Immortal Mine (17 page)

Bob slurps a long tongued lick into my
dangling hand, pulling me out of the fantasy of Sam finally kissing
me. Or rather,
almost
kissing me. Since I’ve never been
kissed, I really can’t get beyond the vision of him moving in
before the image dissolves. Very frustrating, but losing myself in
my unreal world keeps me from facing the pain of my all-too-real
world.

I’m still humiliated by my gawky attempt to
kiss him in the barn three nights ago. He hasn’t mentioned it. I’m
not sure if that makes it better…or worse. Of course I told Stacy
about it, who had the good grace to not laugh at me, though I could
see her biting the inside of her cheek, something she does whenever
she’s trying to keep herself from laughing or keep her mouth shut
when she really wants to say something inappropriate.

Bob jumps to his feet, a low growl in his
throat. This is something new he’s begun since the day…I close my
eyes against the image of my parents’ coffins hovering precariously
above the dark holes in the ground, balanced on thin straps of
canvas. I couldn’t concentrate as their graves were dedicated,
unable to look away. I was afraid if I did the straps would snap,
sending my parents plummeting into the dark depths. Bob growls
again, reminding me that someone is here. I figure he’s responding
to some vibe I’m giving off.

The doorbell rings, and Stacy practically
jogs in from the kitchen where she’d been sitting with Shane and
her mom. I’m surprised she’s willing to pull herself from his
exalted presence long enough to answer the door, but she’s been
acting like an over-protective guardian dog herself.

She opens the door to two women, neither of
whom looks familiar to me. One is an older woman, hair silver above
an almost unlined face that seems much too young for the aged hair.
Her slacks and flower-print shirt seems almost contrived to make
her look older. She seems nervous.

The other woman is younger, in a crisp
business suit, hair pulled up into a professional bun, the file
grasped in her hand and spectacles completing the picture of a
woman with a mission.

“Nee-uhm Parker?” she says, thrusting a
stern hand toward Stacy.

“No,” Stacy says at the same time the older
woman says, “Niahm,” in correction.

My eyes widen in surprise as I stand, though
Stacy doesn’t remark on the woman’s correction. She doesn’t realize
how very rare it is for someone to know the correct pronunciation
of my name. The older woman’s gaze come to rest on me, and I’m
suddenly uncomfortable, as if I need to escape before she can do or
say whatever it is that is going to change my world yet again.

“Oh, um, well,” the professional woman
stutters, “is
Niahm
here, then?” Her corrected use of my
name is punctuated.

“Depends. Who’s asking?” Stacy demands,
folding her arms in defiance.

Stacy’s mom comes into the room at the same
time that I’m getting ready to bolt. The professional woman glances
in, sees me, and asks, “I assume you’re Niahm Parker, then?”

“She is,” Stacy’s mom answers for me. “May I
ask who you are?”

“May we please come in?” the woman asks, her
tone letting us know that denying her is not an option. “We have
something very important to discuss with her.”

Stacy holds her position for long moments,
until her mom says, “Stacy!” in a tone that brooks no defiance.
Reluctantly, and with a glare of warning, Stacy steps aside to
allow them to come in. My panic ratchets up at her capitulation,
and the urge to run becomes stronger. Sam is outside, and I want to
run to him, hide behind him. Vaguely, I wonder where Shane is.

Then the professional woman is striding
toward me, hand outstretched. Behind her, the older woman has taken
a tentative step into the house, looking around her, body saturated
with some emotion I refuse to recognize.

“Hello, Niahm. My name is Susan McKay. I’m
the case worker assigned to your case.”

Okay, my attention is now firmly on the
woman before me. I instinctively reach a hand out to stop her,
which she mistakes and grasps firmly in her hard, unyielding hand,
giving it a quick jerk, which I assume is her version of a
handshake.

“My
what
?”

“Her
what
?” Stacy blurts at the same
time.

“I’m from the department of Family Services.
We’ve held off until after the burial to come forward, which turned
out to be fortuitous, as it turns out. We’ve had a relative come
forward, which means we won’t have to find you placement in foster
care.”

She is smiling at me as if she’s just told
me the best possible news, but I feel as if I’ve been punched in
the gut. The burial? My parents have become a synonym for
burial
?

“Wait,” Stacy steps forward. “What do you
mean, foster care?”

Stacy’s mom steps forward and places an arm
around me. “Why don’t we all sit down?” Her voice is calm, her
touch reassuring. I sink back to the couch along with her, Stacy
coming to sit firmly on my other side, Bob positioning himself in
front. The stiff woman looks around, slightly uncomfortable, and
finally sits primly in the chair. The other woman stays standing,
her eyes still skimming the room.

“Now,” Stacy’s mom begins, “why don’t you
tell us what you’re talking about?”

“As I said, we were waiting until—”

“Yes, we heard that part,” Stacy’s mom
interrupts firmly, and gratitude fills me at her defense. “Why in
the world would you think Niahm needs to be placed in foster
care?”

“She’s a minor.” The stiff woman sounds
surprised, as if it should be obvious, and becomes “the bun” in my
mind immediately when Stacy reaches up and draws the shape of said
bun on the back of my head out of her line of vision.

“I’ll be eighteen next summer.” My voice is
strong in spite of my still overwhelming desire to flee—and to
laugh at Stacy’s finger circling on the back of my head.

“Yes, well, in the meantime, you are still
of an age which requires guardianship.”

“But I’m always home alo—”

“She can stay with me,” Stacy’s mom
interrupts, squeezing me tightly, in warning it seems.

“Well, Ms.…” The bun trails off, waiting for
a name.

“Bowen. I’ve known Niahm her whole life. I
don’t see any reason why she can’t stay at our place until
then.”

