Temper: Book One of the Taboo Series, page 3
Hannah smile once more before turning and walking from the room. Her steps seemed to be lifted by the release of the conversation as though she’d been wanting to say those words to me for a long time.
I reminded myself to ignore the grief. I was failing. I turned back to the simple drawing and began to deepen the shadows.
✷✴✷
I was exhausted after waking with every chime of the grandfather clock through the night. Its song was too similar to the one at home.
I was drifting back to sleep with the earliest rays from the sun when I heard the door creak open. “Olivia?”
I hid the groan of frustration as I sat up, not wanting Hannah to assume my irritation was directed towards her. “Yes?”
“Your Grandparents are leaving. They wanted me to let you know they would be gone for a few days.”
“Did they say where they're going?” I asked, curious.
“A family emergency.”
I wouldn’t have questioned further if it weren’t for the way she folded her hands and forced convection into her voice. Ruth always claimed my gift for reading others came from her.
“Hannah, we have no family left.” Pain flashed across her face and guilt in her eyes. “Did you know the person who’s in trouble?”
It was difficult to hear the small, “yes.” Her eyes fell to the floor in what I recognized to be shame. I lifted from the bed, nearing her to comfort. I reached for her as the tremble of grief began to spread through her. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.
“For what?” I asked, trying to remain calm.
She shook her head. Her hands lifted to her mouth as though holding in her darkest secret. She began to shake as she fought to cover her face, her eyes cast to the past.
I reached toward her, trying to find a way to comfort. My throat felt glued closed with fear. As my fingers landed on her thin shoulder she spun. I jolted as she ran from the room, leaving me confused and feeling naive.
It was useless to try to lay back to sleep. I showered, dressed, and pulled back my hair before looking through the closet. Half of the clothes were my own simple, modest dresses meant to be complemented with daring shoes.
I pulled out a light pink, knee-length sundress. The silk was luscious and the simple, classic cut of the fabric would look amazing with my favorite red pumps. I knew I would need them that day. I needed my best friends to carry me.
I held up Mother’s dress and frowned. The hips would be too loose and the chest saggy. Even as a teenager her body was disturbingly feminine and perfect. I replaced the dress, already planning its alterations.
I preferred black. It made my skin brighter and my hair shimmer. Black looked best on me but I needed something different, something to pull me out of the darkness seeping into my head and calling me back to the bed to wallow.
I lifted my short-sleeved, white dress. Silver buttons met the plunging back and contrasted with the straight, high neckline. It was one I prided myself in, having designed and created it with my own hands.
I pulled up the zipper under my arm and lifted the beloved red pumps from their shameful spot in the back of the closet. I slipped them onto my feet and sighed.
I would get through the day. I would allow my grandparents their time for whatever new tragedy they faced.
I was curious to know who was in trouble. I didn’t know we had more family. I assumed it must have been a close friend they considered family, like Mr. Stan.
I grabbed a fresh tube of chapstick, swiped it across my lips, and dropped it into the breast of the dress.
The house was quiet as usual. There was no difference from when they were home but for a small sense of freedom. I let my shoes lead me through doors, peeking into Grandfather’s room across from my own and Grandmother’s next to his.
The door to the room next to mine was locked. I turned away in annoyance and continued around the corner to the hall of guestrooms- a blue one, a white one, and one with warm shades of brown. Every room was unique with small touches of tasteful decor, yet they were all outlined the same.
I ventured down the stairs, through the dining room, and to the kitchen. I pressed against the door and hoped it was too early for anyone else to be awake.
My eyes adjusted to the glinting objects in the dim light as I caught sight of him. I became rooted to the ground, captivated.
His narrow hips led him across the counter as his shoulder blades rotated with the steady rhythm of his knife. It was like watching him dance with a beloved companion.
His quiet, disgruntled voice startled me, “What are you doing?" He turned and leaned against the counter.
“What are you making?”
I expected him to smirk or say something cheeky, but his soft answer took me by surprise, “a peace offering.”
I stepped closer, curious, and looked around him. “What is it?”
“A vegetarian strata.” His teeth worked nervously against the tender flesh on the inside of his lip.
I looked at strange bread combination and the bowl of sliced fruit. “My grandparents are gone. Is this all for me?”.
“No. I have to eat as well.” His tone was sharp with feigned propriety meant to insult me. His jaw tensed and his eyes flashed.
“Why are you so disdainful towards me?”
I recognized anger, annoyance, and regret in his eyes as they averted mine. He shook his head, refusing to answer. “I’m sorry.” His capricious attitude was unsettling.
I muttered, “I forgive you,” before I could catch myself. His eyes lifted to mine as he continued shredding the cantaloupe, a nostalgic smile playing at the corners of his full lips.
I could still hear Ruth explaining, “Do not ever accept an apology with a simple ‘it’s fine,’ or, ‘it’s ok’. It tells the person you accept what they’ve done to you. Forgiveness speaks of compassion and second chances.” He had obviously heard the same lecture.
His eyes danced across my face as though he could hear my thoughts. “You sit, I’ll serve.” He gestured to a small, round white table in the far corner of the room.
I inhaled as I sought mental stability and perched on the edge of a chair to watch him plate food.
There was a momentary flash of uncertainty as he looked at me. He served the meal as he lowered himself into the chair beside me. I picked at the strata, “What’s in this?” I was never an adventurous eater.
“Bread, egg, and more cheese than I usually prefer. I’ve seen you in here eating a block of cheddar like a mouse.” He watched my face flush and his eyes lit with fascination. “Red pepper, onion, mushrooms, fennel. That’s about it.”
He tasted it before I dared to lift my own fork. I caught the low moan before it was audible. “This is delectable.”
