No trigger warnings in this chapter.
Chapter 36 – Half a Life
Santana P.O.V.
Waiting for Rachel's interview with Mrs. Hart to be over seems like an emotional torture that I personally believe should qualify as cruel and unusual punishment.
I have spent the better half of the last hour nursing a gradually increasing headache. Between the stress and watching my mother pace frantically across Rachel's otherwise empty hospital room, my poor head realistically never stood a chance.
A knock on the door helps me blink back into reality. I come to attention rapidly. I am on my feet before I even register that my brain has told my legs to move.
I am expecting news on Rachel, which is why I am disappointed to see Lucy Sherman in the doorway instead of Cathy Hart. Behind her stands a vaguely familiar woman. She is wearing a snug, form-fitting pencil skirt. Her hair is plastered to her scalp in a tight bun. Her outfit is as bland as her expression. She is the same woman I had seen yesterday, questioning mine and my mother's ability to take care of Rachel. My defensive nature blares at me in warning.
From afar, I remember thinking that this woman reminded me of Quinn. Up close, I realize that she is absolutely nothing like Quinn. Well, maybe she reminds me of the old Quinn, the one who I had despised until I had given in and actually gotten to know the girl. That relationship had worked in my favor. I wonder if I would be able to say the same about this one.
The duo requests me and my mother's presence for a meeting and escort us into a conference room down the hallway. Inside, I find a seat next to my mother. The blonde woman sits across from us with Lucy at her side.
The blonde introduces herself as Anne Stewart, the program manager of our family's investigation with Child Protective Services. The information makes me swallow. Neither me or my mother say anything as Lucy and Anne Stewart start to place a series of papers and documents in front of them. It makes me feel remarkably unprepared.
"The reason that you are both here today is because Rachel's doctor has informed us that Rachel is in a position where she will be ready to be discharged from the hospital in the next two or three days. The purpose of our meeting today is to establish a plan on what happens with Rachel once that day inevitably does come."
The blonde woman speaks to us formally, reading directly off of a paper like it is some sort of script. When she is finished, she pauses dramatically and purposefully.
"This investigation includes both you Santana, and you Mrs. Corcoran," the blonde informs my mother with a tone in her voice that I am not comfortable with. "Mrs. Corcoran, you are currently being investigated by CPS to evaluate your abilities as a fit parent. Santana, you are being investigated to evaluate your ability to contribute to Rachel's safety in your home."
She is incredibly blunt right off the bat. The lines sound rehearsed, as though she had been practicing them all night. We are a Broadway family. We understand a dramatic monologue when we hear one.
Besides me, I can feel my mother tense. It is obvious that she had not been expected to be kicked so hard so quickly.
"In order for us to release Rachel back into your custody, you have to convince us that you can be protective of Rachel if and when the time comes that you need to be."
My mother doesn't say anything for a long moment. Instead, she pauses, attempting to gather her thoughts. She knows that she can't afford to sound like a bumbling idiot in front of this lot.
"What do I have to do?" she finally manages, but even then, the words do not sound entirely right.
"Our team is currently discussing the situation," Lucy Sherman interferes just in time, providing a much needed voice of reason against this cool, calculating woman besides her. "I can assure you that no final decision will be made without an incredulous care being placed in every last detail. These choices are not made lightly, whatever the outcome."
I swallow and turn rapidly between Lucy Sherman and Anne Stewart. The blonde woman looks as though she would have no problem taking Rachel away without so much as a second thought. She has already made her impression on us, and it doesn't seem to bode well in our favor.
"We can be protective of Rachel," my mother insists, but the two women across from us look at each other like to hear her say so is hardly enough.
I watch Anne Stewart turn back to us. She folds her arms across the table and looks my mother dead in the eye.
"The fact of the matter is, Mrs. Corcoran, that you have already allowed a man into your home with little background information on him once, and the effects were devastating," she speaks sharply. Her voice is cool. It cuts like a knife. "Who is to say that this will not happen again?"
"It will not happen again!" my mother insists. Her voice is rising. I want to warn her to calm down, but I don't want to risk Lucy and Anne Stewart thinking that she cannot calm herself down. "He… he was very manipulative. He can be very charming."
We are barely getting warmed up and I can already hear my mother's voice start to waiver. She is falling for Anne Stewart's trap. I pretend that I can see the blonde smirking deliciously as though breaking my mother is what she had intended on doing when she had called this meeting all along.
"When he isn't putting his hands on your kids, you mean?"
This time, I have to remind myself of the concept of self-control, too.
"Excuse me?" My mother's voice cools down. There is no wavering inside her it this time. Instead, her eyebrows raise so high that they disappear inside of her hairline. She had heard Anne Stewart's words, she is just giving her an opportunity to take them back.
"He charmed you, you say?" Anne Stewart does not repeat herself. Instead, she confirms her accusation without having to.
"You don't know him," my mother accuses, using her voice to tell the blonde that her judgment is neither needed nor appreciated.
"So, if he charmed you once, then what's to stop him from charming you again?"
The question swipes any promise of an answer straight from my mother's throat. She does not answer the question immediately, and through her silence, I risk a sideways glance towards her, trying to gauge where she is inside of her own head, whether or not she is questioning herself in a moment where we need her to be nothing but certain.
"I know what he is capable of now," she finally swallows.
"And what is to stop somebody else from charming you?"
The way that she uses my mother's own words against her makes my skin crawl. There is a very tense silence for a long time. I can tell that my mother wants to say something sharp to this woman, and for a second I am afraid that she is actually going to, but in the end, she bites her tongue so hard that I am surprised it doesn't bleed.
"I screwed up," she finally admits with a heavy sigh. "I get that. Trust me, I get that more than anybody else in this room does."
