Glancing up the wall along the stairs, I saw the same pictures of my sister and me that had been there forever. But the pictures never portrayed us as siblings but instead as a single child growing up. My sister’s photos hung on the wall showing her growth until her death when she was five, and then photos of me after age five took over as if K.C.’s life continued.
All photos of K. C. Carter, a sister I never met. Not one photo of me as Juliet.
I had looked it up on the Internet once. A child conceived to replace another is called a ghost child.
Me.
I heard footfalls above me and looked up, my heart starting to pound double time.
“K.C.?” My mother’s voice preceded her as she rounded the staircase and stopped at the top to peer down at me.
I peered back up, absentmindedly tapping my fingers on my leg from inside the pockets.
My mother looked like Mary Poppins. She always did. Thin and beautiful. Creamy skin that looked fantastic with red lipstick. And black hair always done up in some kind of twist or bun. Her clothes, even the casual ones she wore around the house, were always clean and pressed.
Today, she wore a yellow, flared, knee-length skirt and a white button-up cardigan. Lightweight, from the looks of it, but it still had to be hot as hell if she stepped outside.
“Take your hands out of your pockets,” she instructed in a calm voice.
I obeyed, suddenly feeling as though I should’ve showered and cleaned up before I came here.
“Hello, Mother.”
“It’s nice to see you. I’ve been calling. And texting.” She sounded annoyed as she clasped her hands in front of her.
I hadn’t returned her calls, and I knew that would piss her off. That wasn’t my intention. I just didn’t want to talk to her.
Licking my lips, I clasped my hands in front of my body as well. “I apologize. Tutoring has kept me busy.”
She nodded and began stepping down the stairs. “Now is a bad time. You should have called before showing up at someone’s house unannounced. You know better.”
Someone’s house?
There was a time when my mother was a little warmer with me. Before my father started losing control. But she had always worried about appearances, and I wondered why. Her brother—the doctor—was very much like her as well. Clean and unemotional. But her sister—Shane’s mother—was very loving. What was my mother like as a child? Did she laugh? Did she make messes? Did she make mistakes?
As she came closer, I straightened my back. “I was in the neighborhood, Mother.”
“No, you wanted something.”
I ran my hands down my shirt, noticing how wrinkly the linen was. I had thought I looked cute this morning, but now I felt uncomfortable. I looked ridiculous in this outfit. What was I thinking?
“I wanted to … I’d like … ,” I stuttered, looking away from her gaze raking over my body, taking in my appearance.
“Do not speak until you are prepared, K.C.” She spoke to me as if I were five.
I let out a breath and steadied my body, squeezing my interlocked fingers so tight the skin was stretched.
“May I please retrieve my journals? I’d like to use them in my tutoring lessons.” And I evened out my expression to appear confident even though it took an effort to keep my knees locked.
Her bangs didn’t even move as she cocked her head and regarded me.
“That sounds reasonable,” she answered finally. “But first you need to shower.”
“I’ll take a shower at home,” I said, and started to walk around her toward the stairs, but she grabbed my arm, causing me to wince.
“You are home,” she said sternly. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. It’s time to come home.”
I swallowed. Come home? Dread filled my stomach and spread through my system, slowly eating away at me.
“Why?” I could hear the crack in my own voice. I didn’t want to come home now.
She raised her eyebrows as if I’d just asked a stupid question. “Because it’s my responsibility to watch over you.”
And it wasn’t two weeks ago? When I needed her?
My jaw tightened. “Why now?” I accused.
And she slapped me.
My head flew to the side, tears sprang to my eyes, and I grabbed my face, trying to soothe the burn. I should’ve known that was coming. I was never supposed to mouth off.
“Now go shower,” she ordered, and I could hear the smile in her voice. “Do your hair and your makeup, and then you’ll join me and a few friends for dinner tonight.”
I closed my eyes, feeling a tear run down my cheek as she walked around to my back and unwrapped my hair from its ratty nest.
