Through Glass (The Glass Series Book 1) (10 page)

Chapter Twenty-Three

If only you knew

How to read between the lines

Everyone says I was probably born crazy, like my mother, but I know that’s not true.

I am living in foster care.

My mother had lost custody of me when I was three because she was bipolar and a drug addict who, as much as she tried, could never get clean. No one wanted custody of me. My own grandmother wouldn’t even take me in. Her reasoning was that my mother was far too young when she had me at nineteen, and I was a mistake, so they had whisked me away into the system at a young age.

I am five years old, and my mother has figured out where I’m living with my foster family, the Evans, who are only concerned about the checks they were receiving for keeping me around. Mr. Evans is mean to me and Mrs. Evans lets him speak to me however he wants to, because if she steps in, he is mean to her.

Mom, who I haven’t seen since the day I was taken away, approaches me while I’m playing outside and starts screaming my name over and over. I turn around and see that she’s running towards me. I am young but I can tell that she’s having a manic episode, or she’s on drugs, or both. There’s something not right with her. She grabs me with both arms, and she’s crying. She holds me close—it is the first time she has ever hugged me. It almost feels good. I hear the neighbor shouting not to go with her, but suddenly we’re in a car. This isn’t her car. It was someone else’s car. I’m not sure how she got it. We’re driving. Tears are rolling down her face. Her torn, light pink tank top is soaked—with tears and blood. I don’t know if it’s her blood or not.

“What’s wrong, Mom?” I ask. I’m not afraid of her—after all, she is my mother.

“I love you, sweetheart. We are going to start a life together, just you and me, okay?” She smiles through her tears. I can see her shaking. We’re driving fast. Too fast, I think, but I don’t know for sure.

“What happened?” I ask. I’m not just referring to the blood on her shirt, either. I want to know what happened in the last two years that caused her to never come back for me, like she promised she would when I was being torn from her arms.

“Oh, sweetheart, I’ll explain someday.”

We take a corner too fast and something slides and hits my bare foot. I look down. It’s a gun.

Up until now I’ve only seen guns on TV, when Mr. Evans sits me on the couch at night before bed time. He falls asleep first—and I continue to watch TV well into the night. There are shows on there that aren’t made for little girls, I know. They’re scary, but I don’t move because I don’t want him to wake up and yell at me. He always yells at me.

“What’s that for, Mom?” I ask.

“It’s to keep us safe, sweetheart. It’s so that no one can hurt us ever again, or take you away from me,” she explains. That makes sense, I guess.

I don’t know where we are, but I can’t see anything I recognize. I only see fields and grass and we’re still driving fast.

“Where are we going?” I ask.

“You need to stop asking questions, sweetheart, okay? Can you do that for me? Mommy has it all figured out, okay.”

“Okay, but—”

“I SAID STOP TALKING!”

I slouch down into my seat and I keep quiet.

I’m in the passenger seat, and this is the first time I’ve been in a car without a booster seat. Am I a grown up now?

We are still driving, and Mom is rocking back and forth in the seat. I look behind us—there are police cars. Lots of them. Probably like four of them, at least.

“Are they here because of us?” I ask.

“Don’t look at them, Lauren. Just don’t look at them. They’re bad,” she replies.

“But I thought policemen were the good people?”

“No, sweetheart. They think that you and me are bad people, and we’re not. We’re not bad people, are we, sweetie? So that makes them bad people. Do you understand?” she explains.

Yes, I do. That makes sense. I stare at them—their lights are flashing, and I cannot look away. They’re driving really fast, too. They’re close to us.

I see buildings now. It’s not just grass anymore. We are taking corners so fast that I get pushed to the side each time the car turns. I hit my head on the window and I cry out.

“It’s okay, sweetheart, we’re almost there,” Mom says. Suddenly, she slams on the brakes. “I need you to run now, okay? You have to run with Mommy, as fast as you can, do you understand?”

I nod.

We are running towards a house that I’ve never seen before. It’s big and it’s old. It has brown siding, and a big white door. Mom is holding my hand and we hurry inside.

She locks the door behind us, and pulls me up the stairs. There’s lots of stairs. We run all the way to the top of the house and into a room. She locks the door there, too.

I look around. The room is lit up with candles. There’s a crib and two beds. There’s stuffed animals and pink sheets on one of the beds. Mom sees me looking at it and tells me that one is mine.

