Eternal Youth (2 page)

She was anxious to get back to civilization. Just the thought of American food made her mouth water; she’d been dreaming about cheeseburgers for a month. Not to mention how heavenly a warm bed to sleep in would be after the bug-infested, Central American tents.

Her head was still reeling. She couldn’t believe her mother had agreed to return to the States…

They’d hit the bottom of the volcano before her mother had spoken another word. Braden and Callie were shoulder to shoulder, trudging along, when her mom’s voice called, “Kids?”

Callie and Braden stopped and exchanged wary glances, then turned around.

For the first time, Callie noticed her mom looked
old
. The weight of the world made the woman’s shoulders sag forward. The underground river had left her normally perfect blonde hair stringy and dirty—there were leaves in it: stark, brown, dead. Her mother continued forward until she was only a couple feet away, then stopped and gave them a wry smile.

“I’m sorry.”

Her mother’s apology barely registered on Callie’s radar. She was too sick of following her mother around on a wild goose chase. Nothing the woman said could make right the last six years of Callie’s life.

“Maybe…” Her mother’s voice trailed off in a sigh. “Maybe we should take a break.”

“And go
where
?” Braden put to voice Callie’s own thoughts.

Emma brushed her hands down the front of her damp, wrinkled blue jeans and glanced around the forest as if looking for inspiration. “Well, let’s go home. To Gran’s house. We’ll figure it out from there.”

Braden startled Callie from her thoughts when he held out one of the plane’s gossip magazines and waved it in her face. “Here. This will keep your mind off things.”

Outside the small window, the sun was setting over the wing of the plane, glinting off the metal. Callie glanced over at her cousin and smiled gratefully, then took the mag and opened it across her lap. Braden clicked on the light above her head so she could see. Just that small action brought tears to her eyes.

She really didn’t know how she would have survived the last few years if it weren’t for his companionship.

It hadn’t been as hard at first. When her father had died, Callie was ten years old. She’d had such a fresh outlook on the world that her mother’s insane quest to find the fountain of youth hadn’t bothered her. It was only around the time that Callie turned thirteen that it became a chore: the lack of a home, the constant desire for friends…
hell, even a boyfriend.

She sighed. In a way, Callie could understand. The sudden loss of her father made it painfully obvious that a human being’s time in the world was limited. Her mother was chasing immortality.

Callie turned back to her magazine. It was from September 2011, so only a month old, but she still felt out of touch. Traveling always made her feel like she lived inside a continuous time warp.

Callie flipped a page and rolled her eyes. Her dad had been a movie director in Hollywood—a big name who knew all the right people and made all the right movies. Callie
knew
that the pretty brunette advertising six-hundred-dollar jeans in the front of the mag was airbrushed to within an inch of her life. It’s what Hollywood did; it’s what Hollywood
was
—plastic. Fake.

It made Callie sick that girls and guys obsessed over being as pretty or as thin as the celebrities. Every time she turned around, there was another
Nightline
segment about preteen nose jobs or twenty-year-old breast enhancements—all because Hollywood set an ideal too high for the average person.

Callie even felt bad for the celebrities.
Imagine working hard to fit the ideal only to have your waist narrowed and your thighs shaved down. That can’t be a good for the ego.

“Aunt Emma seems pretty upset this time,” Braden said, his lowered voice interrupting her inner tirade. “Usually she’s upbeat and ready for the next potential spot.”

Callie glanced over at her mother. She was across the aisle from the two of them, wrapped tightly in a pale blue airplane blanket as she stared straight ahead. Callie hadn’t seen even her hand move in an hour.

Callie shrugged. “Maybe she’s finally ready to face reality.”

“I doubt it. She probably just needs time to recuperate.” Braden slouched down in his seat and shoved his long legs against the chair in front of him. “This hunt is what seems to keep her going since your dad…. I can’t imagine what would happen to her if she sat still for too long. She’d probably implode.”

Callie ran her fingertips over the edge of the magazine, avoiding Braden’s eyes as she murmured, “I wish she would let it go. She’s wasting the life she
has
in search of a fairytale. Not to mention she’s making my life hell. How am I
ever
going to get a boyfriend when I don’t stay in one place?”

“Let her work through her issues, Cal.”

Callie narrowed her eyes. “So I have to deal with
her
issues as well as my own?”

Braden took a deep breath and let it out, turning his head against the seat until he could stare into her eyes. “You’re right. It is hard on you, but it’s hard on her, too.”

Callie flipped another page in her magazine and didn’t answer. There was no justification for her mother’s actions.

But there wasn’t for Callie’s anger, either.

March 11th, 2007

Some place I can’t spell, South Africa

Drums. Mom let Braden buy drums and now I’m sitting in a random, albeit clean, hostel listening to him pound on the thing as if he were the NEXT GREAT rock ‘n roll star.

I’ll be the first to say it: HE IS SO NOT.

I think that boys have this insane need to be noisy. Like Jared, that one housekeeper’s kid when I was like six. He would run around the house, screaming at the top of his lungs for NO REASON. ???? If I ever have kids, I’m muzzling them.

South Africa is pretty cool. It’s a lot like the States. Kinda. Maybe more like Britain, but we haven’t gone there yet so I don’t have anything to compare it to. I’m sure we will eventually—there are some supposed fountain locations there, too. It’s just a matter of time before Mom picks England out of the hat.

I’m still thinking about how beautiful Romania was! Mom took us to see this castle…man, it was GORGEOUS. We climbed to the very top of the tower and could see out over the countryside. It reminded me of how much I loved traveling, you know, three years ago when we started. I know it’s kinda wearing me down now, but truly, I DO love it.

We’re hiking up another mountain tomorrow. By the time I’m thirty, I’ll probably be good enough to climb Mount Everest.

