Shattered Castles 1 : Castles on the Sand (3 page)

Mom shakes her head as she leaves without another glance in my direction. I hear the back door open and close and know she's gone to the shed in our backyard, which is where she does her pottery. It's got her wheel and kiln and lots and lots of shelves.

S
everal hours later, as I'm drying my hair, the doorbell rings, or I think it does. I turn off the hairdryer and listen. Sure enough, it rings again. I put my hair up in a ponytail.

When I go to answer the door, I find those same two Mormon missionaries from the other day on my doorstep. “Madison, right?” he says the blond one. His name tag says he is Elder Britton.

Kailie must've told him my name.

“Madison... Udall?”

Udall is Mom's last name, and the way Elder Britton breaks off lets me know that he saw my reaction. “No,” I say.

“Madison...” He frowns, deep in thought. “Lukas?”

Now I just stare. How on Earth would he know my last name?

At that, the missionary's eyes moisten with barely contained tears. “Listen. My name's John Britton, and I'm your brother.”

F
or what feels like eternity, Elder Britton and I just stare at each other. Then he presses his palms together in front of his face and shakes his head slowly. “I don't know what to say right now, other than sorry. I know I scared you yesterday. I wasn't thinking. One minute I'm just out tracting and the next, there you are, plain as day. I've been looking for you for fifteen years.”

“Elder Britton,” says the other missionary. “You sure?”

“Your name is Madison Lukas,” he recites, “and your mother, our mother, is named Sharon Udall. She used to be Sharon Britton. She's got dark blond hair, about this color-” he points to his own head “-and you'd be sixteen years old, as of last April twenty-seventh. Mom would have turned forty on December fourth.”

I can only stare. All the facts are right, but the situation feels all wrong. For my entire life, it's been just me and Mom. Every time I asked about my father, she'd say, “He's long gone, so it doesn't matter.” She never mentioned being married before or having other kids, and that seems like the sort of thing you'd bring up now and then.

He looks around at the large pot that doubles as an umbrella stand just inside the door, the wall hangings with glazed clay scales that overlap like fish scales, the potshard wind chime on the front porch, and the enormous planters on either side of the front door. “I'm gonna to out on a limb and guess that she still makes pottery.”

“Yeah...”

“And I have no idea what to say now. Or do.”

“Hey,” says the other missionary, “you'll be released from your mission in less than a week. Figure it out then? Maybe we call the mission president now just to let him know?”

“Yeah, good point. Listen, Madison, we're not supposed to have contact with our families outside of letters or emails while we're on our missions. I'll get in touch with you the moment I finish mine, all right?”

“Um...” That's about all I can say. I try to force my thoughts into some kind of order. “Mom was Mormon?”

“She didn't tell you about that?”

“She never told me about you.”

“Really? At all?”

I shake my head.

“Then this has to be really,
really
strange for you. She mention Lance and Logan?”

“Who are they?”

His eyebrows shoot up. “The twins? They're our oldest brothers.”

The world shifts under my feet and I grab the doorframe to steady myself. From the way both missionaries look at me, I can tell it wasn't an earthquake. It was my knees starting to buckle.

The guy who claims to be my brother radiates sympathy and concern, and now that I take a good look at him, I have to admit, he does look like Mom. Same shape to the eyes. Same stance, one shoulder forward. Same way of pursing his lips.

I picture Mom, back in the shed, oblivious to all of this, and wonder if I should mention she's only about thirty feet away. She does not tolerate interruptions while throwing pots, but this is the most extreme circumstance I can think of.

“Okay,” says the other missionary. “We need to call the mission president. Madison, Elder Britton, write down your email addresses. We'll figure out what to do once we talk to our priesthood leaders.”

“Yeah, okay,” says my alleged brother. “Right. Sure.” He pulls a pad of paper out of his breast pocket and starts to write. After he rips the page off like a doctor tearing off a prescription, he hands it to me. With shaking fingers, I write down my email address, while a little voice at the back of my mind babbles that I shouldn't give this info out to a stranger. What if, it babbles, this missionary is a stalker? What if he's wearing a disguise? Maybe he looked up all this information on me, put on a suit, got a name tag, and this is all part of some elaborate ruse?

I should take him back to see Mom. I should stop right here, right now, and take control of this situation.

I finish writing and hand the pad of paper back. He takes it, tucks it in his pocket, looks into my eyes, and says, “I'll talk to you soon. Any questions you have, ask, okay?” He hands me his email address and I fold it over and over again.

The other missionary guides him away from our door with a hand on his shoulder and pulls a cellphone out of his pocket. “...figure this out...” I hear him say.

I make myself step back and shut the door, then lean my forehead against it. Talk to Mom, I think. She'll clear this up. I stuff the missionary's email into the pocket of my jacket on the way past. That's where I keep every slip of paper, receipt, tissue, and used tissue I accumulate. It's a bad habit. Right now I couldn't care less.

Mom, I know, is going to ream me out for interrupting her work. She's an artist through and through. She lives to make pottery and if she doesn't get to make enough of it in one day, she makes sure to spread the misery around. “Interrupting my pottery making is like choking me,” she's said before. “You don't like it if someone interrupts your breathing.” And true to analogy, she'll push every interruption away, no matter who they are or what it is they might want to tell her.

Today, however, I'll risk it.

It's only a short walk across the backyard to the rundown shed that seems to vibrate with the sound of the wheel going. I put my hand on the rusty latch, take a deep breath, and haul it open. Mom looks up at the widening sliver of light on the back wall and turns her face to me with an expression of pure rage.

“John Britton came by,” I say.

