The Escape Collection: (The Escape Collection) (41 page)

“What the hell?” I turned to see Jordan, who at fourteen was already in full teenage angst mode and only barely tolerated anything to do with me. She was still in the tank top and shorts that she wore to bed and was standing in the doorway with her hands on her hips.
 

“Don't say hell,” I said.

“Well, what are you doing, Mother? It looks like a bomb went off.”

Jordan, in some form of teenage rebellion, had started referring to me as “mother”. As irritating as it was, it was an improvement from her short-lived phase of calling me by my first name. I’d tolerated that for an hour.
 

“I made breakfast,” Kayla said, her tears momentarily forgotten by the appearance of her sister. Her voice wavered, but at least she wasn't screaming.
 

“Yeah, looks like it,” Jordan said and pointed her bare foot at the lake of cereal. “What am I supposed to eat?”

“I was just trying—”

“Shut up,” Jordan snapped, sparking a fresh round of tears from her sister.

“Jordan Thompson, that's enough.” I pushed myself up from the floor, feeling the squish of what might have been corn flakes between my fingers. “Kayla, finish eating and Jordan,” I looked at my eldest, who was rolling her eyes, “just go get dressed.”

“Whatever,”
 
she said and spun on her heel. “I can't believe I'm related to you people,” I heard her mutter as she stalked down the hall.
 

Oh, the next few years are going to be fun, I thought, not for the first time.
 

I turned back to Kayla, who instead of eating, was staring at her still-f bowl.

“Kayla, please finish eating.”
 

“I'm not hungry.”

“You're kidding?”

“No.” She looked at me, her eyes full of sincerity, and blinked hard. She was still too close to the edge of a tantrum.

“Never mind,” I said. “Go get ready for school.”

Thankfully, she did as she was told. I really couldn't handle more screaming. I still hadn't had any coffee. Although at that point, something stronger would have been welcomed.

Taking a deep breath, I gritted my teeth and skated my feet across the floor through the mess. I took my favorite mug out of the cupboard, grabbed the pot, and poured. Slightly more than a dribble.
 

Jon seemed to think that as long as he left a drop in the pot, he didn’t have to make more.
 

“Fuck,” I said and slammed the pot down on the counter, where a crack rippled up the side of the glass.

“I thought you said I couldn't say that word.”

I turned to see Jordan standing in the doorway again. Her timing, when it suited her, was perfect.
 

With a smirk, she said, “I need my green shirt.”

“Where is it?”
 

“I don't know, Mother. That's why I'm asking you.”

I closed my eyes and tried very hard to remember how the book said I was supposed to deal with a difficult teen.
 

“Jordan, it’s not okay to speak to me that way.”
 

“Well, what am I supposed to wear then?”

“Find something.”

“Whatever,” she said and stalked off towards her room. No doubt to tear her closet apart in an effort to drive me crazy.

I looked down at the pathetic excuse for a cup of coffee and swallowed it in one gulp.
 

“Mommy, I need you to brush my hair,” Kayla hollered from her room.

I grabbed the broken coffee carafe, tossed it in the garbage, and with a sigh I'm sure could be heard through the neighborhood, made my way back through the sludge to get my daughters ready for school. The good thing about starting off my day in chaos was that it couldn’t get much worse.
 

***

It wasn't until I was pulling into the driveway, after taking the girls to school, that I realized it could, in fact, get much worse. Connie’s car was parked next to the curb. With the confusion of the morning, I'd totally forgotten she was coming for a visit. It had been too long, and I normally did enjoy a visit from my step-mother, it’s just, there never seemed to be—

Oh shit. The mess.
 

In my hurry to get the kids to school and get myself a coffee at the drive-thru, I'd left the sludgy cereal disaster for later. And by later, I meant I was hoping it would magically disappear.
 

I grabbed my purse and ran into the house. “Connie?” I called. “I’m so sorry.” I moved through the living room, but stopped short when I got to the kitchen.

I was too late.
 

Piney freshness filled the room, while my sixty-seven-year-old step-mother scrubbed the tile floor on her hands and knees.
 