No, no, no … I was twenty years old. I didn’t need her to groom me anymore.
But everything needed to be in its place with her. Everything needed to look pristine on the outside, even as the dirt festered on the inside. Why did she worry about appearances so much? Did it make her feel so much better after the heartache of losing my sister—and my father, too, for that matter—for everyone to see us as perfect when we still felt like shit?
I heard her sigh, displeased. “Your hair needs to be trimmed. We’ll give you bangs like me. But …” She walked back around to my front and grabbed my hand from my cheek. “There’s no time for a manicure. We’ll make sure you get fixed up good as new before the luncheon next week.”
Gutless and helpless.
My mother continued on and on about waxing and coloring, but Jax’s words were the only ones I latched on to.
“What’s your favorite color? Your favorite band? When was the last time you ate chocolate?”
I squeezed my eyes shut, my scalp aching as my mother pulled and scanned my hair more closely, probably looking for loose ends.
I rubbed my hands together, remembering Jax’s gritty, greasy hand in mine last week. Loving the way it felt. Wanting that feeling again.
“I wanted to dirty you up.”
Gutless and helpless.
Gutless and helpless.
Gutless and helpless.
“Stop!” I yelled, feeling my mother jerk back and gasp at the exclamation.
Spinning around, I yanked open the door and jumped outside, sucking in lungfuls of air as I raced through the yard.
My mother didn’t yell after me. She would never make a spectacle in front of the neighbors.
CHAPTER 8
K.C.
Shane watched me pace Tate’s living room like a caged animal. “What’s the matter with you?” she asked.
“Nothing,” I huffed, rubbing my thumbs across my fingertips and sucking in air that was getting me more worked up than calmed down.
“Obviously.”
I stopped and turned to her. “My journals,” I shot out, my chest shaking with … I didn’t know what. Fear. Nerves. Anger. “You have to go to my mother’s house and get my journals,” I ordered her, and began pacing again.
“No, you need to go to your house and get your journals. You know your mother makes me twitch.”
I barely heard her grumbles. Now I knew why I never wanted to come home. It wasn’t my past behavior. It wasn’t my mother.
It was me.
I let the abuse happen even long after I could’ve stopped it. I let her talk to me that way. I let her judge me.
I let it all happen. I hated her. I hated my father. I hated that house. I hated the grooming and the classes I was forced to take.
I hated my sister.
Sudden tears overtook me, and I stopped, breathing hard and my face aching with sadness. My five-year-old sister, who never knew me and wasn’t perfect. She would’ve made mistakes, and she would’ve been hit. I hated her for escaping.
And I hated myself for thinking that.
She hadn’t escaped. Not really. She’d died. I had the chance to live, and I was jealous of a sister simply because she no longer had to exist.
What the hell was wrong with me?
I wiped the tears from my cheeks before Shane could notice. Was I so scared to live? To take chances? To be anything other than gutless and helpless?
“I was actually upset when she wouldn’t welcome me home,” I told Shane, choking through the few tears I’d shed. “Now I feel nauseated that I was even in that house.”
“Juliet, seriously.” The concern in her eyes was true. “You need to confront her. You need to wig out. Get in her face. Scream. Throw shit. She deserves that and more.”
There was no love lost between my mother and her sister’s kid. In fact, my mother barely communicated with her sister and husband, since Sandra Carter was a closet racist. She’d hated that her sister had married someone nonwhite, and even though she never admitted it, she kept her distance and looked down on Shane’s family. It didn’t matter that her dad was a doctor, or that he’d attended Stanford. My bitch of a mother barely tolerated Shane.
Feeling the roll of nausea clench my insides, I began pacing again, slowing my breathing in an effort to calm myself.
It wasn’t working.
The last thing I wanted to do was think about that woman, much less lay eyes on her again.
“I want my journals,” I whispered, but it sounded like a prayer. As if they were going to magically fall into my lap.
“Then go get them,” she urged, her voice stronger this time.