The Star Child (The Star Child Series) (4 page)

Regardless, you’re free of Stephen and you can get a proper start out on your own now. No matter what happens or what you find out, you should know that you’re the greatest joy in my life and proof that I didn’t fail in life.

My love to you,

Gran

I was reeling. It wasn't as if I hadn’t thought of going it alone before; running away from Stephen, school, everything, was something that I considered on an almost daily basis. However, there’d always been a certain amount of fear associated with starting out on my own. Still just a kid, in my mind. Though emotionally I’d been on my own for a long time, I’d never been responsible for my own financial independence.

The level of risk seemed further intensified by the knowledge that Stephen controlled the purse strings, and I had no plan and no idea where to go. Over time, I found that I could easily convince myself that I didn't need to leave “right now”.

It would be Gran who instinctively provided the funding, the plan, and the motivation that I needed to start out on my own. Her letter included information regarding a bank account that she’d set up for me and a debit card with my name on it. After that, it was a very small matter to arrange to use my ticket immediately after graduation.

It also didn’t hurt that Gran had invested the money from Stephen over the years, which I came to find out resulted in a little over a million dollars. I had plans to invest a large portion of this money once I got to London. With any luck, I could ride out many years on those funds until my writing got published. Smiling, I envisioned writing for a living in a cottage by the sea. Those thoughts swirled around in my head now.

So that was where I stood. I had my degree, I had money, but what I craved now was closure. I certainly didn’t have any belongings at Stephen’s house; everything that was important to me was in the car. However, I needed to close the door on Stephen for good.

***

It was getting quite hot out. Spring was fading into summer and the temperature was already in the mid-eighties as I drove toward Syracuse. Shrugging out of my jacket, I switched to the next song in my music playlist: “Take On Me” by A-ha. Turning up the volume, I tried not to think about where I was going or what I was about to do.

In the years that I’d been at Yale, I’d managed to avoid going home. Every holiday, every birthday, every break was spent with Gabe’s family. The Stewarts always made me feel at home; I even had my own room there. The last time that I was at Stephen’s home was the summer before I started college. That was also the last time that I’d had an audience with him.

When I arrived at the estate four hours later, I half expected the circular drive in front of the house to be empty, but it wasn’t. Up to that point, some part of me still hoped that there was a reason he’d blown off my college graduation. Guess not.

I parked and hopped out of the car, not bothering to lock up behind me. As I walked toward the front door, I glanced up at the Tudor-style manor house in disgust.

Though the home’s stately façade and aged wood exterior would have impressed some, maybe even coerced them to visit each of the home’s four floors and thirty rooms, it had the opposite effect on me.

Yet I reached for the ornate brass handle that dominated the front door and tugged it open, not bothering to close the door behind me. Stephen’s study was on my right and he was sitting there, reading, with a look on his face that indicated the presence of an unpleasant smell under his nose.

“At least you missed my graduation ceremony for something important.” I gestured to the book. “You certainly can’t read ‘Freeing Your Child from Anxiety’ enough, given that that was such a priority with me.” My words were daggers of ice in the otherwise warm room. At least that was how I intended them.

He glanced up about a fraction of an inch but otherwise didn’t acknowledge that I was present. This was a typical response from him, so I can’t say that I should have been hurt or surprised, yet I always was.

These days, Stephen St. James was an esteemed professor at Syracuse University who specialized in Child Psychology. In the last thirty years, he’d earned two PhDs, written twelve books, and been on television countless times.

One of his books was featured in the Oprah Book Club and he made a point of mentioning this whenever possible to anyone who’d listen.
“Oh, it’s going well. Had a book in the Oprah club last month, you know. I was very lucky.”

Actually, he believed that this was not due to good fortune at all but instead to his own brilliance. Regardless of the book club, his psychology degrees, or his success in the academic arena, none of these experiences qualified him to raise his own children.

