Forgetting Popper (Los Rancheros #3) (7 page)

I look away from him and my eyes move to the
ocean automatically. “We’ll see.” I can barely form the words over
the terror those words cause me. Batty shifts on the table and I
can see his hands rubbing together. His nervousness brings my head
back around to watch him warily.

“Just spit it out.”

“You haven’t gone to see your parents, or
called my office for the address.” I stay silent and try to
swallow, but my throat is so dry I can’t manage it. Batty’s jaw
clenches and his eyes narrow. Great, now he’s pissed. “Why do you
wait until the last possible minute to do everything?”

Batty stands up and runs his fingers through
his short hair as he paces the room. When he stops in front of me,
I have the urge to stand, if only so that he doesn’t tower over me.
When I get to my feet, it brings us so close that if I sway the
tiniest bit our chests will touch. “Why are you nagging me so
much?”

The huff of breath Batty lets out hits my
face, dissolving the challenging look in my eyes as I’m forced to
blink. He backs away and throws his hands in the air. “Sadie, this
is the real world. You can’t live in a bubble and only deal with
what you want. Yes, you have bills, and you need a job. Yes, you
have parents out there somewhere. Wake the fuck up!” he yells.

I stomp across the hardwood to him and wish I
had shoes on to make more of an impact. “I’ve been through more in
my life than probably even you, much less people double my age.
Don’t give me your psychobabble, I already have a shrink. Now get
out of my house.”

“Of course. I knew this shit was going to
happen. You’re so good at running and deflecting, Sadie, and
honestly it’s such a disappointment.” With those parting words,
Batty walks out of my house. I half expect him to slam the door,
but he doesn’t. With a quiet click, I’m left alone once again.

TUESDAY

Lesson number one of ‘adulthood,’ check the
weather before getting on a plane to another state.
Noted.
I
shiver and head to the parking lot of nondescript rental cars and
push the key fob. Lights flash at the end of the row, so I pull my
carry-on behind me, rushing in the cold.

Once inside, it takes an eternity for the
heat to work. By this time my hands are shaking, the rings on my
fingers threatening to fall off as the blood leaves them. “Fucking
Oregon,” I mumble. Driving away from the airport, I head for the
highway to make the long trip to my hometown.

Three hours later, I stretch, then flinch at
the place I have to go into. The trees look dead, the clouds
overcast. The building doesn’t look haunted or creepy, it’s just
not where I pictured my parents since I started making money. I had
been shelling out a hefty sum each month to make sure they were
comfortable, warm, not here.

At the front desk, I’m asked to sign in by an
older woman who looks faded around the edges. “ID please,” she says
softly. As soon as she has the little card in her hand, her eyes
shoot back to mine. “Dinah?”

I nod, confirming my last name. “Yeah.”

“Let me get someone to take you back. I can’t
leave the front desk.” I watch her walk down the hall, completely
confused. She just left the desk. I scan the walls, and take in the
faded furniture. The squeak of rubber shoes on linoleum brings my
head around. A young man, probably still in high school, offers me
a bright smile and waves me forward.

“Hi, I’m Sam,” the kid says, offering me a
hand. I shake it.

“Sadie.”

“We don’t get many visitors for the Dinahs.
It will be a treat, no doubt.”

“Mmhmm.”

Sam stops at a door, knocks then twists the
knob without waiting for an answer. “Ralph, Polly, look who’s come
to see you!”

I stand outside of the door, unable to cross
the threshold, like that will prevent this from being real. I did
the same thing at the hospital my first time. This is wholly
different.

“Who is it? I can’t see a damn thing,” comes
a grumbly voice from the elevated bed. The quilt on top is what I
notice first. It’s got holes from years of use. It’s an ugly brown
and puke yellow. It used to cover the big stain on the back of our
couch. The legs underneath look frail and skinny. The slight gut
protruding beneath the covers is more familiar. Shaking hands
fidget with the blanket. It’s the face that I don’t recognize at
all. The lines of age have transformed someone who should be
seventy into a man that looks to be pushing one hundred. “I said,
who is it,” he says louder. His lips sink into his mouth and he has
a sort of lisp when he talks. I realize he has no teeth at the same
time my feet start to work.