"Mrs. Corcoran, we are going to work on making a decision regarding Rachel's placement as quickly as possible," Lucy interferes, sensing things going the wrong way and steering the conversation quickly in another direction. "The point of our meeting today is to discuss a safety plan that has been drafted by CPS. It will outline everything that is expected of you throughout this investigation process, including what will happen if and when Mr. Richardson comes back into your life. If you deviate from this plan, even a little bit, it is possible that you will lose custody of your daughter."
Lucy Sherman clears her throat and starts to read off a piece of paper. Lucy makes it clear that we are now subject to a further investigation. My mother is formally being investigated on the basis of neglect for failing to notice what Rachel was going through, as well as failing to prevent it. My mother looks on and listens with a look like Lucy had physically hit her.
There are stipulations to Rachel being allowed to live with us, which we will have to follow to the T. That includes formal counseling for mother, and for us, which my mother easily agrees to, and the recommendation that my mother eases off on her long work hours, which she has a harder time committing to.
As for me, what Lucy and Anne Stewart want the most is for me to prove that I understand how to properly respond if our family is threatened, which means calling the proper authorities, not taking a situation into my own hands. The gun comes up in conversation, as I should have expected. I am shamed into admitting that I have no formal training or licenses in firearms aside from what Quinn and I had worked on in secrecy in my bedroom the night after my suspension and subsequent grounding.
Mrs. Stewart questions me about that for a long time. Afterwards, and without any transition, she turns to my mother and looks her dead in the eye.
"Mrs. Corcoran, do you believe that your oldest daughter, Santana, is capable of protecting your youngest daughter, Rachel?"
"Yes," my mother defends me without hesitation. "Yes, I do."
"So, who is she going to pull a gun on for threatening Rachel next?"
My mother shifts uncomfortably inside of her chair. This is the tone by which Mrs. Stewart has been asking questions all day. She is tough and no-nonsense and refuses to give us any leeway. My mother looks angry and frustrated by this fact. She has just spent the better part of the last hour being grilled by this woman. Now that the questions seem to be focusing on me, however, her defense is up.
"I don't think that you have to worry about that, Mrs. Stewart," my mother's voice projects confidence, and I can't pretend that to hear her defend me so vehemently doesn't feel good.
"Santana was suspended from school less than a week ago for severely injuring another classmate in a fist fight. What would have happened if Santana had a gun then? What about if somebody threatens Rachel at school, which I hear has happened in the past? What happens if somebody on the street looks at Rachel the wrong way? What will Santana do to protect her then?"
"This was not a situation in which somebody was looking at my daughter the wrong way," my mother cuts the woman off with a cold sneer. Her every syllable is punctuated with an icy rage that flows smoothly off her tongue. "Mine, Santana's, and Rachel's lives were being threatened. That is a factor that you seem to be conveniently leaving out, Mrs. Stewart."
"Are you saying that you condone your daughter hiding a stolen handgun in your house without your knowledge?"
"I am saying that I believe that my oldest daughter, Santana, is capable of protecting my youngest daughter, Rachel." My mother spits the woman's initial question directly back in her face. I stare at the interaction, impressed and dammit if I have never been prouder to call Shelby Corcoran my mother in my entire life.
My mother slips away from me after we are finished, because Lucy wants me to hold back and talk a little bit more about Quinn. She doesn't tell me anything conclusive, but all the questions she had asked makes me uneasy and I am left wondering what Quinn's fate might be as I patter down the hallway and search for my mother.
I am worried about her. She had held her own in the meeting, but still, she had just had her weakest points picked apart and torn to pieces by a complete stranger. Everything that she has ever lived for had been questioned and ridiculed and embarrassment does not weigh easily on the shoulders of somebody like my mother.
It doesn't take me very long to find her. I spot her just outside of Rachel's room, sitting in the middle row of a set of chairs strategically placed like some sort of makeshift waiting room. She is hunched over in her seat. It doesn't look like she's crying, but she is leaning so far forward that her face is practically inside of her lap.
I approach her cautiously and sit directly to her left. She doesn't acknowledge me immediately, but I can tell that she at least knows that I am here.
"You were pretty bad ass in there, mom," I tell her, because she looks like she needs to hear it.
I watch my mother pull herself upright inside of her chair. She looks at me with a face scrambled with a bizarre combination of emotions. Slowly, I watch it begin to harden, and I realize that I am looking at a much stronger person than I had been only a couple of hours ago. It feels like the end of one era and the start of a next.
At least, I hope it is.
"Language, Santana. Please." She pushes aside my comment to remind me to watch my mouth like only a mother could. Still, inside of her face, an expression of appreciation glimmers. The corner of my lip tilts up in a soft smirk, which she returns.
"I mean it," I tell her. "You were amazing."
"Thank you, Santana," my mother sighs, but this time, she allows her face to show more of her flattery. "For the record however, I do not ever give you permission to speak with somebody the way that I spoke to that woman in there today."
"Unless that person is being a bitch?" I ask, and she shoots me a look regarding my word choice but does not mention it this time.
"Especially if that person is being a bitch," she corrects me, but then sighs and looks back down at her hands.
"What am I gonna do?"
"We'll be okay, mom," I tell her, not very convincingly.
"You and Rachel, you girls are my life," she continues as though she hadn't even heard me. "I don't know what I would do without you two… You know, the two of you were so different growing up. Even when I was pregnant with you guys, Rachel, she would never calm down. Before she was even born I couldn't get that girl to stop moving."
"I could have told you that," I laugh softly, a gesture that my mother returns. Her eyes are cloudy with the memory. It probably feels like a lifetime away from the point in our lives where we are at now.
"I had morning, afternoon, and night sickness with that girl," she continues with an airy tone behind her voice. "From the first trimester all the way up to the day that she was born, Rachel had me throwing up from all of the moving around she would do. She never stopped kicking. I used to swear she was practicing her tap dancing before she was even born. She got the hiccups all the time, too. Big mouth. But you, Santana… you were my silent, stubborn girl."
My mother's eyes gloss over, but I do not see a single tear fall. The second that she says my name, she reaches out and touches my cheek. I don't think she even realizes what she is doing. The way that she is looking at me, it is as though even still, eighteen years later, she can't believe that Rachel and I exist.