The bottom line was that his only claim to fame was having a compelling public persona and an even more compelling agent. Marketing himself was his life, and this was something he did exceptionally well. This meant that the speaking engagements continued to pile up, along with the line of women that wanted to date him.

“Since you aren’t interested in speaking to me, I wanted to stop by and tell you that I’m moving out on my own. Goodbye, Father, have a nice…whatever.” I couldn’t think of anything more to say to him. The desire to turn and leave overwhelmed me; I turned away to do just that.

“There’s certainly a note of finality in your tone. Given that you’re penniless, I’d recommend at least finishing college first.” He hid behind the pages of his book, refusing eye contact.

“Did you not hear me? I’m done. I graduated today. I’m moving out.” I turned back again as a look of astonishment crossed his face. I wondered if it had only just occurred to him that I’d aged at all.

“Today?” His brow furrowing, he looked at the calendar as if he might find the answer there. “You might as well stay. I know that you’ve nowhere to go and no way to survive on your own. I'll cut off your allowance as soon as you walk out that door.” He was so obviously proud to lord his money over my head.

I reflected that he’d never struck me in my life. He made sure we were fed, clothed, gave us the best education, and provided a more than generous roof over our heads. Giving his money was easy. He never gave of
himself
.

“I have a nice little stash set aside. I won’t have to worry for a while.”

“How could you possibly have any money set aside, you insolent child?” This was obviously enough to spark some emotion, and he threw his book onto the desk in time with the phrase “insolent child”. He did have a flare for the dramatic. “You’ve absolutely no concept of how much medical school costs. Plus I’ll have to buy your way into some school, as I’m sure you screwed up. I wasn’t informed about a single interview.”

“Insolent child, huh? Is that the best you can come up with?”
You’d think he’d make more of an effort to be original. What a disappointment
. Turning fully, I faced him again. “Let’s think about it this way. How much money would I have if your mother took every cent that you ever gave her and instead of spending it, put it in a trust fund for me? I’d be willing to bet that would be quite a nice little sum, wouldn’t you?”

He blanched at my words. His face flushed in anger before he regained control. If I didn't know his measured reactions so well, I’d have missed the moment entirely.

“I don’t want you to feel particularly concerned over my financial well-being, Father.”

“I suppose that I shouldn’t be surprised. You always did have so much of your mother in you. This is exactly the type of thing that she’d do.”

He spoke in such a way that he implied this type of behavior was reckless and undesirable. Despite his attitude, I still stopped breathing. This was unheard of; he never spoke of my mother.

Throughout my childhood, questions were forbidden and there were no pictures of her in the house. She was there one day, a vibrant, beautiful part of our world, and then suddenly she didn't exist.

In this tense moment, as I stood in the ornate den with a man whose approval I’d never receive, I was suddenly thrust back in time to the day that my mother passed away.

We had been taken aside by Stephen’s estate manager and told that she’d died suddenly and that we should go to our rooms. No further explanation was given beyond that. Roger and I wept at the news, unable to reconcile a mother whom we’d seen the night before with one that wouldn’t be coming back. However, this reaction wasn’t one Stephen had the patience for.

Upon returning to the house, he’d locked us in our rooms for the remainder of the day. When we were released the following morning, we were asked to restrict our tears to a minimum and informed that it was Stephen’s wife who’d died, and he was the only one who should be allowed to cry.

However, I missed my mother too much and I needed something, some memento of hers, something to hold in my hand. I snuck into her study the next day, using a paperclip technique that I had read about in a book to pick the lock. Even now, I could still recall the hush of the darkened room, the grateful rush of familiarity I recognized in being among those things that had only recently been hers, things she’d once touched.

Her scent still hung there—a woodsy smell that linked my mother to the nature that she loved and the forest she loved to walk in. That day, I progressed tentatively into the room, touching everything and seeing nothing through my tear-filled eyes. I stayed there for hours, feeling close to her, yet missing her with a longing so intense that it was unbearable.

