Obsessive Compulsion (22 page)

Merry Christmas. Your daughter screwed up
again!

My phone beeps again putting my legs back
into motion. One last check on Kitkat’s auto-feeder and water
bowls, and I’m out the door. Brandon is waiting by his open trunk
and takes my bag while Emma waves with a giant smile from the
rolled-down passenger seat window.

“Charlie!” She emphasizes how awake she is
at seven-thirty in the morning with a boisterous giggle. It’s only
a three hour drive, but Daddy insists we leave early because it’s
safer and Momma will have some big lunch ready, I’m sure.

“Morning sweetie,” I smile at her after
thanking Brandon for taking my bag. With another deep inhale to
prepare myself for three hours in the car with them, I’m praying
they don’t ask me what really happened with Ian. I simply told Emma
last night that he couldn’t make it and she hadn’t asked for an
explanation. Sliding into the back, it’s pleasant to find out
Brandon’s Mercedes has heated seats.

It’s not so pleasant to look over and find
Ian sitting next to me.

I blink once, twice – certain I’m seeing
things, because no way are Emma and Brandon this cruel. A muffled
snicker from Emma confirms that my best friend has turned traitor,
and Brandon’s fucking goofy-ass grin almost has me getting back out
of the car. I’d rather walk to Oklahoma than take part in this
little circus.

Brandon locks the doors, which are
child-proof from the backseat, and I hiss out a curse. He pulls the
car out onto the street, heading to the I-35 while I try to keep
from exploding on them. Glancing down, I spot a large to-go cup
marked as café mocha next to Ian’s coffee. I take it, begrudgingly
giving into my addiction, and inhale the open vent.

Ian snorts next to me and I bit my cheek to
keep from smiling. “Shut it, Rider. What’re you doin’ here?”

He shrugs casually. “I seem to remember
being invited.”

The little smirk twitching his lip both
pisses me off and has me swooning all over again. God damn this
infuriatingly stubborn, adorable man! “Dammit, this aint funny. My
folks don’t even know you’re comin’. I didn’t have time to
call.”

“I talked to John and Carol last night,”
Emma comments then resumes humming along with the radio that’s
turned down so low I wonder if she even knows what song it is.

I try not to glare at her. “Before or after
I
called
you
?”

“Hmmmmm…” she draws out the noise on purpose
and I catch Brandon fighting a case of the chuckles. “Can’t
recall.”

The little liar
.

So, they think this is funny, do they? Well,
screw ‘em then. Pouting like a proper adult, I stick in my earplugs
and turn up the mp3 player on my phone. Knowing that three hours of
nothing but flat, endless cow fields awaits my brooding stare out
the window doesn’t help my mood. Neither does the reflection of
Ian’s face on the glass that I can’t help but watch.

He’s watching me as I watch him, but he
doesn’t make any further moves or attempts to talk to me. I get the
feeling he’s biding his time for something, or that he’s in no rush
to have the conversation my gut is flipping summersaults over in
anticipation. The man is completely calm. Not a single twitch. It
unnerves me.

I wonder if Emma told him about what really
happened yesterday. At least she couldn’t tell him about Neil,
because not even she knows about that. A shiver passes up my spine,
and for the briefest second, I see Neil’s face in the window
instead of Ian’s. It’s faded, though. Blurred through a
condensation fog. After six years, I have a hard time remembering
his features, but I’ll never forget the sound of his voice.

‘
Say you won’t forget me,
Charlotte.’

I won’t, Neil. Not matter how much it hurts
me to remember.

I wake up just as we’re pulling into the
drive leading up to my parent’s goat farm. Yes, I said goat farm.
They used to raise cattle, but that got too expensive, so Momma
talked Daddy into exchanging cows for goats. Who knew goat cheese
would take off like it did? Apparently my momma did.

I glance around the car, but none of them
are making eye contact. Damn, these three aren’t fooling around. I
guess they decided not to make any rest-stops for fear I’d jump
ship. My uninterrupted sleep also makes me wonder if they put
something in my café mocha. I wouldn’t put it past Emma.

‘
For your own good’
, she’d say.