“It’s me.” I don’t know why I say it like
that. I don’t know why I don’t say my name.

I watch those eyes come into focus and the
smile I get is almost genuine. “Well, come here, pretty lady, and
give Ralphy a hug. Come sit right over here.” He pats his lap, and
I feel the blood drain from my face.

“Oh, knock it off, Ralph. It’s your daughter
for Pete’s sake.” Damn that’s where I get my voice from. I bet I
sound pretty close to her tires on gravel sound. Hers actually is
from smoking a pack a day, though.

“Hey, Momma.” I walk around the bed, watching
her struggle to get out of the bed.

“What are you doing here, girl?” I reach my
hand out, but she bats it away. “I can take care of myself. What’s
wrong?”

“I’m . . . I . . . I just found out you were
here. I had no idea, I’m so sorry.” The woman, who used to
chronically dye her hair for as long as I can remember, is now snow
white with a bald spot in the back. I watch her dab at my dad’s
mouth with a folded Kleenex.

“That there ain’t no Tammy. That girl’s a box
of trouble. Who’s this young thing here?”

“Where’s your coat, anyway? It’s supposed to
snow tonight.”

“I didn’t know,” I answer. “How are you,
Mom?”

“Oh, we’re just right as rain, sunshine,” she
says sarcastically. “Why don’t you have a sit and we’ll chat. I’d
offer you tea, but we’re fresh out.” She’s treating me like a
stranger, but I can’t say that I blame her.

Pulling up a chair to the side of Mom’s bed,
I sit and drop my purse. “How is he, then?” I ask cautiously.

“Old. Dementia, liver damage, arthritis,
compacted disks in his spine. Did you really come here to hear what
all’s wrong with us? Do you want mine next?”

I shake my head. “No. I’m sorry it took me so
long to get here. I’m sorry you’re not someplace nicer. I really
thought things were different.”

Mom sits down on her bed. “What, you got out
of the trailer park and tucked us away all neat like, just like you
wanted, didn’t you? Don’t even visit, don’t write.” She fists her
hands together tightly and punctuates words with hits to her
lap.

“I’m—” Shit, I’ve already said I’m sorry more
than I have in my entire life. “Brian said he had it under control.
That you were cared for.” I want to roll my eyes at the lame
excuse.

“Brian!” Dad yells, making me jump. “Where is
my boy? He brings the good stuff. Are you his chickie, then?”

Mom leans over and yells back to him, “She’s
your daughter. It’s Sadie!”

“Sadie?” His face scrunches up in confusion.
“I don’t believe I know a Sadie.” He focuses his eyes back on me.
“But you’re a looker. Can’t be mine.”

A part of me wishes he was just mad that I
wasn’t there all of these years. But another part of me cringes at
his words.

“Do you need money, child?” Mom asks.

“No.” I shake my head. “No. I’m going to move
you into a nicer place, and I’ll visit more. Is there anything you
need? Something I can get you?”

“We don’t need your fancy places and your
California. We’ll stay here,” Mom says forcefully.

“Yeah. We don’t need you,” Dad says with a
nod, his whole face looks like it will slide off of his body with
the movement.

“Are you really upset that I got out of the
park, Mom?” I ask quietly as blood rushes through my ears.

Her throat constricts when she swallows. “No,
Sadie. I’m not mad, just disappointed, is all.”

Fucking disappointment, that’s all I bring
people around me. I shaped my life so that no one expected things
of me. Now it’s happening left and right. I take a steadying breath
and try again. “Do you want me to paint your nails?”

Mom purses her lips and studies me. “Well, I
guess that might be alright. Just make sure you do it right. I
don’t need to look like that harlot Farah.”

I freeze with my hand in the black hole that
is my purse. “Farah?”

She tilts her head at the door. “At the front
desk. Farah.”

That my brother and sister put my parents
into a home where the woman that ruined our lives works makes me so
mad my vision flips to red. Literally, I see red and try to blink
it away. The woman at the front desk is the reason we landed in the
trailer park. Dad is silent, his eyes unfocused as he stares at the
wall.

“Which color do you want?”

