The Fake Out: Chapter 2

“Oh, canned biscuits?” Miss Mary said, who’d been the cashier at Pappy’s Market since I could remember. She’d also been my Sunday school teacher at the Baptist church and Mama’s before me. People didn’t much leave Two Harts, and they usually wore more than one hat. For example, one of the two attorneys in town was also a taxidermist.

Pappy’s, like most things around here, showed its age with its faded store sign and dim lighting. The shopping carts were small and old and every wheel in the place pulled a little to the left.

“Yes, ma’am,” I said with an internal sigh. This is why I did most of my shopping at the Walmart twenty minutes away.

She slid on the glasses she kept on a chain around her neck and squinted at the package. “Now that’s just something. Always used my grandmama’s biscuit recipe, of course. But I’ve heard these are good.” She said the word good like it was synonymous with poison. Or dog poop.

The register beeped as she pulled the can across and set it aside. The other thing about Pappy’s—there was no rushing. Miss Mary could move at her own pace, thank you very much. And she did. Captive audience and all.

“How’s your mama?” she asked, eyeballing the package of Italian sausage in her hand.

I shifted on my feet and propped an elbow on the tiny checkout counter. I was going to be here a while. “She’s doing better, thank you for asking.”

“We were all so worried about her there for a while.”

“She’s a fighter,” I said, hoping to move on from this topic and perhaps get home before the next millennium.

“Of course she is, honey. You know the ladies at the church can bring y’all meals any time or help around the house or drive her to doctor appointments.” She peered at me over her glasses. “We take care of our own.”

Inside, I bristled. Although Mama had grown up in Two Harts, I’d been ten when she’d moved us back here, and I’d always felt like I was on the outside looking in.

Of course, that my father had been arrested many times over in this town didn’t help matters either. A large part of me wanted to prove I was nothing like him. I wasn’t flaky or irresponsible. I was a fully capable woman who could take care of anything life threw at her.

“We’ve got it covered,” I said, forcing a small smile. It should be noted I didn’t have anything covered, but unless I wanted to have a full-on panic attack in the cereal aisle at Pappy’s, lying was easier.

Miss Mary patted my hand. “’Course you do, honey. You were always that way.”

My cheeks warmed at the surprising compliment. “Thank you.”

With a nod, she picked up the next item and inspected it. “Would you look at that. Peas frozen in a bag you cook right in the mi-cro-wave.” Beep went the scanner. “That sure is fancy.”

By the time I dragged myself home, I’d already forgotten the encounter with the giant sleeping stranger at the library. I kicked my shoes off by the front door and yelled out a greeting.

No one replied but I could hear the distinct sound of someone screaming in agony.

I rounded the corner, knowing exactly what I would find—Mama and her best friend Sue on the couch, eyes glued to the TV. Last week, the two of them had discovered Game of Thrones and this viewing party had become a daily ritual.

Quietly, I rounded the sofa and dropped a kiss on Mama’s cheek. Nowadays, I never missed the chance to kiss her cheek or hold her hand or spend time with her. Life was precious and quickly lost, as we’d learned the last few months.

“It’s almost over, honey,” she whispered without turning her head in my direction.

“I’ll go start dinner then,” I said. “Hi, Sue.”

With a wave of her hand, Sue shushed me. I stifled a laugh. After dropping off the groceries in the kitchen, I made my way to my room to strip off my work clothes and throw on some holey shorts and an old, faded t-shirt.

Kevin, our geriatric cat with the social graces of a cactus, cracked open an eye from his position smack in the middle of my bed. Or rather, his bed, which he kindly let me sleep in at night. When Grandma had passed away my last year of college, we’d decided I would take over her bedroom. Kevin came with the room. He didn’t care for humans, vacuum cleaners, and shoes. We had a lot in common if I thought about it.

“Hello to you, too,” I said.

His reply was to cover his face with a paw and go back to sleep. Typical.

“Holy crap,” Sue yelled from the other room, and I grinned.