“This is where we’re going to live and be safe, okay? We’re going to be a family. Mommy has a little brother for you in her tummy,” she explains. “He’s going to be here soon, and he’s going to sleep in the crib.”

I look down, and she’s pointing to her stomach. It’s big. I’m excited to have a brother—a real brother, not like the brother I have at the Evans’ house, who is really mean to me all the time, just like everyone else there. He has only been living with us for a couple weeks but he colored on my doll’s face and put her in the microwave.

I look down. There’s colorful foam letters on the floor, and toys. I ask if I can play with the toys, and Mom says yes.

I can hear noises from outside. It sounds like lots of people, and they’re all talking really loud.

“What do they want, Mom?”

“Those are the bad policemen. They want us not to be together, but we’re going to show them that it’s okay if we’re a family.”

I agree. It sounds like a really good plan.

Mom is walking around in the room, back and forth. There are other people in the house now. I can hear them. It sounds like they’re on the stairs.

“I have to go talk to them, okay, sweetheart? I’m going to go tell them we aren’t bad people.”

“Okay, Mom.”

She slips out of the room and I’m left alone with my toys. I hear yelling—her, and a man—and some loud noises. There’s a big bang and for a second I wonder if Mom used the gun but I never get to ask her because I never actually saw my Mom again.

A police lady comes into the room and tells me that everything is okay now. I tell her that everything was okay before, too, and that we’re going to live here with my new real brother. I ask where my Mom is and she says that Mom got hurt because she tried to use her gun. I don’t understand.

The lady picks me up and holds me close as she carries me down the stairs. She’s covering my eyes with one hand, but I push her hand away just long enough to see Mom. She is laying on the floor and she’s looking right at me, her eyes wide open—but there is a big hole in the side of her head and lots of blood on her, the floor, and up the wall.

“Mom?” I call out to her, over and over again. “Mom, what’s wrong?”

The police lady covers my eyes again and soon we are outside.

She goes to the ambulance to get me a blanket while I stand and stare at the house.

I realize we aren’t going to live in this house anymore.

I remember the exact moment I lost my mind
.

Chapter Twenty-Four

How strange it feels, to go from falling asleep in your arms

To waking up alone

Oliver walks into the room and hands me a glass of water, which I accept graciously.

“Hold on, Lauren. If you’d like to drink the water, you need to take your medicine at the same time, okay?” he says soothingly. He hands me two white and blue pills.

I put the pills in my mouth, and swallow them with a gulp of water.

So nice of you to care about how I feel, Oliver.

I think maybe I caught what Oliver had—the flu, or something—whatever it was that caused him to miss work at the café. I never had a chance to ask him if he was feeling any better. I ran away too fast. I ran because he told me about his wife.

“You have a wife?” I ask quietly. My whole body aches, and my head hurts. The lights in the room are hard on my eyes and I’m certain they’re going to contribute to the migraine I will get soon.

“Yes, I have a wife,” Oliver replies nonchalantly.

How can you just so casually tell me this after we’ve slept together?

“But, we—I—Oliver, I love you. How could you do this?” I manage to voice.

“Lauren, I’ve told you several times and I will tell you again: there is nothing going on between us, okay? You need to understand that,” he explains.

Okay, I know we never labeled it, but I figured you were scared of commitment—not that you were married.

“We slept together,” I squeak. I’m not sure if he can see how hurt I am, but my heart is literally shattering as I speak these words.

“No, Lauren. We did not. For the past six weeks, we’ve only been talking. I have it all on camera and everything is documented in my notes,” he says, slowly.

Notes? Your notebook? You’re bringing up your stupid secret notebook at a time like this? Fuck your notebook.

“Oliver, you fucked me,” I say. My words are getting louder now. “YOU FUCKED ME.”

I’m crying again. I cannot believe he’d sleep around on his wife—his beautiful, perfect wife—and then deny that anything ever happened between us. He’s beginning to make me feel like I’m crazy—like I am imagining everything.

“I’m not crazy,” I tell him, as he backs away from me. “I’m not.”

“No, Lauren, you are not crazy. What you’re feeling right now is very normal for you. You’re just very sick and you need to get some rest. Those pills will help you. You need to close your eyes and go to sleep for a little while, and I will come back in to check on you in about an hour. Does that sound okay? Do you think you can do that for me, Lauren?” he asks.