"You never moved," she tells me, her hand dropping back down to her side. "Not once. If it wasn't for what you did to my stomach and my hips, I would have forgotten that you were in there at all. You spent nine months lodged right underneath my rib cage. Right here."
She presses a hand against a spot underneath her ribs on the left side and pushes in hard as though she is pretending that she can still feel me there.
"I couldn't sit down right until after you were born. No matter what the doctors did to try to move you, you liked it there and you were not going to take anything from anyone. I knew that you were special from day one and after you were born… well, let's just say that I knew you would be a handful. But I also knew that I would never have to worry about you. Then came Rachel." She pauses once again, smiles, and shakes her head back and forth slowly. "I think that I might be the only mother in history who had first child syndrome only with her second. Rachel had your knack for trouble, but not quite the same talent for getting out of it as you did. She gave up on it after a while, but you have been stubborn since day one, Santana."
I blush and look down at my feet. My entire life I thought that my mother chose to distance herself from me emotionally because she favored Rachel. Rachel was her, from her looks to her talent. She was sensitive and in-tune with not only her emotions, but everybody else's too. Never once did I consider that the only reason my mother paid more attention to Rachel was because she had more faith in me to be able to handle whatever life threw at me on my own.
God, how I have failed her.
"The two of you made my hearts so full. Then, somewhere along the way I faltered. I… I failed you girls and I'm sorry for that. It's not going to happen again. Not for as long as I live."
I want to tell her that I believe her. In fact, the words get as far as the tip of my tongue before I swallow them. This is no time to be conciliatory.
"Can I hold you to that?" I ask instead.
"I know that it is a lot to ask of you," she admits. "You're so young, Santana. And Rachel… I know that this is a lot and I'm sorry that I have to ask you to hold me to it, but I am. I need you to make sure you do just that."
"I can do it," I insist. My mother nods at me, I nod at her back, and that seems to be the end of it.
The commotion of Rachel getting out of her interview starts with Mrs. Hart approaching us.
We do not see Rachel at first, which proves to be a disappointment, but the woman is not alone. We realize just a couple of seconds later that she is in step with a police officer.
My mother shoots up from her seat. She breaks into a speedy powerwalk. She doesn't even have the patience to wait for the group to come to us to hear the news.
"Mrs. Hart?" my mother questions when the woman is still several feet away from us. Her voice carries with a hint of worry. "What's going on? Is everything okay?"
"Everything is fine, Shelby," the woman confirms with a soft voice, trying to lower my mother's blood pressure before she has a damn stroke. "Detective Boucher just has some updates he wanted to discuss with you."
"Ma'me," the officer accepts his introduction and steps out in front of us. His accent is thick, highlighted by those elongated vowels so typical of the Midwest. My mother scrunches her face. Around here, calling a woman Ma'me seems to be a sign of respect, but I don't think that my mother will ever get used to that.
"My name is Derek Boucher, I'm working on this case along with Detective Sullins." He offers my mother his hand, which she accepts just for the sake of being polite, but she keeps the interaction brief like she is rushing him to get to the point. "I just wanted to inform you that an arrest warrant was issued for Andrew Richardson earlier this morning. A few hours ago, two of our officers managed to place him into our custody."
I had not been expecting this. Call me a pessimist, but the first thing I thought upon seeing a police officer show up at my sister's hospital room was that they were here to take Rachel away. I wouldn't put it past that insufferable blonde woman.
"He's in your custody right now?" my mother gapes. Her voice is tight, like she is afraid that he is going to say no, that all of this was just a big joke.
"Yes, Ma'me." This time, my mother lets the Ma'me comment slide without notice. Her face relaxes. It is only then that I realize just how long it has been since I've seen her look so calm.
"Does Rachel know?" The clam is short lived. My mother's face dips with a new concern.
"She does," Mrs. Hart is the one who fields this question, backing her answer up with a decisive nod. "Detective Boucher spoke with her at the end of our interview."
"How did she take it?" my mother asks nervously.
"Very well," Mrs. Hart nods. I trust the assuring look on her face. I believe her. "She's a very brave girl."
"She is," my mother agrees quietly.
"Rachel had a lot to say today," Mrs. Hart continues. "She provided us with a lot of testimony including details that will prove very helpful. She was very brave."
"And Andrew?" my mother forces.
"He was booked on simple assault, child endangerment, and misdemeanor domestic battery," the officer answers.
"That's it?" My mother sounds dumb-founded. Of all the things that Andrew has put us through, these charges do not represent the half of it.
"We're hoping that when he is arraigned, we will be able to add to the charges," the officer nods. "He was only brought into custody because he was pulled over for a bad tail light. When the officer noticed he had a warrant, he was booked."
"What other charges are we looking at?"
"The prosecution will be looking into rape, sexual battery, unlawful sexual conduct with a minor, gross sexual imposition due to the head injury that Rachel sustained at the time of the assault…" Cathy Hart counts a laundry list of charges off on her fingers. They all sound strangely crude spoken about so formally. I am having a difficult time placing my emotions against them. "They will also press for felony child abuse."
"So that's it, right?" my mother asks. She sounds desperate, like she is begging this to be the case. "These are serious charges. They have to carry some extensive jail time, right?"
It sounds more like wishful thinking than anything. I have a feeling that I know the answer even before Mrs. Hart flashes me and my mother a sympathetic look indicating that this is far from it.
"It's a little more complicated than that."
"How?" I demand.
"The biggest concern is that the evidence that we currently have is not concrete enough to convince a judge that Andrew should be held without bail."
"So, you're saying that he may still be out there?"
"There is good news," Mrs. Hart butts in quickly, desperate to restore our dwindling sense of hope. "Your petition to file for a restraining order is being re-reviewed by a judge. Andrew's arrest means that it is likely to be approved this time around."
