Illusions (The Missing #1) (13 page)

It infuriated me. I felt so much anger that I thought I would burn alive.

The words were a taunt. They were a hateful jab.

Invisible.

Unseen

Deceit at all cost.

“No more!”

They kept singing. It didn’t matter that I wanted them to shut up.

But the voice was familiar . . .

Thump.

The singing stopped.

Everything was like it was before.

Then the tears came. And they would never, ever end.

The Past

Five Months Ago

I
stared at my reflection.

I had woken up especially early so I could get a shower before Mother was up. I had meticulously dried my hair, then had taken the time to style it. Going so far as to use gel. The strands were thin and limp and wouldn’t do what I wanted so I ended up brushing my hair flat on either side of my face. I didn’t bother with makeup, because what would be the point?

I painted my nails and moisturized my skin. I took care and attention in a way I never had before. I wanted to feel attractive. Just this once.

But more importantly I needed to see what the rest of the world saw. I had to know how bad it really was.

I ran my tongue over my lips and forced myself to stare into a face I had only seen a handful of times.

I could have been pretty. There was nothing wrong with my hair. It was fine and blonde and suited me.

My eyes were nice. Sometimes they appeared brown, other times they were green. Bradley said that he liked my eyes and that had always made me feel good.

I tried to focus on the things I liked. The things that I knew other people would appreciate. But my gaze kept finding its way to my mouth. To the scars. To the memory of what had been there
before.

I remembered how as a small child, no more than four years old, Mother would grip the back of my neck, holding me in place. She would pull all the hair away from my face and pointed at my hated reflection. I stared back at her with wide, scared eyes.

“Look at who you really are, Nora! You are here to punish me and I must bare it. But that doesn’t mean I have to love the thing that torments me.”

I hadn’t understood her words and I didn’t understand them now. Why did she feel I was her punishment?

She had always been cold and distant towards me, but it had become significantly worse after Rosie went back to foster care. After Dad passed away, her hatred knew no bounds. She seemed to make it her mission to keep me tethered to her through misery and dependence. She never wanted me to forget that I was unloved and unwanted. But she would never let me leave either.

I often wondered why she hadn’t put me up for adoption when it was obvious she couldn’t stand to look at me. When she realized that my cleft palate made it impossible for her to nurture and love me as a parent should.

I had dared to ask her once when I was feeling moderately brave. Sometimes I was able to pull on an inner strength that otherwise alluded me.

I usually paid for it afterwards.

That particular day Mother had been especially cruel. She had locked me in my room for hours while she had several friends over for tea. They never knew I was there at all. Mother hadn’t come to let me out until almost bedtime. I hadn’t had dinner, and I hadn’t been able to use the bathroom for hours.

I was hungry and tired, and I just wanted to know why she kept me around when it was obvious how much she detested me.

“You could give me away,” I had said softly, keeping my eyes firmly to the ground. I waited for her to smack me. Or ridicule my lisping speech.

Instead she had laughed as though I had told her the funniest joke.

“I’ll never be rid of you. God made sure of that.”

I continued to stare at myself in the mirror. The scarring was obvious, but the skin wasn’t the angry red it had been just after the surgery. The mark went from the top of my lip to just beneath my nose.

I picked up a small tube of concealer I bought from the drug store earlier in the week and dabbed some of the makeup on the scar.

I carefully rubbed the skin, blending it. I tilted my face left and right and almost smiled.

It was far less noticeable. In fact, I looked almost . . .
cute.

“What are you doing?”

I jumped. The small tube of concealer rolled into the sink with a clang. Her eyes honed in the object, her eyes narrowed. I quickly picked up the makeup and put it away in the vanity drawer.

“N-nothing,” I stammered, lowering my head so that my hair curtained my face.

Mother took a step into the bathroom and grabbed my chin in a pincher like grasp. “You’ve tried to cover it up,” she hissed, making her words bullets of accusation.

“I thought you’d be happy not having to see it—” I began but went silent as Mother’s nails dug into my chin.

“Don’t presume to know what I think about anything,” she said, her voice icy cold. She held me by the back of the neck and turned on the faucet. Then without another word, she pushed me down; my head smacked the spigot making my scalp throb.

The frigid water poured over my face. Mother’s fingers scrubbed my skin until I thought she’d peel me to the bone. I didn’t cry. I didn’t scream.

And I didn’t fight.

There was no point. She’d always win.

When Mother was satisfied she turned off the water, and I slowly stood up, drenched. I didn’t look in the mirror again. I didn’t want to see the shame. The self-hatred.

The repulsion.

“Get changed and I’ll drive you to school.” She left and I was relieved when she closed the door behind her. I dried my hair and then brushed it out, making sure it covered the parts I didn’t want anyone to see.