“I can’t,” I tell her, “there isn’t anyone
to take care—” She squeezes me again, her words once more
overriding mine.

“You don’t need to worry about that, honey.
We’ll hire someone to take care of the farm.”

“But, I—” Another squeeze, this one almost
painful, stops my words.

“There is a process for becoming a foster
parent, Mrs. Bowen. It takes some time for your application to be
processed. Niahm would have needed to be placed in the
meantime—”

“Are you serious?” Stacy’s mom practically
explodes. “I’ve known the girl her whole life, have loved her as a
daughter, and you’d take her from her home, from the town she lives
in, to satisfy some—”

“No way!” Stacy yells, causing Bob to jump
to his feet and begin growling in earnest. The bun shrinks back in
the chair.

“Stop,” I command, to nothing in particular
other than the situation that is spiraling out of control. Stacy
and her mom back down, Bob sinks back onto his haunches, though he
keeps his teeth exposed for good measure, and my eyes rove
unwillingly to the older woman who is now watching us all with
interest bright in her eyes.

“I’m not leaving Goshen,” I say to her,
before turning back to the bun.

The bun gives Bob a cautious look before
turning her attention back to me. “As I was
trying
to say,”
she emphasizes, shooting a look at Stacy and her mom, “that would
have been the case, had a relative not come forth. We were under
the impression that you no longer had any living relatives.”

I cringe inwardly at her thoughtless words,
swallow loudly, and say, “I was under that impression myself.”

The bun regains her overly bright smile, and
delivers what she seems to believe is happy news. “As it turns out,
Niahm, we were wrong. Your grandmother came forth.”

She sweeps a hand toward the older woman,
and the desire to run once again flows through me. The woman is
standing as if frozen, watching me with wariness. I slowly rise to
my feet, Stacy and her mom matching my movement.

“No,” I say, surprised at how steady my
voice sounds. “I don’t have a grandmother. They are both dead.”

“No, Niahm, this is your mother’s mother.
She told me of the falling out she had with your mother, of how
many years it’s been since she’s been here.” The bun sounds almost
pleading, and I suddenly realize that any reluctance on my part
will only make her job harder. She could care less about me—she
just wants this wrapped up nice and tidy.

“No,” I repeat, more firmly. “I don’t know
this woman. My mom—” I swallow over the painful word, try again.
“My mom told me her mother died when she was a teen. This is
not
my grandmother. She’s probably just some wacko who
thinks she can get their money.”

The bun stands defensively. “I hardly think
that the department of Family Services is in the habit of handing
children over to strangers. We required proof from her, and she has
provided it beyond doubt.”

“How?” I demand, turning angrily on the
bun.

“Why... DNA, of course.”

I stare at her for long moments then turn
back to the other woman who is watching me with sadness reflected
in her eyes... her clear eyes, I now notice. I feel a trembling
begin in my knees, shuddering up through my torso. Her eyes... they
could just be coincidence, right? And then she steps forward and
holds her fisted hand out, turned downward. Without thought, I open
my hand beneath hers, and she drops a ring into it. I glance down
and my heart stops.

I know this ring. My mother had worn a ring
like this in all of the pictures of her teen years. She told me
that her mother had taken the ring to the jewelers to be fixed, as
it was missing a stone, and that was the last she’d seen of her.
Later they’d found her car, burned almost beyond recognition, the
body within burned definitely beyond recognition. They’d only known
it was her because when the car had struck the tree that sent it
careening off the cliff, the front license plate had fallen off
from the impact and remained on the road.

They’d never recovered the ring—identical to
the ring that is now in my hand. My ears begin to buzz as the
tremor slithers down my arms, my hand clutching the ring. There is
only one way to know if it is the same ring.

I glance up in surprise as Sam rushes into
the room, followed closely by Shane. Sam’s eyes are on me, but
Shane’s are on the woman—my grandmother—and he slides to a stop,
dropping into what looks like a combat position. Sam starts my way,
glancing cursorily toward the bun, and then the other woman. When
his eyes fall on her, he also freezes, dropping into a crouch and
coming up with something in his hand. He leaps toward her, and
there is no forethought, no conscious decision as I yell, “No!” and
jump in front of him as his hand arcs upward.

A sudden pain just below my ribs takes my
breath away, and it’s too much. I give in to the darkness that
claims me.

I slowly come awake as a wet sponge presses
insistently and continuously against my chin. I vaguely wonder who
could possibly think a sponge on my chin would do anything but
annoy me as I hear the low, feminine, whispered voice, furious in
tone from across the room.

“You might have
broken
her rib. She
needs to be taken to the hospital.”

“I agree,” I hear Sam reply, his low voice
wretched.

“Absolutely not!” This time it’s Shane, his
voice matching the anger in the woman’s voice. “You know as well as
I do what can become of that if—” he cuts himself off, and the
woman utters a hiss. I nearly laugh, feeling as though I’m being
treated to a melodrama, but the effort is too much. Breathing is
painful in itself.

“Don’t even speak it!” the woman commands.
“What are the two of you even doing here? In Goshen, of all places?
In my granddaughter’s house?”

Her words send a shock wave of remembrance
into my mind. The bun, telling me my grandmother is alive, the
ring... Sam coming at me with something in his hand. I wonder idly
if he hit me with something or stabbed me and I’m dying. Why is he
still washing my chin with a sponge, then? It doesn’t make
sense.

“He’s bound to her,” Shane answers, his
voice low, calm, resigned.

“No!” The woman’s response is more of a gasp
than an actual word.

A low whine near my ear makes me realize the
sponge isn’t a sponge at all, but Bob’s long, wet tongue swiping at
me. I decide it’s time to wake and demand to know what’s going on.
I open my eyes and see Sam next to me, bent in abject misery as he
holds my hand, rubbing his thumb across my knuckles, over and
over.