Sue had been Mama’s best friend since before I was born. They’d both grown up here. Sue had done a stint in the Navy after high school and then come back to Two Harts to work as a tow truck driver at the family business. By then, Mama had met my father and he’d taken her on a roller coaster before she moved my sister and me back here. These days, chances were if you saw my mama, Sue wasn’t far behind.

In the early days after Mama’s stroke when we weren’t sure she’d survive, it had been Sue who had taken care of all the practical things—feeding the cat, checking the mail, making sure Iris and I ate regularly. The last seven months had been the hardest of my life and we wouldn’t have made it without Sue.

But Mama had pulled through, although the left side of her body was slower to recover. Her health insurance had only covered two months in a rehabilitation center. Then she was released with printed-out instructions of exercises, a wheelchair, and a “good luck.”

That’s when I discovered how expensive hospital stays and therapy are.

On the way to the kitchen, I knocked on Iris’s door. No answer. Frowning, I opened it and peered inside. She had a real funeral-director-meets-death-metal-band-meets-vampire-seethe aesthetic going on in here. But there were hints of the young girl she pretended not to be. Like the corkboard filled with every postcard she’d ever received, or the bookshelf crammed with Babysitters Club books. Or the stuffed animal tucked in the middle of her unmade bed. Kitty used to be yellow and have two eyes. Years of tears and cuddles had left it faded and tattered but very loved.

What I did not find in the room was Iris.

My sister had added this disappearing trick to her repertoire in the last year. Despite being a senior in high school, she’d seemed to make it her life’s work to avoid school, home and family as much as humanly possible. I’d already intercepted a phone call from her math teacher who made it sound like it would take a miracle, and possibly a cash bribe, for Iris to pass the class.

I glanced at the photo resting on a table beside Iris’s bed, a rare family picture with Dad included. Iris was about ten, all rosy-cheeked, blonde hair caught up in a ponytail. A wide smile was plastered on her face as she stared up at our father. When she was little, she’d been a literal ray of walking sunshine and always a Daddy’s girl.

But the last couple of years, Iris had turned to the dark side. Literally. Dyed her hair black then cut into chopping layers, a chunk always covering one eye. Black wardrobe heavy on the vintage band t-shirts. Black lipstick. Black nail polish. Fake lip ring—although I had my doubts it was really fake.

But she did help with Mama, so I tried to give her some leeway. Plus, she was only seventeen, still a kid. I, on the other hand, had been an adult since I was nine—the first (but not the last) time Dad went to prison.

Our agreement was that Iris came home straight from school. Yet, more and more, she’d been conning Sue into staying while she “slipped out” for hours at a time. She’d come home well after curfew, tight-lipped about where she’d been or who she’d been with. But I was dealing with it. Mama didn’t need to know about her grades or curfew breaking.

Mama had one job right now: to get better. My job was to take care of everything else.

“Where’s Iris?” I said once Sue and Mama joined me in the kitchen.

Mama waved a hand. “Out with friends.”

“That girl is slipperier than an eel dipped in jello,” Sue said.

“Why would you dip an eel in jello?” I asked.

“Eel jello wrestling, of course. Very popular, I hear.”

I laughed. “How long have you been here?”

“Two episodes. You gotta watch it, Mae. It’s so good.”

“I’ll pass.” It should be noted I’d love nothing more than to sit and binge hours of TV until my eyes forgot how to blink, but there wasn’t time. There was always something to take care of.

“How was therapy today?” I asked as I began to pull together ingredients to make dinner.

Mama smiled, her left side struggling to keep up with the right side. The sight of her smile was bittersweet now. I was glad she was around to do it, but it was a constant reminder of what she’d survived and how close we came to losing her.

“It was hell,” she said happily. “But I do feel like I’m getting stronger. Just wait and I’ll be through with the chair before you know it.”

It was true she was using her walker more and more. By evening time, she often had to switch back to the wheelchair from pure exhaustion. But the therapy was working.

It was also real expensive.

Which is why I had to get the second job, the one no one knew about, and I wanted to keep it like that.

Iris slunk into the house just after midnight, the typical sullen glint in her eyes. I looked up from the book I was pretending to read while I pretended not to wait up for her. It should be noted I was definitely waiting up for her.

“What?” Iris scowled. That was her normal expression these days. She flung herself on the far side of the couch.