My mother nods her head, but it is a quick, jerky motion that does not look entirely convinced. She is nervous and frustrated and existing in a perpetual state of worry. I can tell that as much as she is trying to force herself to follow this woman's advice, it is a struggle.
I can tell that she has more questions, but we are both distracted by a sudden commotion coming from the hallway as Rachel rounds out of the elevator, being pushed in a wheelchair by an orderly with Dr. Medina trailing close behind her.
When she sees the two of us standing inside of her doorway waiting for her, her entire body seems to glow. Her eyes are wide and hopeful for the first time that I can remember in a very, very long time.
I realize now that while Detective Boucher may have told Rachel that Andrew is in their custody, but he more than likely left out all of the extenuating circumstances that he told us. I also realize that I cannot possibly be the one who tells her. Without even looking, I know that my mother will also keep that secret fiercely protected.
"So," my sister breathes when she is close enough to us. Her voice is thick with excitement. "Did you hear?"
Rachel is finally discharged from the hospital on Monday afternoon after she is declared healthy and we manage to cut through all of the red tape of CPS. Her discharge however, does not come without stipulations. All three of us are assigned a therapist to go see. Rachel also has to see a nutritionist and is given a list of follow-up appointments with Dr. Medina a mile long.
She is not happy about these conditions, and I certainly am not either, but if it means getting to keep Rachel, I'd consider it a small price to pay.
We are to make no contact with Andrew, which I have no problem with. If he tries to make contact with us, we are to call the police immediately.
We are being judged carefully. For weeks, months, maybe even years, we will be watched by CPS and the slightest hint of a wrong move can result in us losing Rachel. I am not willing to risk that, neither is my mother. That is probably the only reason that she doesn't put up a fight even when Lucy announces that my mother and I will be named as partners in ensuring Rachel's safety in the eyes of CPS.
We sign all the paper work, not only Rachel's discharge paperwork, but also the items from CPS, ensuring that we understand the extent of our responsibilities. Lucy makes sure that we know just how close we had come to having Rachel taken away from us, and the idea that just because she is going home with us now, doesn't mean that things cannot be changed if need be.
We have to take a taxi home because in the rush of leaving our house in an ambulance, we hadn't had the Range Rover, which is probably sitting dead on the front curb. Only now do I remember that I never did shut that car off after I had rushed into the house on Thursday afternoon.
I stare out the window of the car and watch the world whir by. Rachel is the one who had been admitted to the hospital, but me and my mother hadn't left once in those five days either. My hair is greasy. I had only taken one shower the entire time I was there. I also only managed to change my clothes once when Quinn came to visit and brought me a change…
When the taxi pulls up to the front of our house, none of us move straight away. The house looks cold and eerie, like it had been abandoned for years rather than a couple of days.
The relief of coming home is suddenly gone. From the safety of the hospital, I don't think any of us considered how painful returning to this home would be after everything that had happened inside of it.
"Come on you guys," my mother encourages us, but it is forced. She slips some cash to the cabby and then hurries to shuttle the two of us out.
She guides us up the front path towards the door. The Range Rover is parked in the driveway, where it hadn't been when we had left. I wonder how it got here. I assume Noah. He had probably jumped the car and moved it for us.
I take a deep breath as my mother fumbles with the house keys, mentally preparing for what I will find. I don't want to see anything inside of this house. I don't want to see the spot where I had put a bullet in the wall. I don't want to see the puddle of blood by the front door that had helped me find Rachel. I don't want to see my mother's splintered-in bedroom door, or the mess from our scuffle with Andrew… I don't want to see any of it.
To my surprise, the house is much cleaner than I remember us leaving it. Fresh drywall is smeared crudely across the living room wall where there had been a bullet hole. The blood is gone from the rug and the walls. Even my mother's bedroom door had been replaced.
"Who did this?" my mother breathes the words that the rest of us are thinking. She sounds worried, like the idea that somebody had managed to enter this house without her knowing frightens her, even if it had only been to clean.
I shrug and push further into the house. There is a bottle of cheap champagne sitting on the dining room table with a hand-written note taped to the front. I recognize the barely legible chicken-scratch as Noah's immediately.
"It's from Noah," I inform my mother and sister, my eyes scanning over the note.
"Welcome home," I read the note out loud. "Me and Quinn thought you could use a pick-me-up. This one's on me – Puck. P.S. Santana left her bedroom window unlocked."
I roll my eyes and pass the bottle to Rachel, so she can see the note.
"He spelled every word wrong except for his own name," she tells me with a small smile so that I can tell she appreciates the gesture despite her criticism. "He does realize that I'm under age, right?"
"I don't think that Noah is too worried about that detail, Rach," I inform her.
"How did he even buy this?" Rachel presses. "He's underage too."
"Never question what Noah Puckerman is capable of," I tell Rachel, patting her shoulder gently. I am thinking back to a time not too long ago when the two of us had gone out to Breadstix so that Noah could tell me about his scholarship offer and we could share hopes and dreams that seemed impossible now. He had used his fake ID to buy us this very same brand of champagne. Avi Goldberg from Brooklyn. Christ, that felt like a lifetime ago. In a way, I guess it had been.
"How about we go pick something up for lunch," my mother suggests, interfering quickly. She snatches the bottle of champagne out from Rachel's hands, like she is afraid that CPS has installed cameras inside of our house and will catch her allowing her underage daughter to so much as look as a bottle of alcohol.
Rachel and I glance at each other. Neither of us are really in the mood to eat. Rachel's discharge process had been exhausting, but Dr. Medina had specifically mentioned that she wants to see Rachel put on a little bit of weight before her next appointment and given what happened the last time my mother had let Rachel stay home alone to rest after a trip to the hospital, I know that she is not about to do it again.
"Sure," Rachel shrugs, not even bothering trying to argue.
My mother shuttles us outside to the Range Rover. She doesn't want to say it, but I think walking inside of that house had been harder on her than it had been on even Rachel. She looks a mess. I don't say anything because my mother doesn't need to hear it right now. Besides, I really am starving.