I nod. My eyes are heavy. I realize that I am actually feeling quite exhausted and perhaps a bit of sleep will help. Besides, maybe he needs some time by himself to reflect on what happened between us. Maybe he’ll be more accepting when he returns. I love him, and maybe I’ll even forgive him. I mean, he slept with me so he’s clearly not in love with his wife. We can get through this together. She can move out and leave us alone—and I will move into their gorgeous Tuscan-style home. I’d have to redecorate, of course. I don’t want a constant reminder that she lived there. I’ll replace whatever pictures she has there now, with ones of him and me instead.

I curl up in my bed and drift off to sleep.

I am haunted by dreams of my mother’s face, eyes wide open—after she had been shot. I don’t know why I’m thinking of this now. I’ve suppressed this memory for years. This is an ugly time for it to return.

I found out much later, into my teen years, that the blood on my mother’s shirt had not been her own. Before she arrived at the Evans’ house, she had killed my father—the abusive, alcoholic drug addict that drove her to seek comfort in the arms of other men and in needles filled with heroin. He was in and out of her life; a vicious cycle of violent domestic abuse, verbal and physical fights, breaking up—and then getting back together again, thinking he had changed when he could never possibly come close to anything different.

I’m told that one night, after he had come back into her life for the twentieth-something time, she broke down and told him about her pregnancy. She told him that things needed to change and that she was not willing to lose custody of yet another child. His child. Of course, he accused her of having slept around, and told her the child couldn’t possibly be his—although she was certain she had not been with anyone else during the time of conception. He called her a lying whore and he beat her up one last time. He threw her and their unborn child down a flight of cement stairs to the basement of the crack house she called home. She stood at the bottom of the stairs, badly bruised, clothing torn—and he came down after her and lunged. This time, she defended herself with a gun she had bought off a friend for protection. She shot my father in the stomach and watched as he bled out all over the dirty, grey carpeted floor. She decided, in that moment, that she was done with all of this. He could never hurt her again, and now she would make sure she’d give the best life she possibly could to this unborn baby—and to me. Fearing that Children’s Aid would remove him from her custody once he was born, she fled. She stole a car, picked me up—and we were off to start our new life together. My mother was broken and damaged, but in the end she only had our best interest at heart.

Oliver’s back in the room.

Has it been an hour already?

I feel dazed and groggy. It’s probably the flu. That would explain my muscle pain and weakness. I hope this passes soon, I’ve got a ton of stuff to do. I should probably check my email to see if anyone’s replied about the canvas I’m selling. Rent is due in a couple days and I still haven’t caught up on last month’s rent, which means I’m probably still being evicted. I need to deal with that. This time of year isn’t really a good time to be homeless, and I wouldn’t want to have to give NyQuil up for adoption.

Oliver is looking at some sort of chart.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“How are you feeling?” He ignores my question.

“I’m not really feeling that much better. What’s wrong with me? Did I get the flu you had? You left us short staffed at Bean There and you didn’t even call to say you weren’t going to be in. That wasn’t a very professional thing for a manager to do.”

Oliver is staring at me.

“I brought you minestrone soup,” I continue. “It was the only decent thing on the menu yesterday. Frederick’s an excellent cook but sometimes—I don’t know—he just doesn’t seem all that creative, and he serves the same meals over and over again. Why is he back, anyway? I thought he moved away.”

Shay walks into the room.

What is going on? Is this an intervention? Because I swear, guys, I don’t drink anymore.

“How is she?” Shay asks, nodding in my direction.

“The pills don’t seem to have helped. We need to reevaluate her dosage,” Oliver replies.

“Hi Lauren, do you remember me? I’m your nurse,” Shay says softly. She’s kneeling so that we can make eye contact while I’m still lying in bed.

“What do you mean? You’re not a nurse.” I laugh. “What are you two doing?”

I sit up and realize I’m tied to the bed. I frantically pull at the strap, trying to loosen it.

I just don’t understand any of this.

I begin to panic and I scream. Neither of them do anything other than stand there, watching me intently.

“What are you doing? Untie me!” I yell.

“Give her another sedative,” Oliver says sternly.

Shay walks over and sticks a needle into my shoulder. I attempt to raise my arms in my defense, but I am out again, instantly this time.