At Mr. Cartwright's Command (19 page)

The woman in front of me blinks awkwardly, picking up on the apprehension in my voice. Hell, even I can sense it. 

“Are you a relative?” she asks.

Yes? No? Sort of? That's a complicated question. If she is here, the last thing I want is for her to know I came looking.

“You could say that,” I reply, which only makes the woman look at me even more oddly.

“We can't allow any type of visitation unless you're a relative.”

“So she is here?”

The woman sighs and shifts in her seat.  “This information is usually confidential.  However, Michelle is technically no longer a patient here.”

Wait, so that means she was at one time?  “Can you tell me where she is. I'm... I'm her daughter.  Tamara Pierce,” I admit, and her entire expression changes.

“Oh, it's nice to finally meet you, Tamara.  Michelle mentioned you all the time.”

“Really?” I asked, feeling particularly shocked, considering the fact that I haven't seen her in over a decade.

The woman nods her head.  “Of course she did.”

I'm not exactly sure how to process that.  “Well do you happen to know where she is now?”

“She's still here. I should have been more clear—some who finish the program successfully and exhibit good behavior are given room and board along with a job, to help them get back on their feet.”

“Oh, well that's good.”

“It is.  Your mother is one of those people, you should be proud of her.”

“I am,” I reply, although it's slightly a lie.

“Would you like to see her? I think her shift is ending, I can call her up here,” the woman says as she reaches for the phone. My hand darts out to stop her.

“No, no, that's alright. I just wanted to... make sure she was safe.”

Her brows furrow and she looks confused.  “Oh, alright then.  I believe she's right down the hall if you change your mind.”

I nod, “Thank you, but I don't think that will be necessary.  Please don't tell her I was here.”

“Alright. If that's what you wish,” she says. 

I let out a deep breath as I begin to move slowly away from the desk. My arms are wrapped protectively around my body, a million different thoughts and conflicting emotions running through my head.

And then I stop.  “Just one more question,” I say before turning back towards her.

“Sure,” the woman says.

“This program is, well, pretty expensive,” I say, my eyes darting around the room.

“Our program is worth every penny, I can assure you.”

“I don't doubt that,” I say, stepping back towards her.  “I just... there's no way my mother could afford it.” 

“I'm not sure what you're asking?”

“I'm asking who paid for her treatment.”

The woman clams up and says, “I'm not at liberty to disclose that.”

“Because I know it wasn't her,”  I press. “Was it a man?”

“Like I said, I'm not at liberty to disclose anything remotely like that.  Even Michelle does not know who her benefactor is.”

Well, at least that confirms that there is a benefactor.  Who else could it be besides Mr. Cartwright?

“Now, if you'd like to see her, I believe she's in the library at the moment.  I know she would love to see you.”

I shift uncomfortably in place as I mull it over.  I went back and forth between wanting to talk to her again and not on my way here. What was the point in coming all this way if I didn't see her, especially since I didn't get any concrete answers?

“Alright,” I resign.

“Just make a right and head down the hall. The library is on the left; you cant miss it.”

I follow her directions and head down the hall.  My stomach twists in knots and my hands get more and more jittery with each step I take.  I feel even more apprehensive as I approach the library and place my hand on the knob.

This was a bad idea.

I should turn back. 

But I've come too far to turn back now.

I let go of the knob and peep in through the large windows instead.  Even the library is fancy—it looks like something that would be in Veronica or Mr. Cartwright's home, with nice flooring, dark wood shelves and plush sofas.  It even has a row of touchscreen computers.  What it doesn't have is a lot of people, only a couple scattered throughout.  One lady sits at a desk, one at the shelves, and another man who appears to be a patient taking a seat with a book.

Maybe she isn't here after all? I wait and watch for a minute, until I finally see someone pushing a cart full of books out from behind the shelves.  I freeze when I see her.  She comes closer and closer without looking up.  She looks just like me, but an older version of me.  She finally looks up at the window and our eyes meet. There's no denying that she's my mother.
        I turn and make a mad dash down the hall and out of the building.   I suppose I should feel silly for running, but I don't. I thought I was ready to face her, to speak to her again, and possibly even give her a piece of my mind, but that was  hell of a lot easier in my head than it is in real life.

“Tamara,” I hear a woman's voice call out after me.

I'm halfway down the path and her voice is enough to make me halt in my tracks.  Hearing my mother speak again rattles my bones. I had forgotten what she sounded like after all these years, and honestly, I didn't want to remember.  But hearing her say my name, like she used to when I was young brings back a flood of memories.   And they're not all bad memories.  I still remember a time when I was very young, before her addiction, when she cared for me like a mother should.