Eventually I got up to leave, taking pains not to make any sound lest I be discovered. Then I noticed the crumpled piece of paper at the bottom of the empty wastebasket. My hand lunged forward into the basket as I opened it up greedily. In my hands was simply an old grocery list from the previous month in her handwriting. Yet it was more than that to me. I held it close, feeling as though I’d struck gold.

That piece of paper went everywhere with me for months. I slept with it under my pillow every night. I opened and closed it so many times that the writing was worn and faded, the paper starting to tear.

One evening after dinner, it fell from my pocket onto the floor. Stephen picked it up, and there was a rushing sound in my ears as I waited for his reaction. Looking at me in disgust, he tore it up into tiny pieces despite my cries of panic.

That wasn’t enough for him, however. He further punished me by not speaking to me for the next two weeks. In many ways, this was much worse than being beaten. At least a beating would eventually end, whereas being ignored seemed without end.

After that day, the study was emptied and all of her things removed, her scent replaced by the harsh burn of bleach. There were no reminders of my mother left in the cold house, no indicators of her presence, which had once filled every room. These memories haunted me now. Though I processed quite a bit, my silence lasted only a few seconds.

“I’ll take that as a compliment, Father, as I’d rather have my mother in me than the alternative.” I turned to leave again, but before I could make it to the doorway, I remembered something that I needed to say. “I almost forgot. Thanks for the graduation present. Since I only had it a week, though, I wanted to let you know that I sold it and thought that you should have the proceeds.”

Before Stephen could speak, I tossed a single penny high in the air in his direction. I’d just about made it through the door before he voiced his outraged realization.

Without a backward glance, I reached the car and hopped over the door and into the driver’s seat “Dukes of Hazzard”-style. Starting the little car’s engine, I navigated my playlist to the Police’s “Ghost in the Machine” album and cranked up the music. I was always a bit of an eighties aficionado, in case you hadn’t noticed. They were simpler times, with sitcoms that featured families who were happy, brothers and sisters who got along, and music that was mostly rap and booty-free.
What’s not to like?

My phone rang persistently, but I didn’t answer. It was Stephen, of course. I’d have to make arrangements for a new number once I got to Ireland. I wouldn’t come back here again, I vowed to myself. I’d given up on Stephen for good now, and I had already given up on Roger years ago.

Thinking of him, I glanced up at the window on the topmost floor. Roger was staring down at me from the window of his bedroom. As I continued to look at him, he slowly raised his right hand and I thought for a moment that he was going to wave. Instead, he simply extended his middle finger. Shaking my head, I muttered under my breath, “He’s all yours, dog breath.”

Turning the key, I drove off with the top down, speeding toward the airport and the plane that would take me to my new life.

CHAPTER THREE

A LIFE BEGINS

When I got to the airport, I sent a text with the location and the pin number for the car to Gabe, and left the keys under the mat. Opening the trunk, I extracted two small duffle bags and a backpack, and shut the lid. I believed in packing light.

After negotiating the airport, I looked forward to a peaceful flight. For me that meant that I could eat unlimited Snickers candy bars and nap under a hobbit-sized blanket.

After navigating through security and waiting through the long boarding process, I finally made it to my seat. An attractive blonde who was sitting in an aisle seat across from me smiled invitingly. This was nothing new in my experience. I'd been told before that I looked five years older and was therefore used to having older women hit on me.

After my mother’s death, Stephen was never without a beautiful woman on his arm. He rarely introduced any of them to Roger and me, so I couldn’t say that I recalled even one name. Since I had no interest in turning out like Stephen, I generally ignored these types of situations when they came up.

Ironically, girls my own age refused to give me the time of day. It had never helped matters that I’d had the ideal girl in my mind for quite a long time, most of my life actually, and wasn’t willing to relinquish the dream yet. I gave the woman across from me a small smile before deliberately closing my eyes and turning my head toward the window; the blonde's disappointment was almost tangible.