Please, God, let that never be a place where Mom wants to go. I wouldn’t survive!

I
t was sixty-five degrees and rainy when the plane touched down in San Diego. For late October weather, it was average. Callie was relieved to find some things never changed.

Gran was waiting outside the security checkpoint. She started waving wildly when she saw them, her big, white smile the prettiest thing Callie could ever remember seeing.

Her grandmother must have been a knock-out once, but of course age had matured her beauty into something different, but not otherwise unattractive. She kept her curly hair cropped short so that unruly white curls flopped over her forehead, and she wore just a hint of make-up to outline her brilliant blue eyes and high cheekbones. Like her daughter, Gran had naturally dark skin, but unlike Callie’s mom, Gran was a plumper, rounder woman.

Callie rushed forward, dragging her rolling carry-on behind her so that the wheels clunked loudly on the linoleum floors. She let it go, not caring if it crash-landed on the ground, and wrapped her arms around her grandmother.

“Heya, Sweetie Pie,” Gran said, squeezing Callie. Her plush embrace made Callie think of home and hot baked cookies and the wood fire Gran always lit in the evenings. “Well, step back, let me look at you.”

Callie obliged and blushed as her Gran scrutinized her. There were holes in the knees of her jeans that had
not
been put there on purpose, and a weeks-old coffee stain on her fitted purple baby tee. It’d been a long time since they came home and switched out for new clothes.

Emma kissed Gran on the cheek. “Hey, Mom.”

“Hello, dear.” She took Emma’s carry-on and slung it over her shoulder. “Good flight?”

“Relaxing,” Emma answered, her smile more like a grimace. She wasn’t convincing anyone with
that
.

Braden, who had stopped to tie his boot, finally caught up. He dropped his duffel bag to the ground and grinned, then grabbed Gran for a tight hug.

“Any word from Dad lately?” Braden asked as he pulled away, the tone of his voice suggesting he already knew the answer.

Gran just shook her head sadly. “He’ll contact me when he’s ready.”

“When he’s clean and needs money,” Braden said hotly. He bent down and picked up his bag, gripping the strap so tightly his knuckles turned white.

“Now, now.” Gran took his hand and
tsk
ed. “Don’t talk about your father that way.”

“Come on, let’s go get our backpacks,” Emma said, motioning for them to start for the baggage claim and narrowly avoiding one of the only subjects that could set Braden off.

“I hope you’re all hungry,” Gran said cheerfully. She wrapped an arm around Callie’s shoulders, and Callie thankfully sank against her warmth. “I’ve got roast and potatoes in the slow cooker. Should be ready by the time we get home!”

“Sounds perfect, Gran.” Braden rubbed his stomach and smacked his lips dramatically. The women shared a laugh.

“By the way, Mom,” Emma said. “Can you run us by the storage unit?”

Callie remembered their house vividly.

Three stories. U-shaped. Gray siding that made it look like it belonged on the shore of a lake in a romantic comedy. Six bedrooms, four bathrooms, and several great rooms—not to mention the downstairs movie theater. They’d hired the most sought-after interior designer in L.A. and the place was a palace.

Seventy acres. An Olympic-sized swimming pool that was half-indoor, half-outdoor. They’d had the most wonderful parties on that patio….

Callie’d had an amazing room. A four-poster bed draped with sheer, purple material covered in silver stars. Her vanity table had a huge, full-length mirror and special lights for putting on make-up. The walk-in closet…she loved that closet. More clothes and shoes than she could wear in a year.

Standing before the storage unit where all of their worldly belongings were housed, Callie fought back the tears that threatened to choke her.

She wanted her real mother back.

“Cal, where did we move the electronics box last time? Do you remember?” Her mother was shuffling boxes in the far right corner; Callie couldn’t see her, but she could hear her, especially when the
thuds
were followed by colorful curses.

“Why do you need it?”

Her mother’s head popped over the top of a smaller stack. There was a streak of dirt across her cheek. “The back-up Kindle.”

Callie shrugged. “I don’t remember.”

Her mother’s harassed sigh was obnoxious, and Callie fought the urge to launch her body across the storage unit and strangle her.

Instead, she practiced uber-self-restraint and picked her way through the mounds of furniture and boxes to where “Callie’s Stuff” was sitting.

It didn’t take her long to decide on some clothes. October was nice in San Diego, but it could definitely get chilly. She picked out some T-shirts and capris, but made sure to grab some sweaters and long-sleeved shirts, too.

When she opened up one of the big boxes that held her shoes, she could have done a happy dance. She’d been wearing the same pair of hiking boots for three months. Just the sight of her favorite Chucks and her stiletto ankle boots was enough to make her heart pound like a girl in love.

Callie opened a “Misc.” box, looking for a new duffel bag to carry it all back to Gran’s, and at the very top, she found Fru.

Fru was a floppy-legged, bright pink horse with a mane and tail of soft white faux fur. Callie lifted the stuffed animal from the box with both hands.

It was Christmas, 2001. They thought her dad wouldn’t make it home in time for the holiday because his movie had yet to wrap—it had run over almost a month. Callie was six years old, sitting in one of the bucket seats of the home theater as a recent documentary on her dad played on the giant screen.

“Wayne Bishoff is a delight to work with,” some famous actress was gushing to the documentary’s reporter.

“Wayne Bishoff,” Callie mouthed the words, sinking against the seat and smiling when her dad’s face appeared on the screen. She drowned out the words as she watched footage of him in action and pictured him working at that very moment.

She never heard him come in. A long hallway led to the theater, negating any need for a door. Callie was staring wide-eyed at an image of her father sitting high atop the jungles of South Africa, when a throat cleared behind her.