My scowl deepens as I put away my earplugs,
and I toss the scowl over at Ian. He’s got this smug smile on his
face, but his eyes show worry. I’ve gotten good at reading his
expressions. The man is just as nervous as I am. My fingers itch to
reach out and hold his hand, and I think he can see my want,
because he glances down at our hands. His fingers twitch. He wants
to hold me, too.

Monday, and everything else I put between
us, is starting to feel incredibly insignificant.
And
childish.

My next clue that this is some sort of
planned intervention is that my daddy is sitting on the front porch
waiting for us despite the brisk temperature. I swear, if Dr. Phil
is sitting in my parent’s living room, I’m gonna let the whole
world know about Brandon’s Stables and then I’ll hogtie Ian in a
goat pen for the night. See how he keeps from twitching then.

Heck, I bet he’d enjoy it.

Dammit!
Now I’m visualizing raunchy
images of Ian naked and hogtied in a hay bed. With his boots still
on, of course. And maybe a hat.

Charlotte…

I know, I know. I’m about to walk into a
warzone and I’m lusting after the enemy. My eyes immediately glance
back at Ian. The bastard winks at me like he can see the images
floating around in my head.

Fuck. I am so outgunned.

My dad approaches the car and doesn’t say a
word to me. He pats Emma’s head, shakes hands with Ian, helps
Brandon unload the trunk and then disappears inside with the
luggage.
Oh shit. Oh shit, shit, shit.
My dad being silent
like that has
never
been a good thing.

My daddy has a big heart, a friendly smile
and these dark blue eyes that can freeze you on the spot. He’s only
had to spank me twice in my lifetime. The rest, well, he just had
to give me that silent look and my ass started hurtin’ all on its
own. My ass is on fire now as I walk up the porch steps.

“Charlotte,”

I pause mid-step then look down at Ian who’s
standing at the bottom. “What’s go’n on, Rider? What did you tell
my parents?”

“The truth,” he says with no apology in his
eyes. He steps up beside me, pauses then chastely kisses my cheek.
“That I’m in love with their daughter, and that I’m going to do
whatever it takes help you let yourself be loved.”

I’m left standing on the porch alone, my
heartbeat fast and my whole world spinning.

A minute goes by, maybe three, before I can
put my feet back in motion to step into the house. On the right is
the living room where everyone is sitting but my dad. My mom
glances up at me over Ian’s shoulder and I can’t figure out the
expression on her face. It startles me and plants my feet against
the hardwood floor of the entryway.

“Come and sit with me for a while, pumpkin,”
my dad’s voice calmly calls to me from the old fashioned lounge on
the left.

He hasn’t called me pumpkin since high
school. I turn slowly, afraid to see what kina weird expression
he’s wearing on his face. Just like Momma’s, I can’t make a lick a’
sense out of it. Edging slowly into the dark-cherry wood and
Victorian wallpapered room, I swallow as he motions for me to shut
the door and then sit next to him on the couch.

Everything about this feels wrong. Instead
of taking off my jean jacket, I hold onto it with the idea I may be
running back out that front door at any minute. “Daddy?”

The question comes out sounding just like it
used to when I was little. It’s full of worry but also full of
hope. My daddy has always been my hero. He could fix anything, but
today it feels like he’s about to break something. I think that
something is me.

His giant, wrinkled hand pats my knee while
his blue eyes, framed in red, stare into mine. “It’s good to see
you, pumpkin. I wish we didn’t have to keep visitin’ on these
terms, what with last time being Emma in the hospital, but that’s
life I guess. You’ve gone and gotten so big on me, girl, but I
can’t help still seein’ you with your hair in a braid while you’re
causing trouble ‘round your momma’s ankles.”

His hand squeezes my knee. “But, you aint so
little anymore, and it’s probably well past due that we had this
talk. Your momma – well, she thinks it’s best I do this, mostly
‘cause she blames herself but also ‘cause it still kills her to
talk about it.”

“Daddy, you’re scarin’ me.”

“I know, pumpkin,” he kisses my forehead
then leans back with a frown, “but I know how strong you are. I
raised you like a boy ‘cause I don’t know no other way, then you
went and became a beautiful, strong woman who does me proud every
day.”

“Daddy…”

“Ah-ah, don’t interrupt your old man. And no
arguin’ with him, neither.”