But I don't dare turn around. Instead I shake my head, my curls whipping my face.  “I don't know who Tamara is. She isn't me,” I lie.

“Oh baby, I know it's you,” she says, “I would know you anywhere.”

I can't do this. Especially not right now. Why was I so stupid to come and search for her? I cup my hand over my face and continue down the pathway.

“I was gonna come find you some day,” she calls out to me.

“Then why didn't you?!” I shout as I spin around towards her, all of my anger and resentment spouting out in a few words.  She looks sad and regretful, but not surprised by my reaction.

“I was hoping you wouldn't see me like this.  I wanted you to see me back on my feet, normal, holding a real job and not just cleaning up after rich folk.  But it's okay.”

I bite my lip hard, refusing to cry.  She comes closer and I get a good look at her.  She should only be in her early 40's but the hard life she's lived shows on her face and hands.  She's very thin, her hair is short and soft, made up of natural coils, and tiny lines pull at her kind eyes.  Despite her physical change, she has the same demeanor of the mother I remember from before addiction ravaged her mind.

“I know you hate me and you have every right in the world to.  I don't ever expect you to forgive me for the things I did to you.” Her voice begins to break as she speaks.  “But baby, I need you to know that I love you.  That will never stop.  That will never change.”

With those words, the floodgates break.  Those familiar hot tears spill over my cheeks again.

My mother steps towards me.  “Sweetheart,” she says as she reaches for me, but I flinch away.  She looks disappointed, hurt even.  I wish I could hug her back and tell her that I still love her too, but I can't.

“I have to go,” I mumble as I turn away from her.

“I understand,” she says, her soft voice cracking. “Are you well?” she asks and I stop.  “Are you well and taken care of? Are you happy?”

I wrap my arms protectively around myself, knowing that the answer to that is far too complicated to explain.  I wish I could rest my head on her shoulder and ask her for advice. I wish we had the kind of relationship other girls have with their moms.  Maybe one day we will.

“Yes, I am,” I tell her.

I turn back to look at her, and see her exhale, looking slightly comforted.  But I know her mother's intuition tells her there's more to it than that.

“I'm leaving the country tonight.  I don't know when I'll be back.”

“Oh,” she says, her eyes dropping to the ground before her. And then I see a faint smile crack upon her lips.  “I'm glad you're living.”

“Me too,” I say with a nod, brushing a tear away from my cheek.  “Goodbye, Mom.”

“Goodbye, baby,” she says to me as I continue down the walkway and into the streets.  Out of the corner of my eye I see her, standing there, watching me until I'm too far away to see her. I can't bring myself to hate her anymore. 

             
I
pull out my cellphone to check the time as the cab makes it's way around the circular driveway.  My plane leaves in a few hours. I know I'm cutting it close but I can't leave with any loose ends.  And if I can face my mother again, I can face anything and any one.

              I walk up to Mr. Cartwright's front door and promptly ring the doorbell.  When no one answers I ring it again, and again shortly after that, realizing how impatient and obnoxious I'm being.  “Come on out, Mr. Cartwright,” I say to no one other than myself.

              “Just a minute, I'm coming, I'm coming,” I hear the hurried voice from the other side. I already know it's Ronald before he opens up the door.  When he finally does, I can tell he's shocked to see me, and I'm happy to see him.

              “Ronald,” I say with a big smile.

              “Tamara, I thought I'd never see you again,” he says, pulling me into a warm embrace.

              “It's good to see you, too.”

              He pulls back, holding me at an arms length.  “I'm glad you've come to visit me,” he mocks, and I laugh along with him.

              “I...I'm here to see him.  Just for a moment.”

              He sighs and his features droop.  “Would you believe me if I told you he isn't here?”  I shake my head.  Ronald glances behind me and steps outside of the house, leaving the door only cracked behind him.

              “I'm afraid I can't let you in.”

              I roll my eyes.  “He doesn't want to see me,” I state. I could have figured as much.

              “On the contrary,” Ronald replies.

              My eyes dart up at him with surprise.  “So he does want to see me?”

              He shoves his hands in his pockets, pausing for a moment.  “
I
don't think it's a good idea for you two to see each other.  At least not now.”

              “So you're banning me from seeing him?”

              “And I'm banning him from seeing you.  It's my job to look at for both of your interests.”

              I fold my arms across my chest.  “Ronald.”

              He holds up his hands and says, “I know, I know, it's not my place.  But look what happened the last time you two were together?  As much as I want you two to be endgame, you need your time apart right now.”

              “I—what? Endgame?”

              He smiles, shrugging a shoulder.  “What can I say, I'm a hopeless romantic.”