We drive just four blocks to the nearest deli for lunch. I can tell that Rachel is getting tired because she starts to get moody waiting in line and every time my mother asks her what she wants, she responds with a despondent I don't care. In the end, my mother just orders a little bit of everything, if only to be able to say that she had given Rachel an option.
We wait for our massive order in silence. Rachel and I sit at a tall table in the corner of the store as my mother strolls up and down the aisles picking up chips and sodas and anything else that she can fit inside of her arms.
She is just walking back to the counter to pay when the soft ding of the bell indicating the front door opening rings. I hear it, but my mother does not. When I watch a man walk through the door, I realize that his collision with my mother is inevitable. Before I can say anything, it happens. They crash together. Hard.
Startled, my mother releases a soft gasp of surprise as everything inside of her arms scatters to the floor with a crash. My mother looks up at the man, mortified.
"Oh my god, I'm so sorry," she apologizes hastily.
"That's just fine," the man offers her a soft smile of forgiveness. It looks genuine but then I notice that he waits until my mother bends over to gather her belongings to move. Even then, it is only to check out her backside. I feel my stomach clench into a fist so tight, I am afraid it will never unravel.
In any other circumstance, one might consider the gesture harmless. Creepy and disgusting, yes, but forgettable all the same. The thing is that me and my family are already up to our necks in the consequences of what had once been a harmless gesture. This incident hits a little too close to home for me to ignore it.
"And what is to stop somebody else from charming you?"
The question that Anne Stewart had asked my mother at our meeting just the other day rings loudly in the back of my head. Specifically, I am remembering the way that my mother had hesitated before she answered.
"Maybe we can share that sometime."
I overhear the man take things a step further and stiffen, prepared to intervene if I have to. That is my job in all of this, after all. Lucy had told me so herself. I signed the papers. If my mother could not protect Rachel from creeps like this guy, then the next person in the line of succession is me.
I watch worry etch inside of my mother's forehead. In addition to that, I also sense embarrassment. Her eyes flicker towards Rachel and I, a silent apology. She is ashamed that we have to witness her being in this position. It makes me wonder just how often it happens.
"No thanks," she finally tells the man. She turns him down much more politely than what I would have done.
"Come on sweetheart. Why not give it a chance?" He reaches out and grabs my mother's wrist, pulling her into him. He thinks that he is being flirtatious. He doesn't seem to register her body language, how she only perceives him as a threat.
"I'm not getting into that," my mother tells him coolly, ripping her arm out of his grip. Her tone has lost all its polite gentleness. Her eyes are cool and dangerous. Typically, I would pity anybody who has to face the wrong end of this infamous glare, but this guy deserves it.
My mother cuts a sideways glance towards Rachel and I, trying to gauge whether or not we are okay. Unfortunately, the man notices. His eyes follow hers and lands on us. I watch as he scans us up and down and bear my teeth, daring him.
"Damn," the man whistles softly, turning back towards my mother. "Baby daddy must have done a number on you."
He rolls his eyes but walks away. This conversation is over. In his mind, he is not some creep who had just embarrassed a mother in front of her children. People like this can never admit to their own fault. Now, to appease his ego, he has to take his humiliation one step further, even though she never asked for his attention in the first place.
If I were thinking rationally, I would just let him leave. That is what my mother is trying to do, anyway. The thing is that I am not thinking rationally. Anger is clouding any sound judgment telling me to keep my mouth shut. I am just so sick of pathetic men thinking that they can get away with harassing woman just because nobody has ever thought to stand up to them.
"Excuse me, do you have a problem?" I ask, shooting up from my seat. "Because my mother doesn't have the time to deal with low lives like yourself."
My mother's eyes flash in my direction. The look on her face is pleading with me to stop. I can feel some of the patrons in the store start to stare at us, but I barely notice them. My top priority is trying to control myself from ripping this man's face off like I want to.
"Your girl speaks for you," the man comments with a sarcastic roll of his eyes. "That's adorable."
"I can do a lot more than that if you wanna stick around and find out," I snap, just as my mother steps in between me and this man, trying to prevent me from doing something stupid.
"Santana, that is enough," she hisses in my ear.
"You can do whatever you want to me, sweetheart," he smirks and winks at me. This time, I am ready to pounce, but to my surprise, it is my mother who gets to him first.
"She is eighteen years old, you pervert." She thrusts a finger into his face. My chest swells with a strange sense of pride. This is my mother's way of saying that he can harass her all he wants, but me and Rachel are off limits.
The man just shrugs, as though to say that's old enough. There is a glint inside of his mud-brown eyes that I don't like, but his posture seems to indicate that he has grown bored with this conversation. When he goes to walk away, I let him.
"Santana, take your sister outside to the car please," my mother hisses through her teeth. As my heartrate starts to return to normal, I realize just how many people are staring at us. My mother is trying to spare Rachel and I the attention. I sink with the understanding that we cannot even go to pick up lunch without causing a scene.
I turn towards Rachel. She is still sitting inside of her seat. Her eyes are observant, yet dull at the same time. I am having a hard time reading how she is feeling because she has shut herself down for the sake of feeling nothing at all, just like she used to do with Andrew.
I try to swallow my guilt, realizing that not once throughout the time I had been making a very public scene had I considered Rachel.
"Come on, Rach," I mutter, grabbing onto Rachel's wrist – the one without the cast on it – and pulling her towards the door.
"You okay?" I ask, only when we are safely outside.
"I'm fine," she breathes. Her voice is airy, but believable. Looking her up and down, I try to gather more information about her body language. She is tense, but I am having a hard time reading her otherwise. This isn't like Andrew, who had left physical marks to disprove Rachel's insistence of being okay. Instead, it is what I can't see that worries me.
"You don't have to lie," I encourage her.