“You didn’t have to do that,” I said. But we both knew she did. Connie couldn’t leave a smudge on a glass, let alone be in the middle of a major disaster zone, without jumping in.

“It’s nothing,” she said as she pushed herself up from the floor. I couldn’t help noticing she was moving a little slower than usual. Her ankles must be bothering her again. “I hope you don’t mind that I let myself in. I was going to make coffee, but…”

“Oh, right,” I said, doing my best to avoid meeting her eyes. “I had a little accident this morning. How about tea?”
 

“That sounds lovely, dear. I’m all finished here anyway. Just let me rinse out the bucket.”
 

I didn’t bother arguing with her; there was no point. She tidied up the cleaning supplies that only really got used when Connie came to visit, and stashed them away. I did my part and prepared two cups of tea, trying to forget about the coffee still in the car.

“Thanks again, Connie,” I said as I sat down and placed the steaming mug in front of her.
 

She shrugged, because for her there was nothing better than cleaning for those she cared about. Some people showed their love by cooking. Connie scrubbed and polished.
 

“I really didn’t mean for you to have to do that,” I said. “Honestly, I was going to take care of it when I got home but I just forgot about it and—“

“Really. It’s okay. You know I don’t mind.” She waved her hand to dismiss my protests.
 

“I know, but…” I blinked, hard. For some reason I felt like I might cry. I never cried.
 

Ever.
 

Jon thought it was strange that I didn’t tear up at sappy movies, or when I heard bad news. I tried to tell him that he got off easy with a wife who wasn’t always blubbering. But I knew he thought it was weird. The last time I remember really crying was after each of the girls was born. But that was just hormones. I probably hadn’t shed real tears since then. But for some reason, sitting across from the woman who’d helped raise me, who’d just cleaned up after my latest parenting fail, I genuinely thought I was going to lose it.

“Becca, are you okay?” Connie reached across the table and took my hand. The warmth of her skin, damp from the washing, was all it took to calm me.
 

I shook my head, clearing it of any leftover emotion. “I’m fine,” I said. It wouldn’t do any good to burden Connie with my troubles right now. I decided a long time ago not to complain about my life. There were a lot worse things in the world than bratty kids and a workaholic husband. It was stupid to get upset because the girls gave me a hard time this morning. But it wasn’t just this morning. It was every morning. And afternoon and—

“Becca?”
 

The sound of Connie’s voice jerked me back into the moment. I had a tendency to zone out and miss parts of conversations. It wasn’t a great trait and I was working on it. At least, I’d thought about working on it.
 

“Sorry,” I said. “I was just thinking about something.”

Connie tilted her head. She knew something was up, but would she say anything? It was hard to tell with her. After a moment, she straightened up, took a sip of her tea, and said, “I was wondering if you had anything planned for your birthday?”

I had totally forgotten about my birthday. It was May. I guess it was coming up. Excellent. I’d be thirty-five, which meant I was that much closer to forty. And what, exactly, had I done with those forty years?
 

I shook my head. “No,” I said. “To be honest, I forgot all about it, which means Jon probably did, too. He’s been so busy working and…well… I’m sure it’ll pass quietly.”
 

“I won’t hear of it. A birthday is a birthday and we’ll make sure to celebrate,” Connie said. Her face lit up with the promise of an event to plan. Connie thrived when she had a project, or a party or really anything at all, that she could sink her teeth into. I’d never met anyone who could multitask the way she did. I could barely manage to cook dinner and help the girls with homework, let alone orchestrate fundraising galas the way Connie did. It exhausted me to watch, so I tried not to. I also knew there was no use in fighting it. If Connie wanted to have a birthday celebration, we’d have one. Whether I liked it or not.
 

“We’ll have you all over for dinner tomorrow. It’ll be nice; I’ll do a lasagna and even make a cake.”

“I really don’t think I need a birthday cake, Connie.” I patted my stomach and felt ridiculous when I did it, but it was true. I didn’t need the cake. What I needed was a diet plan and a gym membership. Cake wasn’t going to help at all.
 