I’d never feel comfortable in my own skin.

Mother had made sure of that.

“Have you eaten?” I looked up from the book I was reading to find Bradley standing over me.

We hadn’t spoken much since the day he found me in the park with Maren. He had been angry, but quietly so, which was unusual for him. Bradley was typically loud and vocal in his fury.

I didn’t have to wonder why he had been upset. I didn’t question his seeming unreasonable anger about my ditching school and spending time with someone that he didn’t know. Change in routine upset him. I was his constant. He relied on me in simple yet important ways.

Bradley’s anger was its own entity. It lived and breathed and destroyed. And it tried to wrap around me and hold me close. There were times I surrendered to it because I wanted to make him happy.

But then there were times I wanted to hold back. I wanted something just for me. I didn’t want him privy to everything inside of me.

Which wasn’t necessarily fair.

Because I expected everything from him in return.

“I haven’t,” I said softly, closing the used copy of Emily Dickinson poetry I was reading for one of my classes.

Bradley’s lip was split, and I could tell he had been chewing mercilessly at the skin. It looked like it hurt. I could have given him a tissue from my bag. Maybe I should have told him to put ice on it. I didn’t do either. He’d never allow my offers of help. I had learned that quickly.

He bore his pain silently. Alone. He didn’t show it to anyone. Except to me. Only ever to me.

I knew his secrets, and he was confident that I’d never share them. He knew I’d never use them against him.

If he could trust anyone, it would be me. I had earned it with my own tears and tragedy.

“Let’s go then,” he said gruffly, picking up my bag from the ground. I got to my feet and wiped dead grass from my pants. He clicked his tongue in exasperation. “You shouldn’t be sitting out here. It’s way too cold. You’ll get sick or something.”

I rolled up my paperback and tucked it into the back pocket of my jeans. “I’m okay. Promise,” I assured him. He needed to hear me say it.

I’m okay.

Even if it was a lie, he found solace in the deception. He wanted to believe that I was fine. That I’d be all right.

He let out a sigh that would have sounded like relief except for the firm set of his jaw and the angry glint in his green eyes. So hard. So unyielding.

“Come on,” he gave my hand a pull, and we started to walk across the campus. Neither of us spoke to anyone.

Me, because no one noticed I was there. Bradley, because he didn’t see anyone else.

We entered the small cafeteria, and I found a small table near the back while Bradley went to buy our food. He knew what I’d like so I didn’t have to tell him.

I dropped down into a chair with my back against the wall. It was important for me to always see my exits.

Bradley still had my bag, so I twirled the frayed edges of my scarf around my finger and waited.

“Hey, Nora.”

I stopped breathing. My face flushed red.

She
was here.

Maren sat down in the chair opposite me, and I lifted my head to look at her. I gave her all of my face, not hiding anything from this complete stranger.

“Hi,” I responded. I glanced over her shoulder and saw that Bradley was still waiting in line.

Thankfully he was looking the other way.

“I was hoping that I’d see you again,” Maren said, folding her hands together on top of a battered notebook with a blue and green cover. My heart did cartwheels in my chest.

She was wearing cut off jean shorts with zebra stripped leggings underneath. Her yellow sweater fell off her shoulder, and she wore a necklace with a large wrought metal sun around her neck.

Her statement left me flustered and I didn’t know how to respond, so I pointed at the sun lying between her breasts. “I like your necklace.”

Maren looked down at her jewelry. “Thanks. I made it actually. I took a welding class last year when I lived in Baltimore.”

I latched onto the tiny detail she had given me. “You lived in Baltimore?”

Maren smiled. She was lovely in the way perfect people were. With clear skin and sparkling eyes that made my stomach knot up. Did she have any idea the affect she had on me? Was I able to hide it the way I hid everything else?

Somehow I doubted it.

My palms began to sweat and I wiped them on my jeans.

“Hartford, Connecticut before that, and St. Louis, Missouri before that. I’ve moved around a lot.” Maren picked at a spot on her sleeve. There was nothing there. I looked.

Bradley was still getting our lunch, but he had noticed Maren at our table. His face was surprisingly unreadable.

I didn’t like it.

“I’ve only ever lived here,” I replied, watching Bradley as he watched me.

Maren ran a hand through her long hair, and my attention was torn from my possessive friend to the woman who demanded to be looked at.

“You don’t sound happy about that,” Maren observed.

I shrugged. “I’m not,” I found myself admitting. I liked telling her my secrets.

“I wonder which of us had it worse then?” Maren tilted her head to the side and regarded me steadily. She chewed on a piece of loose skin on her bottom lip. White teeth nibbling on dry, flaky flesh.