A Love Story
4)
Was it too much to hope for to have at least a meal, maybe? A walk in the park? Maybe, oh, just maybe, the kind of conversation that might take place between a brother and sister?
Skye couldn't even reject him to his face?
"China?" JR echoed blankly on the front step of the mansion.
"Uh-huh," the boy answered nervously.
"Skye is in…" JR waited in an odd silence, head cocked in interest.
"China."
"Why?" JR asked curiously, nearly choking out the word.
"Uh, she wanted, uh, fresh… tea?"
JR snorted, staring down into the contents of his coffee. His breath misted in front of his face and he wondered, absently, how long it took to freeze to death.
She probably stood behind the door, feeding Spiky the words.
The hair hadn't worked with JR; it wouldn't work in the long run for this Squirt.
After running for a coffee, he'd perched himself on the front step of the Quartermaine mansion. Now, two hours later, he finally gave in. Tossing the coffee, cup and all, away, he stood, grunting at the knots and kinks in his legs and back.
Let the bastards clean up that ridiculous excuse for a coffee. Maybe Skye would do it, clean up all evidence of his visit before the masters could learn that her real family had wanted to visit.
Even with the overcoat, he was still chilled to the bone. Shivering slightly, he climbed back into the car, starting it and clicking on the heater.
There, facing the house, he sat and wished for a hose.
Let her come out afterwards, find his dead body, leave her to deal with all this shit.
Jesus, why did this matter anyway; it wasn't like she'd called or visited or given them any indication that she hadn't dropped off the face of the Earth. It was clear now that the call Dad had gotten had been some sick joke. Probably wanted top get JR out of the house so he could search for Colby.
So why the Hell did this feel so goddamn shitty?
Because you hoped, you stupid jackass. You let yourself believe that just maybe family cared.
Gripping the steering wheel more tightly, JR swallowed, his throat burning as he stared at the windows, where the two shapes moved around. Arguing.
About whether or not she should give a damn.
About me.
With a hiss, JR reached up and rubbed his face savagely, struggling to breathe. His skin tingled, the muscles in his back and neck tightened up even more painfully and reminded him, for the umpteenth time, that he had to see a chiropractor. All those nights sleeping in the nursery, in the rocking chair, had made their mark in his spine.
It was getting steadily worse, made sleeping hard and working harder. It made his head pound to move his neck and his arms had begun a steady ache after more than an hour of typing.
And falling asleep in an office chair, no matter how comfortable, made it even worse.
JR had slept on the floor of his bedroom the night before, not even a pillow.
So why was he refusing to go see somebody?
Well, as Kendall had so calmly put it, falling asleep in agony was better than falling asleep thinking about his son… or daughter… or wife or brother or step-father or…
Mom.
One had died in fire, the other in water; she'd been burned to death, her and the baby.
My baby drowned.
His lungs filled with water and his bones broke and he… JR shook himself, trying to do away with the image, so perfectly clear. No.
With a surge of anger, he pulled out of the drive, spinning and sending up an explosion of gravel and rock.
Let the bitch clean it up herself.
Amy cancelled their lunch date, something about banging into an old friend. Other people might think she was just being rude; Micaela knew her better. If Amy said that she'd met up with a friend, than she'd met up with a friend. It was physically impossible for Amy to lie.
Since the minute they'd met in Micaela's Child Behavior class, the two had connected. And while Amy worked toward her eventual dream of buying and running a metaphysical shop, Amy worked for Micaela as a secretary.
Unfortunately, the cancellation left Micaela alone in a new town, to fend for herself and find nourishment. Not as easy as it sounds.
They had several different restaurants, a handful of clubs and a business district to end all business districts.
Micaela spent an hour running back and forth, watching for anything that she might accidentally hit before she found a McDonalds. With a large bag in the passenger seat, she fled back to her apartment and fortified herself with enough carbs to survive another day.
Usually, she was a vegetable and fish person but she was desperate.
The rest of the day was spent in a state of vegetation and rest, to prepare for the volley of meetings that hit her tomorrow.
Micaela Victoria Kincaide had no way of knowing that, across town, in a law office, a two-legged snake with strong paternal/maternal instincts was planting a piece of paper that would forever change hers and his son's lives… forever.
If she had, he probably would have ended up dead, killed from death by stiletto.