The bowl that she was making collapses like a deflated balloon. She takes her foot off the pedal and the wheel slows as she stares at me.

“He's a Mormon missionary, claims to be my brother?”

She blinks a few times. I brace myself for her to yell, “How many times do I have to tell you that I'm
working?
Can't this wait until later?” A broken kitchen faucet that wouldn't turn off fell into her category of “stuff that can wait until later.” Then she'll slam the remains of the clay bowl back into her big bag of clay, get up, and storm off into the house to deal with the situation, or in this case she'll probably charge out into the street after that missionary.

I wait one beat, two. She scrapes the clay off the wheel, gets a new lump out, and slaps it down on the wheel. “Okay,” is all she says.

“Is he really my brother?”

She starts up the wheel, braces the heels of her hands against the lump of clay to center it, glances at me, and says, “Yes. Now leave me alone.”

“Well do you want to see him?”

“No. I don't.” And with that, she's zoned out, back into pottery making mode. She hasn't even bothered to get mad.

In fact, she has that far off look that lets me know that she's gone, mentally. She’s thinking through how to throw a pot, or glaze it or stitch together a wall hanging or tie up a windchime. Her creations get ever more complex. She can spend a month or more on just one piece.

I'd been ready to be yelled at and was preparing to cower. This, I don't know how to deal with. I stand there for a moment longer, then say, “Okay, well... I guess I'll see you later.”

But she is zoned. No reply. I close the door slowly in case she yells at me to keep it open because I've made her eyes adjust to having more light, but she doesn't react in any way as I push it all the way closed.

O
n my way to work, I see Grace Katsumoto on the corner of Wilkstone and Ridge Road, so I cut behind Jacksons gas station and convenience store to avoid her. Alex's mother is literally crazy. Usually when she's out, she's got a caregiver with her who holds her hand, but when she's alone, that's when you know something's gone wrong. It means she’s escaped her caregiver and Alex and will do things like yell at passing cars as if they each insult her. She may only be 5 feet tall, but she gives everyone the willies. I worry that she'll start yelling at me or run into traffic while I'm walking past.

How it is she's kept custody of Alex all these years is a mystery. Every time Alex goes to juvie, everyone hopes that he won't be back, but he always is a few weeks later, loitering around town in that army jacket of his, flipping his lighter like a psycho.

As I continue down Wilkstone, I try to digest the events of the morning, but they sit like a rock in the pit of my stomach. There's just no way to repackage the information so that it fits comfortably; my mom never told me about my three older brothers and her previous life.

By the time I arrive at work, I'm a wreck. Siraj notices at once and I make a silent plea that he doesn't joke about my exciting life.

He doesn't. Instead he beckons me over, puts a hand on my shoulder, and says, “What's wrong?”

I know I look rough. I didn't put on makeup and I left my hair up in a ponytail. Still, it hurts that he can see this at a glance. Besides that, I don't know how to begin to answer his question.

“Family stuff,” I finally manage to say.

“Do you need some time off?”

“I don't know.”

“Go. Take a few hours or the whole day. You haven't taken vacation time for the whole two years you've worked here.”

“Thank you.”

“Let me know if there's anything I can do.”

I thank him again and decide to go find Kailie. This is definitely a job for a best friend.

As I head towards Ridge Road, Officer Li's police cruiser drives past and pulls over at the corner. “Grace,” he says as he gets out. “We have to stop meeting like this.” His tone is all amusement as he tries to get her into his car.

She lets out a shriek that makes my ears ring thirty feet away. I jaywalk across Wilkstone, confident that Officer Li will understand, if he even bothers to notice. He's got his hands full right now.

The Inn is one of the first buildings on the left after I turn down Ridge Road, and today it looks serene, perched on the cliff's edge, its gray clapboard siding standing out in contrast against the royal blue sky. The briny wind off the sea has a chill edge to it and I nuzzle down into the collar of my jacket.

The parking lot has three cars in it, all of them BMWs. I walk around the side of the building that is both the Inn and the Beales home. The Inn half has the great views of the sea, while the residence is tucked in back. I knock on the door to the residence.

Kailie's father answers the door and looks me over. “What do you need?”

“I'm just here to see Kailie.”

He considers this a moment, then nods and steps back. While the Inn is forever spotless, the Beales' home is always a work in progress. The front room has paintbrushes and other remodeling paraphernalia scattered around. One wall is painted a deep purple and all of the furniture, save for a couch and coffee table, is still piled on the other side of the room even though the paint surely dried weeks ago. The cross stitch that reads, “Luke 15:11-32” has been rehung on the painted wall, dominating the room with its intricate swirl decorations. The family Bible is also on display on the coffee table, a great big leather bound tome with gold leaf lettering.

I go upstairs and down the hall to Kailie's room, which is done up like the interior of a beach shanty with seashells affixed to the walls in undulating wave patterns, a mobile of sea glass by the window, dark wood furniture that looks like it was salvaged from a pirate's ship, and a woven rug made out of some sort of strawlike fiber laid across the wood floor.

Kailie's on her bed, tapping away at her computer. “Oh, hey,” she says. “You're not at work?”

“Neither are you.”

“I don't start today until two.” She works in the Inn, usually behind the front desk. “I'm supposed to be working on my homework.” From her smile, it's clear that she thinks this is hilarious. “What's up? And seriously, are you not wearing makeup? You look like a ghost.”

I flop down in her desk chair. “A Mormon missionary came to my door this morning and told me he's my brother.”

Kailie's mouth drops open and she blinks one slow, long blink. “What?”

“Yeah.”

“Was it a joke?”

“No.”

“Well... is it true?”

“According to my mom it is.”