"Really, Santana," she insists. She sounds annoyed that I don't believe her. She sounds annoyed at absolutely everything. "I'm not gonna freak out every time some creepy old guy makes a stupid comment."
"I'm sorry he did though," I apologize for the man because people like that never apologize for themselves and I feel that Rachel has to hear it. "And I'm sorry for the way I reacted."
"It's okay."
I look at her sharply. I want to tell her that it is not okay. I want to tell her that she doesn't have to pretend anymore, but before I can even think to get the words out, my mother pushes quickly from the store, leaving me to release my words forever to the silence.
My mother walks so quickly that any faster and she would be running. Her face is flushed red with embarrassment. She looks like it will be a long time coming before she risks going into that deli again.
"Come on girls," she shuttles us quickly towards the car. "We should leave."
Rachel doesn't think twice. She walks away and climbs into the back seat before I can so much as get another word out. With a hearty sigh, I follow. I fall into the passenger seat. When my mother steps into the car, for the briefest of moments, our eyes lock. We both register a familiar expression as she pulls the car into gear, falls out of the parking lot, and ticks off yet another failure on our ever-growing list.
We eat in absolute silence.
My mother plops a grease-stained paper bag in front of Rachel and presents her with a vegetarian sandwich the size of my arm along with a quart-sized Chinese food container overflowing with French fries.
Normally, the mere idea of such an unorthodox meal would repulse both Rachel and my mother alike, but these circumstances are special.
Even after my mother turns into the kitchen to put the remaining groceries away, she watches Rachel like a hawk.
Like she can feel my mother's eyes piercing through the back of her skull, Rachel takes small, dainty bites of her sandwich. The cast that still extends all the way up her left arm limits her motions, but I can tell that, for the most part, she is eating so slowly on purpose.
"I'm done. You can stop staring at me now." Rachel makes the announcement when she is finally finished eating. She swivels around inside of her chair, staring at our mother, waiting for her reaction to being called out.
"I wasn't staring." My mother pretends to be abashed by Rachel's accusation. My sister shoots her a look, one that our mother is innately familiar with seeing how she had provided Rachel with the genes to successfully mimic it in the first place.
My mother's face falls. It is like she is only now realizing what it feels like to be on the receiving end of one of those infamous glares.
"Okay fine, I was staring."
"You don't have to watch me all the time, you know," Rachel mutters, folding her hands inside of her lap. "I'm a big girl. I can take care of myself."
My mother thinks of no way to respond except to offer a heavy sigh. She rounds out of the kitchen, trying to buy her time to find something to say. In the end, she falls just short.
"May I be excused?" Rachel takes advantage of the silence. "I have a lot of homework to catch up on."
"Rachel, you're still recovering," my mother insists. "You don't have to worry about that."
"I'm going back to school tomorrow," Rachel announces. She doesn't ask, she tells.
I swallow, my eyes flickering between Rachel and my mother. I am searching for the seam that has grown between them so that I might sew it together quickly before it can become irreparable.
"You're not ready," my mother tells Rachel sternly.
"I'm not ready or you're not ready?" my sister accuses. "You can't keep me locked up inside of this house forever, mom!"
My mother is taken aback by Rachel's words. She retreats slightly, her eyes softening as she stares at Rachel as though she is trying to ask my sister why not?
"Rachel, please, let's not argue right now," my mother pleads. "Your recovery takes priority over school. The doctor does not want you straining yourself. Do I need to remind you that you were in ICU less than a week ago? Besides, you're first therapy appointment is scheduled for tomorrow. It's non-negotiable."
"What if I don't want to go?" Rachel questions. She is trying to sound defiant, but I can hear tears blanketing her statement.
"You don't have a choice," my mother points out. She is attempting to stay calm, but Rachel is being difficult, and in my mother's exhaustion, it is starting to get to her. We have already had one public incident today. Now, we are on the verge of a major argument. What a hot streak we have going.
"I don't want to go!" Rachel shouts like a toddler. "I don't need therapy, mom! I don't need some stupid shrink asking me about my feelings. I just want to go back to school."
"You don't get it do you, Rachel?" my mother hisses back at my sister, feeling that final thread of her composure snap. "You don't have a choice. We need to do exactly what CPS is telling us to do. They are trying to take you away from me. Do you understand that?"
"Mom…" I cut in between her and Rachel, sensing the need to intervene.
A silence falls over all three of us, like a heavy snow. My mother shrinks, her mouth falling into a thin line of defeat.
"I'm going to my room," Rachel grumbles, pushing away from the table. She storms off down the hallway. I sense my mother considering calling back to her, but in the end, she falls short and the only sound I hear is that of Rachel's bedroom door slamming closed so loudly that the entire house shakes.
I turn back to my mother, whose eyes are closed. She is muttering a something under her breath, cursing her ineptitude.
"Want me to check on her?" I ask after a very long silence.
"No," my mother opens her eyes and shakes her head at me. "Just let her cool off. Give her some space. I think that we could all use some of that about now."
I nod my head, agreeing on the need for air. Now that she has mentioned it, the claustrophobia that I am feeling is overwhelming. I had been waiting to go home ever since arriving at the hospital, but now that I am back, I am overcome with the desire to leave.
"Can I go for a walk?" I ask.
"No," my mother does not even think about her answer.
"Why not?" I counter. A little fresh air would probably do all of us some good. Besides, it's still early in the afternoon and what harm could a couple of blocks down the road do?
"Because I said so," she snaps. She doesn't have the energy to deal with back-to-back arguments with both of her daughters right now, but with all this tension brewing between us, this outcome seemed inevitable.
"That's not an answer," I point out, but it is not the response my mother wants to hear.
"Because I don't want to let you out of my sight right now, Santana!" she snaps. Her honesty gives me pause. Inside of her face, I sense a fear that almost makes me feel guilty for pushing. "I don't want to take my eyes off of you or Rachel for even a second. I am afraid that if I so much as blink, one of you will be gone before I get the chance to open my eyes again. Please, Santana. I'm begging you. Work with me here."