              “Yeah, well, not to break your heart but, endgame we're not.”

              He raises a thick eyebrow at me.  “Oh really?”

              I nod. “I just need to tell him something, that's all. I'm not staying. And it's extremely important.”  He lets out a long sigh and doesn't respond.  “Please, Ronald?”

              “Oh, alright,” he relents, “who am I to refuse you?”

              I smile back at him as he steps inside the house, opening the door wide and ushering me back in. The place is just like I remembered it—still ornate, luxurious, and ultimately, empty.  I follow him to the back of the house, right outside Mr. Cartwright's study.  He motions to me to stay in the hall as he steps inside with a knock.

              “Master Cartwright,” he says, clearing his throat.  “There's someone here to see you.”

              “If it's my father throw him out,” he says.  I peep into the room, walking quietly up behind Ronald to see Mr. Cartwright sitting in a plush velvet chair, looking down at a book with a glass in his hand.  He's wearing pajamas and slippers, and his hair is surprisingly unkempt and hanging in his face.  I've never seen him looking quite undone like this before, but even when he's disheveled he's still ridiculously handsome.

              “It's not. I think you're going to want to see this one,” Ronald says.

              Mr. Cartwright looks up with a slightly agitated scowl on his face.  But the moment he sees me and our eyes lock, his features soften.  He doesn't say a thing, he just stares, and I can't read him but I know he isn't happy to see me.  Why would he be after our last meeting?

              Ronald turns to see that I've entered the room.  “Well, I suppose I'll leave you two alone,” he mutters as he exits, closing the door behind him.

              “Hi,” I say to him, stepping further into the room.  His eyes don't leave me as he claps the book shut and places it on the small table beside him. Without saying a word, he raises his glass to his lips, finishing off the last few drops of golden-brown liquid, before getting up and moving across the room.

              “I'd offer you some but it looks like I'm out,” he mumbles, holding up a crystal decanter with a tiny bit of liquor swishing around the bottle, which he pours in his own glass and promptly drinks. 

              I step towards him.  “Finish that whole bottle off yourself?” I ask curiously as I lean a hip against the table, a few feet away from him.

              “Don't pretend to care about my well being, Tamara,” he says.

              “I don't.” I reply.

              He turns towards me, his eyes traveling the length of my body as if he's studying my clothing.  “You're looking well,” he remarks coldly. “Did you buy this with my father's money?” he asks, twisting his finger around the hem of my blouse.

I quickly snatch it away from him.  “Don't.”

He chuckles drunkenly. “What, did you fuck him too?”

I groan, gripping the edge of the table,  trying to control my frustration.  He's trying his best to get under my skin and it's working.  “I don't know why I even bothered coming here.”

“You came here to torment me.  Just like you always manage to do,” he replies. He takes another swig and slams the glass back on the table, loud enough to make me jump. “Now, you didn't answer my question.”

“Are you serious?” I ask him, my voice sounding high pitched and frankly, insulted.

“It's a simple yes or no question.”

“You think that I slept with your father?  For money? That's a low blow, even coming from you.”

“You're a regular old hypocrite, you know that?” he shouts.  “You're a fucking hypocrite! And I expected better from you.”

“How am I a hypocrite?”

He takes long strides towards me and says,  “Because you wouldn't let me live down the fact that I wanted my inheritance and what did you do?  You let my father buy you. You took the money, and chose that over me.”

“It's not the same and you know it,” I reply, holding a finger up to him.

“No, you're right, it's not.  Because I still wanted you.  I did everything I fucking could to keep you, but you threw me away completely for a few fucking dollars.”

“You know what? If you want to think I'm a hypocrite then so be it,” I say,  “I just came to say
thank you
for taking care of my mother.  You probably saved her life, so thank you.  Thank you for doing that for me.”

His eyes widen with surprise.  “How did you find out about that?” he asks, his voice softening.

I hold up a hand and say “It doesn't matter.  You know, I was mad about it at first.  Because I didn't think she deserved it.”

His eyebrows go up and he says, “But she's your
mother
.”

“Yeah and? Walt is your father and you hate him.”

His jaw sets and his face looks pained.  “I hate him because he killed mine,” he says.

“What?” Did I just hear him right.

He looks troubled. That familiar hurt look returns to his eyes, as hard as he tries to hide it. He paces across the room, running his hand frantically through his hair.  “If my mother were still alive and I had the chance to save her I would,” he says, his voice breaking.  “I'd do anything for her.”

I drop my bag to the ground and rush to his side.  “What did your father do to her?” I ask.