I close my mouth shut and he continues. “You
do make us proud, but I also know things keep happening to take you
back a few steps, and every time it happens you blame yourself and
run before anyone can argue any different.”

I have to interrupt. “If this is about
Neil,” my words end as he raises one eyebrow. Damn, that look still
has all the power in the world over me.

“It is, and it isn’t,” he sighs. “Mostly,
it’s about that boy out there in my living room who’s refusing to
let you run away this time. I knew he was a good man… good
handshake… but now I
know
he’s good enough for my little
girl, and you should know that he’ll chase after you forever if you
make him.”

He leans forward as his words roll around in
my head. Ian’s managed to get my dad’s approval behind my back. Ian
will chase after me. Ian’s a good man.

My dad reaches out and catches the tear that
falls. “Oh, pumpkin, I really am sorry. If we’d ‘a known how much
this would stir up your whole life, over and over again, we would
‘a told you a long time ago.”

I sniffle, completely confused. “I don’t
understand. What are you talkin’ about?”

“I’m talkin’ about the real reason you keep
blamin’ yourself and runnin’ away, and I’m tellin’ you that it’s
got nothin’ to do with Neil. I’m sure he added to it, but it goes
way back further.” He stops, picks up an envelope off the coffee
table and hands it to me. “It goes all the way back to Mary
Lynn.”

“Who?” I furrow my brow but open the
envelope as a cold chill arcs through me, causing my fingers to
shake against the tucked-in flap. Inside the envelope is a folded
letter and a faded picture – one of those old Polaroid instant-film
types. The color around the edges has started to degrade, eating
into the picture of a little, redheaded girl no older than three,
I’d guess, and a baby. They’re both in frilly white dresses, like
baptism outfits.

The label below the image is in my momma’s
handwriting. It’s dated three years after I was born, and below the
date are two names and a location.
Charlotte Susanna and Mary
Lynn McLeod. Baptism – St. Francis Church.

“Mary…” As soon as the name passes my lips,
my whole body revolts.

The picture drops to the ground and I’m on
my feet before I have a chance to take another breath. Daddy is
right there with me, reaching for me, but I can’t get away fast
enough. I can’t get away.

Have to get away
!

He grabs my shoulders as my legs scream at
me to bolt. “It wasn’t you’re fault. You hear me, Charlotte? It
weren’t nobody’s fault. Not yours, not your mommas and not the
woman drivin’ the car.”

“C-c-car…” and I see it.

Sunlight. Spring lilies. Baptism Sunday.
Momma talkin’ to the pastor. Mary in the stroller. Strawberry-print
fabric.

Just gonna give her a push. Gonna be a big
girl and walk the baby down the sidewalk like Momma. Just a little
ways.

A horn blares, tires screech and I’m runnin’
out the front door as fast as my feet can take me.

The sound of toppling furniture breaks the
uneasy silence that’s settled over the living room. We’ve been
waiting with held breaths and very few words passed between us.
None of us are quite sure what to expect, but my emergency call to
Michelle last night informed us only two things could happen.
Either Charlotte won’t remember, or she will.

The lounge room door slams open and John is
calling out to Charlotte as a flash of red flies through the
entryway and out the front door. I’m on my feet and in pursuit
before John even makes it to the doorway of the lounge. Damn, she’s
fast.

Iced-over cut wheat crunches beneath our
feet and huffing vapors of air create a trail behind us. God, the
sounds coming from her are heart-breaking. I swear, I’m listening
to sound of her soul splitting apart. A sob, a scream, a fight as
my arms wrap around her from behind.

I catch up to Charlotte in the field behind
her parent’s house right as her legs give out on her. Easing her
down, I hold her hair out of the way as she vomits. Dry heaves
convulse into body-wracking violent sobbing and screams that seem
endless. I have nothing to say that could comfort or ease this
pain. All I can offer is something solid to cling to – something
that is going to stay by her side no matter what.

Blue eyes wide open, she stares at her
shaking hands, but I don’t think she’s seeing anything but ghosts.
John appears with a blanket and tears on his cheek – a father
powerless to sooth one baby girl while she grieves in guilt at the
loss of the other. Wrapping the blanket around her, I can’t stop my
own tears from falling into the morning snow beneath us.