“It’s past curfew,” I said. “Way past curfew. Where were you?”

Iris rolled her eyes, which were ringed in heavy black eyeliner. I’d once asked her if she was taking makeup tips from a raccoon. She was not amused. “Out.”

“Iris.” I glared at her.

She glared back. “Maebell.”

“You can’t be out this late. You didn’t even answer your phone when I called.” And I had called several times.

With a shrug, she picked at the chipped black paint on her nails. “I was busy.”

“I talked to Mr. Sullivan. He says you’re failing his class. Like you might not be able to graduate. If you want to start at the community college in the fall, you need to get caught up.”

She cut me off and threw her head against the back of the couch. “Fiiine. I’ll take care of it.”

“Plus, you’re supposed to be here with Mama until I get home. That’s our deal.”

Another eye-roll. We’d now seen the extensive collection of emotional responses from Iris—eye-rolls, shrugging, and scowling. “Sue was here.”

“Sue wasn’t the one who was supposed to be with her.”

She yanked the hair elastic from the lazy ponytail she’d put it up in. “I get it. Mom.”

“I’m not your mom,” I snapped, but we both knew I was more like a second parent than a sister to her and had been practically since her birth.

“Then stop acting like it. You’re the oldest twenty-six-year-old ever.”

“I am not!” This wasn’t a new argument. Sure, I owned a lot of books and had a geriatric cat with an attitude, but I wasn’t old.

“I think Mrs. Houser goes on more dates than you.”

I gasped. “Mrs. Houser is eighty-seven years old, mostly blind, and routinely leaves her dentures in the church bathroom.”

“I know.” Iris patted my knee with mocking pity. “And she still gets more action than you.”

I shivered thinking of Mrs. Houser doing anything but sitting in the second row from the front on Sunday mornings, happily singing off-key.

“Whatever,” I muttered and held my book in front of my face.

Perhaps thirty seconds later, one black-tipped finger curled over the top of the book and pulled it down to reveal Iris’s blueberry eyes.

“Are you pouting now?” she asked.

“No, I am reading.”

“I’m sorry, okay?” she said. “I’ll call. Or whatever.”

“Especially when you’re going to be late.”

“Fine.”

“Thank you.” I held the book against my chest. “I just need to know you’re safe, okay?”

Ignoring me, Iris pointed to the book. “The Blue Castle again. You are so predictable.”

“I am not. And besides, it’s a good book.” Actually, it was a great book, easily one of my top-twenty favorites. I didn’t have one favorite book and I didn’t trust people who did.

More eye-rolling. “You need to get a life.”

“I need to get some sleep, which I can’t do if I’m worried about you,” I said.

“I need to get some sleep,” she mimicked, and then yawned.

“Shut up.” I smacked her on the arm.

“You’re just jealous because I’m the cool one in this family.” She reached over and pulled my hair.

But it was late and neither of us was really giving it much effort. Instead, she settled her head on my shoulder and I kissed the top of her head, which we would pretend never happened. We were, of course, mortal enemies. Mortal enemies did not cuddle.

“You’re a brat, you know that?” I said. “I don’t know why I put up with you. I should have sold you at that garage sale when I had the chance. But no, I had to have a conscience.”

I shrugged to get her attention, but she didn’t respond. Her eyes were closed and judging from the open-mouth breathing, she was asleep. Another of Iris’s talents, falling asleep anytime, anywhere.

“Alright then,” I muttered. But I stood up and, as gently as I could, laid her head on one end of the sofa, slipped off her shoes and swung her feet onto the couch.

She immediately curled up into a ball. It reminded me of when we were younger and I’d wake up in the middle of the night with her curled like that in bed with me. My heart squeezed at the memory.

I wasn’t sure what Iris planned on doing with her life. If I took a guess right now, I’d say she planned to run for president of the local witches’ coven. (Did covens have presidents? Head Witch in Charge, maybe?) But I knew she had dreams, and I wanted to make sure she had every chance to reach them.

I tucked a blanket around her and clicked off the light. Just as I walked away, I heard her mumble, “Love you, Maebell.”