He looks away from me, his throat bobbing—I can see the pain on his face.  His eyes look so distant.  “He didn't kill her by force, he just sucked every last bit of light out of her.” he says. He closes his eyes tight.  “She was young and so, so beautiful, but he only told her the opposite.  She could only see the good in others so she believed he loved her and, well, he believed in drinking, gambling and other women. It only made her depression worse when he wouldn't stop.  He tormented her until she simply couldn't live with it any more.”  He lets out a deep breath as I listen to him intently.  He looks down at me with watery eyes and says, “My father only loves money and himself.  My mother is the only one who ever loved me.”

My heart breaks for him.  Not just for his loss, or how cruel his father is, but because he believes that lie.  I want to tell him otherwise, but the words won't come out.  “I'm sorry,” I whisper.

He takes a deep breath and smooths his hair back with his hand.  “It doesn't matter,” he says dismissively, his voice now cold in tone.  He steps around me, picks up my bag and hands it to me. “Now I believe you have someplace to be.” I hesitate to take it.  How can I leave him now, after all of that?  But he shoves the bag against me and says, “Go.”

I don't take it. Instead, I inch towards him and slip into his arms, wrapping my hands around his waist and holding him tight.  He slowly breaks down, wrapping his arms around my shoulders and waist, burying his face in my hair. I can feel his sorrow in the way he clings to me. 

“How was she?” he asks.

“Hmm?”

“Your mother.”

“She's sober.  She has a job now,” I explain.  “She even remembered me.  She knew who I was just by looking at me.”

“Of course she did, that's what mothers do.”

I pull back, far enough to look him in the eye.  “I hated her for so many years.  When I found her today I thought I'd tell her how much pain she caused me. But as soon as I spoke to her I didn't want to anymore.  I didn't tell her, but I think I've finally forgiven her.  And that's because of you.”

He brushes my hair back with his hand and strokes my cheek.  “I'm glad you've found some peace.”

We both slowly pull away from each other. I watch him closely for a moment, unsure of what to do next. And then he lifts his hand, with my bag still dangling from it, and hands it to me.  Reluctantly I take it, wrapping my fingers around the handle, my skin brushing against his in the process.

I turn and make my way to the door, wishing he would stop me. Wishing he would call off the stupid wedding and say to hell with his inheritance.  Wishing he would choose me.  But he doesn't.

“I didn't keep the money,” I tell him from the doorway.  “Not most of it, anyway.”  Mr. Cartwright doesn't make a sound nor do I turn to see his reaction.  With a soft sigh of finality I say, “Goodbye, Mr. Cartwright,”  before exiting the large wooden doors and closing them tight behind me.

Guilt for leaving him in such a self-destructive state weighs heavy on me as I make my way down his hall.  He made his choice, and I have to remember that.  I can't give him all of me when he'll only give me half in return, and that's something he'll have to learn to understand in time.

As I step to turn the corner I hear a loud crash coming from the study; it sounds like breaking glass.  I spin around and see the doors fly open.  Mr. Cartwright barrels through the door way and down the hall, headed straight for me.

He takes me roughly by the waist, pulling me into him. “I'm not fucking letting you go, ever,” he growls, and my heart pounds against my chest.  He hoists me up into his arms, pinning me against the wall, his lips crashing hard against mine.  I can't protest and I can't speak; I can barely think at all. All I can do is melt into his violent kiss, my legs wrapping tight around his waist.

I cling to him as he carries me down the hall and around the corner, his mouth mauling mine as we go.   We stumble into a room at the end of the hall. He slams the door shut behind us and soon after we both crash against the mattress, a heap of criss-crossing arms and intersecting legs.  Our clothes fly off, piece by piece, between violent, aching kisses.  He cups my breast, massaging my malleable flesh before tearing my bra off of my body.  His hair is like silk between my fingers and I pull it tight, groaning when he bites my lip almost too hard. 

He looks up at me when he breaks our kiss, lips pink and swollen and eyes filled with fire—a fire I know burns for me and only me.  He keeps those eyes locked on mine as his lips travel down my chest and over the slope of my breast, stopping only to flick my erect nipple with his tongue. He kisses my stomach and my hip before gripping my panties with his teeth and pulling them clean off. He forces his head between my thighs, holding my hips in place as he dives into my depths.  With a loud moan my back arches up off the bed, stars bursting behind my eyes as I open up wider to invite him in.

He laps up all of my juices, not sparing a single drop.  His tongue is rough and hot, leading the way over my skin as he travels back up my body.  Our mouths collide again, our tongues entwining and we practically devour each other whole.  He wraps a hand around my thigh, hoisting it high above his hip.  And then he pulls my hands, which are grasping desperately at his shoulder and hair, and holds them tight against the supple mattress beside my head..