The Set Up (72 page)

I toss the stone in my hand into the barren wasteland of dirt and grab another.

Jake wipes his brow and then looks around at each of us as if looking for reassurance.

I nod my head in his direction. “Go on, Jake, get it out.”

“I was seven at the time. Seven years old. There was nothing I could have done.”

“I don’t think anyone would have expected you to,” Will tells him.

“Becca would have. She was a nice girl. She was there for me, and he covered his dirty body over hers, covered her mouth with his filthy palm, and raped her. He raped her right there in our living room and I saw him do it.”

Dread washes through me.

“I didn’t say anything. She was a nice girl, and he was vile. She didn’t tell anyone for a long time. Once she did, there was no evidence. He went to jail but got a lawyer who thought he could get him out. My father claimed Becca made it all up. I knew she didn’t. And I think my mother knew I knew. She claimed being harassed everywhere we went was why we left, but I think she was afraid I’d speak out, and after all that time, where would that have left us?”

My anger towards his father and empathy for him seems to be punching it out inside me. I’m not sure which I want to win out. I catch his gaze. “We can’t live our lives trying to change our past, Jake, nothing good can come of it, trust me, I know.”

He runs his hands down his face. “I could have saved her, and I didn’t. I live with that every day.”

“It’s time to let it go,” Will whispers.

Everything about Jake makes such sense now. He stays away from nice girls. Thinks he’s dirty. He can’t forgive himself for not helping Becca.

“It was a long time ago, Jake. You were a kid. You need to stop punishing yourself for what your father did.”

His expression hardens, and the vulnerable part of him disappears right in front of me. “I’ve never told anyone that story, but I’m telling you guys now because when we go up there, I need to go in the house alone. It’s time I had my peace with that man. Let him know I know he’s a liar. He can plead innocence and sue whomever the fuck he wants for wrongful doing, but it’s all a lie, and I know it. I’ll get him to drop whatever scheme he has cooked up against Lightning Motors; you have to trust me on this, but I need to do it alone.”

“It’s your call,” I tell him.

Will and Drew agree.

Jake stands up. “Let’s get up there then.”

“You sure you want to do this?” Drew asks him. “Brad’s guy should be up there. We can turn around right now and let him handle this.”

Jake shakes his head with determination. “I got his.”

I believe he does.

STOP SIGN AHEAD

Charlotte

GONE ARE THE
days of simply popping over to Canada.

Armed with my passport and driver’s license, I approach the Detroit-Windsor Tunnel crossing with apprehension. I shiver slightly from the cool evening air as I open my window and then smooth a hand over my messy hair.

The booths and inspection plazas are jam-packed with people. Then again, it is a holiday weekend.

“Pull forward and to the left,” security tells me.

Stuck in a line a mile long, my mind starts to drift.

I’m pregnant.

There’s no way I can have a baby.

I can’t take care of a baby.

I’m not ready for that.

When someone pounds on my window, I jump, my hand flying to my belly.

I’m spinning.

Scanning.

Worried.

It’s not just me anymore.

But it’s no one dangerous. It is just security.

That’s all.

Calming down, I lower my window once again and do as I’m instructed. The inspection is over so quickly that I’m driving seventy-five feet below the Detroit River in no time.

I hate this part.

Hate being underground.

It has always made me feel so vulnerable.

Fearful.

Thank God the mile goes quickly.

Toll paid, GPS leads me to ON-3, where I drive for an hour.

Too soon, I’m driving down a residential street in a nice neighborhood.
Her street.
I swing the Civic into a steep driveway, apprehensive in a way I haven’t been before.

I look at the house.

It’s small, but nice.

I stare at the front porch with the light on, and my pulse flutters like a bird hoping to take flight. My gaze widens and I take in the white-shingled home with a red door, black shutters and detached garage.

Red door.

She has a red door.

And it’s so welcoming and inviting.

I pull the emergency brake, just in case.

Stalling.

What am I here for?

I don’t know.

I just know I had to come.

Clicking on my phone to make sure Jasper hasn’t called me, my screensaver pops up and I smile. The picture of a dreamy man with light-brown hair, tan skin, full lips, and large chocolate-brown eyes. I stare at Jasper’s picture, the one I took the day we went out on the boat. There’s such intensity in his eyes and face, it reminds me that he feels things, deeply.

Stalling again.

Getting out of the car, I start for the house. For a moment, I feel the familiar tinge of resentment. Did Tory grow up here? With my mother as
her
mother? Then I remember anger won’t change anything.

I find myself marching toward the front steps as if I’m going to a funeral.

Maybe in a way I am.

My hand is shaking when I ring the doorbell.

I wait.

Nothing.

I hover my finger over the button and take a deep breath before pressing it again.

Still nothing.

Giving up and thankful she isn’t home, I turn and head for my car.

I hear it before it registers.

The door opening.

The voice calling, “Charlotte? Is that you?”

Slowly, I turn around.

She stares right at me.

Step by step, I walk to the porch.

We look at each other, expressionless, motionless, a standoff of some kind.

She finally speaks. “I never thought you’d come.”

I open my mouth to talk, then shut it. I’m nervous and rattled, and so uncertain. “I . . . I . . . I was hoping to talk to you,” I stammer.