Thaddeus James Martin was, to put it quite simply, a Cad. Once upon a time, he'd been a caring, loyal father, a faithful son and a beloved husband who had been lucky enough to find his one woman in the world.
But that was before his one, his match, his other half, had gone off that cliff.
Before his own son had destroyed what could have been a happy marriage and fled with…
Before Paul Cramer, before that crash and that flood and that night in Florida and that Christmas Eve where he'd destroyed anything that was left of Dixie.
Before his family, one he'd fought so hard to have, had crumbled. The more he tried to salvaged it, the more it crumbled. It was like a paper boat, dropped by a little boy into a pool. The more he tried to dry it, save it, the more it tore, shredded, clung to his hands in bits and pieces of white.
Tad had moments that returned to him, stuck to him like the remains of a little paper boat, resurfaced in the middle of night, right before sleep, just before his brain thankfully shut down. But when the brain slowed, the heart grew louder and he was left watching his dreams, watching faces and moments and hearing things that should never have been spoken.
He didn't have children left, not really. Two had never had the chance to get there, had never filled their lungs with air or looked up at the people who loved them.
One was somehow everything that Tad was, everything that had destroyed, again and again, his marriage and his family and his wife. He was the son of the man who had slept with Liza Colby, the one who'd refused to let Dixie have that first little girl. In the end, he'd be the one who lay awake at night, wondering and hoping and wishing and hurting.
And the other… That son wasn't his, not really. Once, it had been so close that Tad could taste it, feel what could have made so much okay. But, in the end, it was gone, swept up and away, leaving ruins where the two had once so desperately tried to defend their little battlement of hope and love and maybe. The two had fought so hard, but the crushing weight was just too much, too hard and they were left, chilled and aching and trying to find home.
That one… he was the one should be with, be sitting in that nursery with, trying to comfort, trying to help, trying to be a father to. But the home they'd shared had driven off that cliff, burned to death, leaving only that little empty village to defend against the outside world.
The outside world had won and while Tad had looked for a new home, the one who wasn't his son had created, tried to create, a new little place. A little place, not much more than a hut, but which would stop the rain and snow and wind and all those things that left you chilled. Yes, the cold would be there, but the hut would keep him from freezing, give him a place to huddle under covers and wait for the storm to pass.
The girl had ripped the door and windows from the hut, let the ice and water in, but, like a loyal little soldier, the son who wasn't a son had stayed, trying to hold the fort, keep it safe.
Tad had destroyed the hut, destroyed what was left, left not even a floor or piping or even a blanket to cling to. All that was left of his little home, his little hut was a patch of bare earth, a patch already rotted through.
And now, the loyal little soldier finally broke. He fled to a cave, fled to the dark and shadows where the harsh light of day, where the truth behind the lies couldn't reach him. He shivered and he chilled and he froze but he stayed, unable to look for a new home, look for a new place to create or try to create.
He huddled and he waited to die, waited to end, waited for an escape that refused to come, waited for the chill to finally finish him, especially since it was so close already, right?
The human brain in the stillness of night is a bitch. It was a bitch that filled Tad's head with these strange allegories and a storybook of memories, all so clear and pristine… he could smell perfume and taste chicken wings and remember the feel of being stuffed on a couch, all but covered by sons and a wife, all asleep.
Tad watched them, didn't try to interrupt them, didn't want to.
The smell of perfume and the taste of pancakes was all that he had left. He just wished for a way to find that cave, find the loyal little soldier and bring him out, where the sunlight could warm him, chase away the chill.
Only problem was, Tad had already created the landslide that buried the little son who wasn't a son in what the son hoped to be a grave. And it had buried him alive.
Dad was gone when he finally got back so JR decided to save his rant for later.
When he felt like it.
The anger had died away, leaving him cold and hungry and looking for a drink.
He headed upstairs, barely avoiding Stuart, who seemed to be looking for him, and cracked open his new bottle of Scotch, shutting himself in his bedroom.
His work lay scattered across the desk, the sheet from last night remained on the floor, testimony that Winifred had followed his orders to stay out. Took her long enough.
There, sitting up against his head board, he stared at the desk where Babe had once stored her ceramic cow collection. That area sat untouched and he'd shoved Winifred out before she managed to dust it off, leaving him with the impressions of Babe's collection.
But they were filling up, he noted as he swallowed some of his liquor. Soon, there'd just be a layer of dust, nothing to remain from her collection. Shouldn't he be happy about that? Shouldn't he let Winifred clean it, swipe up what was left?