"Fine," I turn away from my mother. "I'm going to my room too."
I follow Rachel's lead and walk down the hallway towards my own bedroom. I can feel my mother's eyes staring a hole through the back of my head as I go, but she never tries to stop me.
Once safely inside of my room, I feel myself slam my own bedroom door closed, although it is not nearly as hard as Rachel had done. I am expecting my mother to do the same but realize that she has been actively avoiding her bedroom ever since we got home. I'm not sure that she will ever be able to go inside of that room again, not after what we had found there last Thursday…
I stand in the center of my bedroom and stare into it. It hasn't changed since I've been gone, but it still feels unfamiliar.
The shoebox that I had kept Quinn's pistol in is sitting in the center of my bed, which I find strange because I am positive that I hadn't left it there.
I tip the box open. Sure enough, the gun is back inside. On top of it is a note in Quinn's handwriting, which is much neater than Noah's.
Thought this might come in handy – XO Quinn
I close the lid and stare out the window. Lucy Sherman had been pretty adamant about me not having a gun inside of this house, but what am I supposed to do if Andrew does come back? I can't risk being defenseless against him.
I decide not to make an immediate decision. Instead, I leave the box on my bed and stare out my window, where Noah had claimed in his note he had climbed through with Quinn to clean up my house. If Noah and Quinn could break into my house by climbing in, I can certainly break out of my house by climbing out. It wouldn't be for too long, just a quick stroll down the block. My mother wouldn't even notice I was gone.
I make it outside quietly. When my feet touch the muddy brush just underneath my window, I feel strangely free.
I make my way towards the sidewalk. School is still in session for the day, but I notice that Noah's car is in the driveway, and when I knock on his door, he answers.
"You're home," he states. His tone is flat. He sounds like I am the last person he had been expecting to show up at his doorstep.
"Who were you expecting? A MILF?" I ask. I am only half joking.
"Nah," he waves me off, loosening up as he goes. "The pool cleaning business is a bit slow in late November. My primary MILF target is in hibernation for the winter."
"You're sick," I roll my eyes at him, but he only smiles.
"Where's Quinn?" I ask, forcing the small talk for fear that without it, Noah will start asking me the real questions, which I am not ready to answer right now.
"School."
"Like where you should be," I point out, but my tone houses no judgment. Noah only shrugs.
"Like I said, winter in Ohio is dull. The Cheerios stop wearing those skirts and all the chicks start trading in V-necks for turtlenecks. What's the point?"
"You're sick," I repeat my previous sentiments.
"Do you wanna come in?" Noah pushes my comment aside and steps out of his doorway, inviting me inside. He must sense my desire to escape, but he doesn't ask any questions, which is why I love him. "The Pianist is on TV. It's my mom's second favorite movie. I'm recording it for her."
"You know, for being a popular jock, you sure are corny," I tell him with a laugh as I accept his invitation and step inside of the house.
"Cornier than Iowa and Nebraska put together, honey," he tells me, purposefully laying that Midwestern accent on thick.
I roll my eyes at him, but his stupid joke makes me laugh despite this.
"Has anybody ever told you that you're ridiculous?" I ask him. I am certain of the answer, but I need to make sure.
"Only about every person on the face of this planet," Noah confirms. "Now come on. My TiVo only lets me pause live TV for ten minutes at a time and this is my favorite part."
I stay at Noah's longer than expected. I hadn't planned on being gone more than fifteen minutes, but one full pizza and two emotionally-charged Jewish films later, I have officially lost track of the time.
When I realize what I have done, I know that I need to go home, but I still do so regretfully. Noah had managed to take everything away from me. Even if it was only for a little while, I am reluctant to go back.
I am not surprised when I sneak back in through my window only to find my mother waiting for me in my bedroom. She does not look happy.
"Where the hell have you been?" she hisses at me. Her voice is laced with panic and anxiety. It is so pure that I almost feel bad.
"I just went for a walk, mom, I told you I didn't want to sit inside of this house all day!"
"And I told you that I didn't want you leaving this house," she tells me. She is having a hard time keeping her voice down. "You didn't even think to answer one of the fifty phone calls I sent you? Do you have any idea how worried I was? I was about to call the police!"
"I left my phone home by accident, mom, I'm sorry!" I shoot back. She had only just given me my cell phone back following the unofficial ending to my grounding. I'm not used to carrying it around yet. "I'm a big girl, you know. I can take care of myself. You don't have to hover over my shoulder every second of every day."
"It's not you that I'm worried about, Santana!"
This time, she is yelling. The second that the words are out of her mouth, we both freeze. I watch my mother cringe and turn over her shoulder, checking to ensure that Rachel's bedroom door is still closed, that she hasn't heard my mother and I blossom into yet another fight about Andrew and our safety…
When Rachel never emerges, I watch my mother's face fall. Her expression changes dramatically, foreboding. I watch it contort and feel my stomach clench with anticipation. I have a feeling that she is about to tell me something that I don't want to hear.
"What is it?" I encourage her when she takes far too long to get the words out herself.
"Detective Sullins called while you were gone," she breathes. "Andrew's public defender petitioned to have Andrew released on bail. None of the felony charges could be held without evidence. The judge agreed."
Suddenly, my mother's disheveled appearance makes perfect sense. It is not my whereabouts that she had been so worried about, it's his.
"How?" It is the only word that I can think to say. I look at my mother for all the answers, although we both know she doesn't have them. I watch her shake her head sadly.
"The judge sided with him," she tells me, running a shaking hand through her already disheveled hair. "He got a bondsman using collateral with that fucking truck."
I've never heard my mom curse before. It makes the fear that is already bubbling uncomfortably inside my stomach boil over.
"This system is going to fail us," I sigh, thinking aloud before I can stop myself.
"We have to give it time, Santana," my mother tells me, although I can tell that she is losing hope just as quickly as I am.
