered flippantly.
“Kiyah,” she warned sternly.
“Nothing harder than weed and alcohol,” I confirmed. “I’ve just been active.”
“Sexually active? I hope you’re being safe,” she worried.
“I’ve been celibate for three years. It can’t get any safer than that.”
Her shoulders relaxed.
I mean…I’ve been celibate while I’m on the road, but she doesn’t need to know that.
The cat returned.
“Not to change the subject, but what’s with the cat?” I asked, pointing in its direction.
“Oh! I wanted a cat, but you know how your father is with fur on his suits,” she explained, bending over to pick it up.
“What’s its name?”
“His name is Rob Zombie.”
I laughed and followed her to the living room.
The name was very fitting since my mother was a metal head back in the day.
Back before, she sold out to become one of the Suburbia wives.
Our jam sessions when I was a child used to be filled with Iron Maiden and Judas Priest, and now, soft jazz music played soothingly in the background when you entered the house.
Gone were the heavy metal band crop tops and leather pants; instead, she rocked boutique dresses and heels.
I knew she was a goner when she once toted a designer handbag worth more than my four-year degree at a private college with a scarf tied around the handle that was worth more than the average monthly rent for a two-bedroom apartment on the “good” side of town.
I’m being unfair.
Her change had nothing to do with “selling out” and more to do with growing up and reading the room.
She was the wife of a prominent, wealthy attorney, and with that came certain expectations, especially regarding appearances.
To be 100% clear, my father never placed those expectations on her—he loved her just the way she was—tattered shirt, grease-stained jeans, and biker boots.
Still, they took you less seriously at the PTA and fundraising meetings when you dressed like an extra from Sons of Anarchy.
Unless she stepped her game up, she’d always be seen as “just the nanny.” Despite her outward changes, she was still the same woman on the inside—energetic, fun-loving, caring, and adventurous.
“How long are you sticking around this time?” Mom asked, sitting on a chaise lounger. I chose to stand, meandering through the living room to spot any changes since my last visit.
“I’m leaving Sunday.”
“Hmph,” she hummed in disapproval.
“Get it off your chest, Mom,” I urged, watching her stroke her hairless cat.
“I want you here, Kiyah—we all do. We lost Papa and Mimi a few years ago, Granddad is steadily declining, and Grandma is slowing down. It’s a tough time for the family.
I’m always stressed worrying about you, Kiyah.
Shit, I get fucking anxiety every time I receive a call from an unknown number.
I never know when I’ll pick up and someone is telling me that my daughter was found dead in a ditch thousands of miles from home and I need to come identify her body.
Baby, I’m sorry to break it to you, but you won’t find whatever you’ve been looking for out there.
It’s been seven years, and you haven’t found it yet.
You’re running from something. I don’t know what it is, but distance won’t fix it; therapy will.
You belong here—not out there doing God knows what with whoever the fuck. ”
She’ll always have a potty mouth. I’m glad to see that some things never change.
“Did someone hurt you?” she pried.
I shook my head. “No.”
“Did we do something wrong?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Then what?” she pressed, becoming increasingly frustrated.
Should I tell her? Should I finally get this seven-year burden off my chest? Should I finally connect the missing puzzle piece that’ll explain why I feel so out of place amongst the sea of their smiling faces?
“Kiyah, you left me!” Daisy screeched upon entering the house.
Saved by the loud-ass little sister.
“I didn’t think you would mind. You seemed too busy getting fingerbanged in the corner of the conference room. I didn’t want to interrupt.”
“What in the world?” Mom muttered.
“Don’t listen to her. She’s exaggerating,” Daisy said, defending her honor.
“We have to go. I called the bridal boutique and squeezed us in for a last-minute appointment. After that, we’re going to the salon to get our hair and nails done, followed by a lobster lunch and shopping—courtesy of Dad. Let’s go.”
“You’ll first explain to me why I received a call from Simone accusing you of stealing Nori’s hearing aids,” Mom said.
“Seriously? No one gives a fuck about my black eye?” Daisy exclaimed, her arms thrown out in exasperation.
“Well, what did you do to her?” we asked.