He didn't know, he didn't understand but he remembered how each one had sat, what each had been called. The one in the front, the little glazed one with angel wings and big blue eyes, and a little crown. He'd brought that for her on the one-month anniversary, and she'd called it Olli, but she'd never explained the name and he'd never cared. All that had mattered was the look in her eyes and how her hair had moved when she bounced, squealing happily.
All he had left of Olli was a spot surrounded by dust.
Just like Gigi, a little piggy bank he'd found at a garage sale. Her eyes had been brown, and big and he'd known that they made a cow piggy bank. Shouldn't they call it cow bank, or maybe a moo bank? Really, a piggy bank of a cow was really misleading…
And Babe was sitting between his legs on the bed, holding Ms. Moo in her denim shorts and a pink tank, her blonde hair in two little braids and explaining how Krystal had found Ms. Moo in an abandoned hotel room.
And he could smell that Strawberry shampoo she used, the smell of strawberry milk when she laughed.
And her bare feet would twitch whenever she hit a climax of the story, her toes wiggling as she laughed.
And then JR was given a heart attack when his phone started screeching, like that annoying Ms. Kincaide.
Choking on what had to be drool, he knocked the bottle off the bed before he managed to grab the phone. "Chandler. JR Chandler." Jesus Christ, was that his voice!
"Yeah Mr. Chandler, this is James."
"James."
"Vivianne James?"
"I don't " The name suddenly hit home and he went still, no longer trying to reach for the now nearly empty bottle. James got the sudden silence for what it was.
"Exactly, Mr. Chandler. Exactly. Look, I found something. Something "
"Her? Did you find… did you find her… body?"
"Well, Mr. Chandler…" James sounded hesitant now and JR felt his chest tighten and he sat up even farther, struggling to breathe. "Mr. Chandler… Ms. Cooney's body wasn't… We can't find… Ms. Cooney isn't in this car."
"Then… where is she?"
Somewhere in Switzerland...
Nanny part-time was something, at least. Lord knew the kids in the hospital needed a peppy person to light up their days. This was her job, the one she loved so much. And the kids knew her, loved her, waited for her when she missed one of her usual days.
But even a herd of hopeful faces didn't still that goddamn ache in her chest, one that wasn't connected to what the doctors called a "weak heart".
She'd thought, after that last dream, the one about falling, about telling Dr. Benson but hesitated to actually find the older woman. Dr. Janine Benson was a wonderful woman and a good friend but she wouldn't hesitate to put her on meds.
And just the thought of more medication, in addition to the kidney and heart meds, made her ill.
So she'd pushed the thoughts, and that smell of cologne, away, to the back of her mind. But her mind wasn't quiet as tight as one of her Tupperware containers, once that she used to store Cady's beloved clay. Jinxie had forced them to find a good container after the third time he ate it.
Not the smartest dog in the world, unfortunately.
The simple fact was, the sleeping pills weren't working very well anymore, allowed flashes and whispers to rise up when she didn't focus on locking them down. Yet, it wasn't the voices or faces that really hurt her. It was the nightmares.
Nightmares of water and fire, of a choking sensation, of a trapped coldness that threatened to drag her under, smashing her on the rocks, skin torn and shredded, her bones breaking as her lungs filled.
She didn't know which was worse, the heat and fire and flame or the terror of being dragged under. Sometimes she woke up too hot and fled to the cold shower, other nights left her digging for every blanket she had.
What was next, death by starvation?
By the time she got home, Gina had put Cady to bed and Jinxie was flopped out by Cady's bed, like some old stuffed animal. Paying Gina, oh Cady's such a sweet little thing Ms. Cole, except for when she makes a… well, a plan, Ms. Cole, the young woman left and she was left to check on the two members of her family.
Cady Cole, who was currently hanging half-out of her bed, drool running into her hair, in her beloved dog nightgown.
Jinxie raised his head to glance at her but a quick scratch put him back to sleep, relaxing the self-appointed Superdog.
And then she was alone, to try to stop the whispers and faces and pull of water.
And she sat there, arms wrapped around herself as she sat and shivered, staring at her television blankly.
I'm losing my mind, she thought bleakly, dully watching the blurred shapes move in some grotesque dance of meaningless movement. I'm losing my mind and my sanity and what will Cady be left with?
She sat and she shivered and she feared for everything she was.