"If we give it time, we give him time," I remind her. She offers me a look that tells me that this is a concept that she certainly doesn't need reminding of.
I want to scream. I want to throw a fit, punch a wall, break something… I want to find Andrew myself and finish him off for real this time, but I can't. I can't because life is not fair. People get away with murder every single day. A man who should have been locked up years ago gets off because of a technicality. He is allowed to do it again and even that isn't enough? Our delicate system is a teetering mess. Nothing is owed to anybody anymore. To set expectations these days seems foolish.
"Does Rachel know?" I gather my thoughts quickly and try to keep my tone all-business to prevent my fragile infrastructure from collapsing entirely. These people out there, they might force me to dig my own grave, but they sure as hell won't make me lie down in it.
"Yes," my mother sighs. "I went into her bedroom and spoke with her. I was coming to tell you next when I saw that you were gone."
She tapers off. I look up at her, apologetic for leaving when she had explicitly told me not to, but in a way, I am glad that I had gotten a few hours out of the house because if she had told me this information when I had been sitting in my bedroom silently seething all afternoon, I likely would have exploded by now.
"I can't believe this," I manage.
"I can't either," she admits. "It makes me want to lock you girls away somewhere safe. I want to keep you under my watch 24/7. I don't want to let you out of my sight. I know that you're an adult, Santana, and I know that you're more than capable of taking care of yourself, but please, please try to understand where I am coming from now. You worried me so much today."
I cast my eyes downward, embarrassed.
"I get it mom," I tell her. "And I get that you're reluctant to let Rachel and I go, but you can't do that right now. We can't just sit here and wait for Andrew to come back and wonder what if. We have to move on. I think that Rachel is right. You need to let her go back to school. You need to go back to work. CPS isn't going to buy that you were just trying to keep us safe if you get fired and we fail out of high school. Maybe a sense of normalcy is really what we need right now."
My mother stares at me for a long time, considering my argument carefully.
"Fine," she finally concedes. "You two can go to school tomorrow, but my stipulations will be high."
"What do you have in mind?"
"You need to call me throughout the day," she insists, pointing a finger at me so that she knows that she is holding me responsible. "You need to look out for your sister. She's not going to tell you if she is tired or if she's hurting or scared. You need to read her, Santana, and if you get any whiff that something is wrong, you need to tell me. I can reschedule her appointment for after school, but if things go south, I'm pulling her out."
I smirk. These are conditions that I can live with. I haven't been in William McKinley High School in a week, and despite the fact that a normal teenager would jump on the idea of a one-week vacation, the idea of it is getting old for me.
"Fine," I tell her with an affirmative nod. "You have yourself a deal."
I roll over inside of my bed, trying to find a new position in my bid to get comfortable and fall asleep. This is about my thousandth position change of the night. None of them are any better than the last. I have been wide awake for hours.
Blindly, I roll out of bed. My bare feet find the cold hardwood. I use my hands to guide myself out of my bedroom, my eyes still not adjusted to the darkness. I figure if I can't sleep, I might as well try some tea or water or something to aid the process along.
My eyes start to focus inside of the hallway. The living room is shrouded in the gentle glow of the moon and the street lights that stream in through the bay window. I am about to cut into the kitchen to get a glass of water when out of the corner of my eye, I see the shadow of a person in the living room and I freeze.
A cold sweat lines my forehead as my heart starts to pound inside of my temples. I rub at my eyes. Maybe I am still dreaming. It is only when I open them again, and the shadow remains, that I realize that this is not a dream. There is a person sitting inside the large recliner next to the window.
I blink and try to stay perfectly still. Maybe if I can identify Andrew before he notices me, I will have the chance to back into safety.
When a car passes from somewhere outside and a set of headlights stream through the window, they douse the living room in light. I quickly realize that it is not Andrew sitting there, but my own mother. Only then do I allow myself to exhale.
I see her, but she doesn't seem to see me. Her eyes are wide and staring. She doesn't turn away from the window. As far as I can tell, she isn't even blinking.
I know what she is doing. She is watching, and she is waiting. She is expecting Andrew to show up to our front door in the middle of the night to finish what he started, and she is determined to be ready for him when he does.
With a pang of panic, I come to the realization that it turns out that Rachel is the easiest of all three of us right now. She is nervous, but not prohibitively so. My mother and I, we are the wrecks.
I confirm this fact when I look down into my mother's lap and find Quinn's pistol draped across her knees like an Afghan. One finger is firmly extended off the trigger guard, waiting to be pulled if it comes down to it. I realize only now that the shoebox I had left on my bed before slipping out my window to go to Noah's earlier hadn't been there when I returned.
"Mom?" I call softly into the darkness. I watch as she jumps a foot into the air at the sound of my voice. Her entire body is trembling. If I thought she had any idea how to use that gun, she probably would have shot me already.
"Santana, Jesus…" my mother pants, placing a hand against her chest in an effort to calm her racing heart. "What are you doing awake?"
"I couldn't sleep, I just wanted a glass of water," I explain softly. "What are you doing?"
"Just go back to sleep, Santana." It is the only explanation she gives me, hardly an answer at all. She sounds exhausted, but we both know that she will get just about as much sleep as me tonight.
"Mom, do you even know how to use that thing?" I ask, inching towards her slowly. I hold out my hand, gesturing for her to pass the gun towards me, but I know that it is unlikely that she will do it, even if I am of age and definitely know how to use it better than she does.
"I've got the watch tonight, Santana," she shakes her head. Her grip on the pistol never loosens. "Just go back to sleep, alright?"
"Alright…"
I settle not to argue. Turning, I retreat back into my bedroom. I walk slowly down the hallway, looking over my shoulder towards my mother only once. She has gone back to staring out the window. She wears the same wide-eyed, glazed expression as before.
With a sigh, I turn back around, shoulders hunched and feet dragging. I turn back into my bedroom and throw myself down on my bed.
Only then do I realize that I never did get that glass of water.