“Don’t be silly, Becca. Everyone needs cake on their birthday. Besides, calories don’t count when you’re the one blowing out the candles.”
 

I laughed, and then groaned. “Please don’t trouble with candles and singing and all of that,” I said.
 

“Nonsense. It’ll be good for your dad to see the kids. I’m sure he’ll be excited.”
 

We were both painfully aware that he probably wouldn’t know who the girls were, even though it was only a few years ago that he’d taken them everywhere with him and bragged about them constantly. Nobody loved those girls more than he had. Connie and I both knew all too well that lately, more often than not, his precious granddaughters were strangers to him. But neither of us said anything.
 

“How is Dad?” I asked. I tried not to let the guilt I felt about not visiting for so long show on my face.
 

“He’s doing really well.” Connie’s face still lit up when she talked about him. It was nice to see that after almost twenty-five years of marriage, and even with his memory failing more and more every day, she still loved him as much as she had when I was a kid. I only had vague memories of my own mother, who’d died when I was five and my brother Dylan was fifteen. We moved to Silverdale, a city five hours away, shortly after the accident and when my dad met Connie two years later, it was as if she was always meant to be my mother.
 

“He’s had a few rough days lately,” she said. “But we have to expect that those are going to happen.”

“It doesn’t mean you have to handle it alone, Connie. It’s not like it was,” I said. “He’s not just forgetting where he put the remote.”
 

“Don’t you think I know that?” she snapped, but at once was apologetic. “I’m sorry, Becca.” She took a deep breath and patted her hair. “He’s my husband. And I love him.”

“I love him too, Connie. But it can’t be easy, and there are—“

“No. I took vows. For better or worse. I will not put him into a facility.”
 

I stared at her for a moment before conceding. “Okay. But if you ever decide it’s too much, please know we support you.”

She smiled and the tension of the moment was gone. “I know, dear. Now, tell me what your plans are this week.”

I finished my drink and looked for a long moment at the tea stains in the bottom of the mug. “Well, Jordan has dance, and Kayla has her gymnastics class. Of course, both girls have dentist appointments this week, and—“

“You know that’s not what I meant.”

I knew. I pushed up from the table and took both cups to the sink where I ran water into them. I might as well try and keep the kitchen clean, at least for a few hours.

“Becca?” Connie’s voice came from behind me. I didn’t want to turn around. I knew her face would be lined with the concern I could hear in her voice. “What are your plans this week? Anything for you?”

I shrugged but still didn’t turn around. I felt like I was ten years old again and Connie was asking me if I’d done my homework.

“I know you’re busy with the girls, but last time we spoke, you thought you might like to try painting again. To start doing something for you. What did Jon say about the idea?”

I still couldn’t face her. I knew she’d be disappointed. I hated disappointing Connie. “I didn’t tell him.”

“Becca.” I didn’t even have to look to know I’d done it. She was disappointed. “Why not?”

I couldn’t tell her what really happened. That even though I had been excited about the idea, for a while at least, it just didn’t seem practical. I couldn’t handle the girls and my responsibilities as it was. If I put one more thing on my to-do list, I’d crumble completely. I couldn’t tell Connie that after we’d spoken about it, I’d tried to get down to the basement to dig out my old art supplies but something kept coming up. There wasn’t time. I couldn’t do it all.

“I don’t think I want to bother with painting anymore,” I lied.

“It’s been years since you’ve picked up a brush,” she said. “You need something for yourself. You don’t have to give up your life when you have children, you know.”

I nodded. But we both knew I didn’t agree. I hadn’t planned on giving up my passion. Of course, I hadn’t planned on getting pregnant and subsequently married at twenty-one, either. I had planned on finishing art school and opening a gallery one day, or at least selling my work in shows. But when we found out I was pregnant with Jordan, I quit painting right away. The doctor said the oils were bad for the baby, and after she was born, there just wasn’t any time. The years slipped into one another and just when I thought I could pull out my art supplies again, I missed my period. Another baby wasn’t supposed to be in the cards. Especially nine years apart. The paints stayed in the basement.