When I leave an hour later and meet the eyes
of the receptionist, hers hold enough fear that I know she knows
who I am, and what I can do. I don’t say anything, walking through
the automatic doors and into the cold. Flurries hit my bare arms
and melt into stinging little bites as I make my way to the
car.

Farah Devoroh slept with her husband’s
subordinate to get back at him over a petty argument. Things may
have been okay if she didn’t advertise it to the world. She didn’t
think about that man’s family, or that he was set to retire in a
few months. The captain of the police department has reach, and we
learned it quickly. A routine traffic stop on a bogus infraction
turned into planted oxy and cost him his pension. Hell, he was more
at fault than she was. But he turned bitter, especially when they
lost the house and no one would hire him. I came along after the
affair, a completely unwanted surprise when they could barely
afford to feed the two kids they already had. Poor turned into dirt
poor and no one has stopped holding grudges.

Mom had worked three shit jobs at places
that other cops frequented. Some were nice and left big tips. Some,
none at all. Dad turned to drinking and let her do it. She let him
sit on his ass through it all. I never got that. At least old Farah
didn’t seem to be faring so well either. It fires me up that my
parents are here, even if they don’t want to leave out of pride.
What the hell do I do now?

“Let’s go red.”

“Oh, but this is your signature color, are
you sure?”

I nod and grab the gossip magazines in front
of me to thwart any more conversation. The first thing I see is my
face, the old me. She looks high, white blonde hair, nappy, needing
a brushing like nobody’s business. She has thigh high leather
boots, stockings that are ripped and pulling at the seams, and the
caption is, “Has Popper relapsed?” No. No she hasn’t. I remember
making the cuts myself in the comfort of my home straight out of
the package. What the hell am I doing with my life? I look in the
mirror, seeing the fashionable woman working behind me, feeling her
pulling and tugging at the yard of hair afforded to her expertise.
Turning back to the magazine, I keep reading about how Popper from
Chimera is adrift in her career, relapsing into drug abuse and how
“inside sources” are worried about her.

Fuck them.

I have never been addicted to drugs, are you
shitting kidding me?! I’ve seen what the effects are, the chaos
that ensues as a result. No thanks. Granted, I’ve done them. When
you’re on tour and every adult around you is pushing them on you,
telling you it’s part of the life, you do it at least once. I sigh
and page through the rest of the vitriol that is mainstream media.
Shortly after, I’m pulling my Facebook page up on the phone.

“Personal assistant? Slave? Did I catch your
attention? Drop me a line.”

I hit send and think nothing more about it,
other than I need a damn assistant yesterday. I’ve been back from
Oregon for a day and the inaction to move my parents is already
eating away at me. Also starting this new show has me shaking my
leg in impatience.

Three hours later, I’ve exhausted the gossip
rags and am ready to walk out the door. I’m never this inactive.
I’ve even responded to a million emails from fans that I never
would have thought to check before. I need an assistant. ASAP.

It’s not until I check out that I’m aware
that I don’t have my wallet. “Are you fucking kidding me?” I
murmur, waiting in line at the busy counter. I hold my cell phone
desperately. “I’ll be right back. As long as it takes to get to
Malibu and back, I’ll be here with a credit card.” The girl looks
at me skeptically before my ‘hair artist’ comes up to her and
whispers in her ear. I pass over my cell phone as a gesture of
goodwill I don’t really think they’ll take, but they do.

I hop into my car and jet toward my house,
racing as fast as I can. Fucking producers and their deadlines. I
hit my privacy gate on a screech, almost hitting the wrought iron
gate, punching the security code as fast as I can. I run in, grab
my wallet where it had spilled over on the counter and run back to
the door.

There’s a man standing in my doorway. “Who
are you?” I blurt out.

“I’m . . . I came because I—”

“Oh! You saw the post, right? Well, come on,”
I interrupt, making my way back to the car.

“I . . . what?”

“I posted on Facebook about needing an
assistant. Wow, you’re fast. Do you need work? Get in, I’m about to
be late.” I slam the door and barely wait for the guy to figure out
that the door of my car goes up instead of out. He huffs and
buckles his seatbelt as he settles in.

“So you saw my Facebook post. What are your
references?” I ask, cutting someone off and getting a horn blared
for my efforts.