There’s a sad gleam in her eye. “Yes, of course. Come in.”

I realize I’m holding my breath. I can’t go inside. I can’t see where she’s been living all these years. See pictures that don’t include me. “Can we go somewhere? Maybe get some coffee?” I suggest as an alternative.

She looks at me as if understanding what I’m thinking. “Okay, sure. There’s a Starbucks a couple of blocks over. It should still be open. Let me just grab my purse.”

For one second, I am stupidly stunned that she has agreed, but ride together? No. “How about I follow you?”

“Yes, of course.”

She drives a Ford Escape. I follow her down the street and around the corner of an average neighborhood from her average home in her average car. Not that much different from Eastpointe, actually.

Everything about this makes no sense.

As we enter the coffee shop, the buzz inside is a relief. People around are a good thing. The smell of baked goods in the air reminds me I haven’t eaten since lunch, and then I didn’t really eat. I should force myself to eat something. It’s probably not good for the baby for me to go without food.

“How about you grab a table and I’ll order,” my mother suggests. “What would you like?”

I glance up at the menu and know I am taking way too long.

She’s patient with me.

That’s unexpected.

Reaching for my wallet, I tell her, “I’ll have the green tea and one of the protein pack meals, and maybe a bottle of water,” and then I hand her a twenty-dollar bill.

She pushes it back toward me, and I imagine she feels scorned, although she just says, “I got it.”

By the time she comes back to the table, I am filled with anxiety, so much so I’d say it’s flowing through my veins.

She sets the tea and food in front of me, and then sits down with a cup in her hand.

As I reach for the bottle of water, I notice that my hands are shaking. I feel lightheaded, sweaty, queasy, and I can’t seem to catch my breath.

“Are you okay?” she asks, more concern in her voice than I ever remember hearing.

I force myself to snap out of it. I will not have an anxiety attack in front of this woman. “Yes, I’m fine, just thirsty.”

Grow up, Charlotte.

She peels back the plastic lid of her cup, checking for the amount of cream. It appears to be okay because she says nothing. “I’m surprised you came to see me. I didn’t think you would.”

When I can’t manage a reply, she adds, “It’s nice to see you.”

I look at her, bracing myself. I lick my lips, my throat still dry, and stalling a little more, I take a large sip of the tea and it burns the roof of my mouth.

“Careful, it’s hot.”

“It’s fine,” I say, my voice cracking. “I came because I have some questions I’d like the answers to.”

She holds my gaze. “Yes, anything. I owe you that much.”

My chin trembles as I nod the smallest of nods. She does owe me, but I don’t tell her so.

She smiles at me. “Maybe I could start?”

She’s asking me?

I sit frozen, anticipating what she’ll say—that the motherhood gene is hereditary. Her mother was just like she was. Some women aren’t born to be mothers, and her and I are in that group.

I feel sorry for my baby.

Her smile fades, all the color draining from her already-fair complexion, as she stares at me with eyes the same as mine.

We’re the same.

I’m going to cry.

I don’t though.

I feel more grown-up already.

She clears her throat. “What I did to you wasn’t right, Charlotte. I was very young when I got pregnant with you, barely out of high school. My parents encouraged me to get married, so I did. I never loved Adam.”

I open up the food box and tell myself I need to eat, even though I’m not certain I can keep it down.

She continues. “Adam didn’t want to get married either, but his parents forced him. I was alone all the time. It’s not an excuse, but I was so unhappy. And you, well you were a baby and babies need attention. I struggled to do what was right. Every day, Charlotte, I told myself today, today I would be a better mother. And then every day passed and I wasn’t. As you got older, you needed more and more.”

The bite of hard-boiled egg gets stuck in my throat and I have to wash it down with a swig of water.

She holds my gaze then hesitates, taking a deep breath. “But none of that was your fault. I know I told you it was, but it wasn’t. You were a child who needed love, and I was broken. It was me who couldn’t give it to you. And Charlotte, I’m so sorry if I made you think anything different.”

Unable to contain my emotion, it just comes out. “You did. You made me feel so unwanted, unloved. That I couldn’t be loved because I needed too much. And then, and then, you left me,” I stammer.

Tears stream down her face; she wipes them away one after the other.

Mine are falling too.

She swallows and waits as we both stare at each other awkwardly. And then she does something unexpected. She reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. “I am so sorry, baby girl, I am so, so sorry. I know that doesn’t make up for anything.”

I tense at the coolness of her fingers around my hand. They are slender, delicate, and her middle finger is dwarfed by a large silver ring.

I look down at our almost identical hands and ask, “Was your mother like you? I mean, unable to handle being a parent?”

She shakes her head with a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “No, my mom was a great mother. She stayed at home and loved it. She was my Brownie troop leader, the cheerleading team mom, prom coordinator, anything she could do to be a part of my life—she did it. She was wonderful.” She pats my hand and then pulls it away to wipe her eyes. “Her and my father were in a car accident right before I had you. It devastated me. She’d already gotten the nursery ready and every time I went in there, it reminded me of her. I made Adam redo the room before you were even born.”

I digest this. Something I never knew.