He grinned with pride. Simply eating in silence together eased us both. I studied his thoughtful expression as he stared down at his plate, spearing a strawberry.
I tried not to watch him. I caught myself tracing his profile with my eyes, his strong jaw, his high cheekbones, and long lashes. He felt my stare and turned his eyes to mine, amused yet unruffled.
“Why didn’t you want to stay in Ruth’s room?” His stare was inquisitive, as though his concern was genuine. “If I lost my mom, I’d want to stay somewhere that was meaningful to her.”
Ruth didn’t deserve our focus. I wasn’t ready to explore the mourning and abandonment, especially in his presence. I ignored his question after a long silence and asked, “Does your father work in the house?”
He glared at me as if I was a petulant child but still answered, “No. I don’t know who my father is.”
I could see he was practiced at appearing cavalier about the topic, but the way his eyes darkened signaled it was a deep issue for him.
After a moment of contemplative silence his deep voice pulled at my mind, his tone soft, “I remember your dad. He was always nice. My first memory of him was when you fell into the pool. I was in Ruth’s room and saw you. I ran outside and he noticed. He instinctively knew something was wrong. He pulled you out and gave you CPR.”
My depression waned a fraction from hearing kind, sincere words about my father in a house full of Ruth. I dug into my mind but nothing of the instance resurfaced. “I don’t remember that.”
He nodded as if it was expected. “You were about two or three at the time.”
I turned the fruit on my plate. “I now understand my aversion to swimming,” I said lightly, feeling his tension. “Why were you in Ruth’s room that day?”
His brows twitched defensively. “That’s where I usually was when she came for a visit. I was close to Ruth.” The agony in his timbre surprised me. It could have matched my own.
His hair created a thick curtain over his eyes to hide the emotions. I was in awe as I watched his stony demeanor soften. “It must have been lonely growing up in this enormous house without someone your own age.”
He straightened his back as he flushed. “No, I went to school. I had the opportunity to make friends but never was good at it.” The smirk he wore displayed his discontent. The similarity in our shared frustration surprised me for a moment. “Ruth was around for most of my life. She was always there, or at least when she could be.”
I cocked my head, “What do you mean?”
He faltered for a moment. “Elizabeth always acted as though I needed to be protected from Ruth. She had problems but Ruth would never hurt anyone.”
“What problems?” My tone stiffened defensively.
“Bipolar.” I relaxed in relief, having worried he knew things I didn't. He looked down at me as he stood while lifting the plates from the table. His hands stayed steady as he stacked the dishes in the sink.
“I don’t know much about it. For all I know it’s common with the diagnosis.” The excuse was feeble and my tongue displayed my doubts with a sour tone.
There was something too structured about the way he ran water over every individual dish. His face reddened as he felt me watching him fold the towel back into place as though it was never touched. I glanced away in politeness as he carried the pitcher of orange juice to the table.
“Maybe. But she knew suicide was wrong.”
“Obviously,” I shattered my decorum by twisting my voice into something emotional and vicious. “Everyone knows not to bleed themselves dry on their daughter’s birthday.”
He didn’t seem agitated by my aggression. His expression of understanding made my throat close. I couldn’t comprehend the guilt glowing in the blue. “She knew it was wrong because she saved me once.”
I knew I must have wounded him but my disgust resurfaced, “Then you were selfish, too.”
He turned to me and I leaned away. “I don’t need your justification,” he retorted, his tone dark.
I glanced at his wrists but noticed no scars. “How did you do it?” I asked despite myself. I couldn’t control the morbid curiosity.
His expressions changed with almost every syllable as the memory forced its way into his vision. “I saved up a combination of sleeping pills. I ate nineteen of them.”
My eyes widened. “Must have been a long nap.”
He shook his head though a shy smile teased his lips. “Ruth found me. I still remember her screams. They sounded like I was underwater. She made me throw up into the pond and drove me to a hospital. She even hit me.” A dry laugh escaped his chest but I couldn’t understand his amusement. “She said she was hitting me to keep me awake on the drive to the hospital. We never did tell my mom.”
Tears blurred my vision but my compassion for him was tainted with Ruth’s hypocrisy. She saved Hugh and yet broke her own daughter. I couldn’t silence my pitiful, childish words, “If she knew it was wrong then why did she leave me?”
“I don’t know, Ivy.”
I envied him for still loving her and not questioning her love for him. My hand gripped the table as I stood. I needed to escape before my emotions crashed through with Hugh as a witness. The repressed grief began splintering away at my barriers, threatening to pull me under.
He stood, worry deepening the blue of his eyes as he reached when I stumbled. A mother should never be the reason for her child falling apart and exposed in the arms of a stranger.
My tears finally slowed and I pulled away. Humiliation and warmth twisted in my gut. I was clinging to him.
His arms enveloped me, his ribs stabilized me, and his steady heartbeat consoled mine. His face was bent to my hair. My body relaxed into his and the pain in my chest began to wane.
The scent of him rolled over my tongue, reminiscent of warm vanilla. Something about him was too familiar and soothing. More than comforting childhood memories quieted my mind.
I pushed against him in embarrassment and horror. He released me and stumbled back. I couldn’t meet his gaze.
“I’m sorry,” I stuttered before turning and fleeing the room, leaving behind all dignity.
Chapter 4- Plump
I escaped from the dining room through the sliding glass door. The sun blinded me to a halt. My lungs shook with short gasps. My face still burned as I tried to pretend the moment of weakness didn’t happen.
I calmed on the path, logic returning slowly. A shiver of branches to the right caught my attention. I narrowed my eyes to see the shimmer of water beneath the tree.
I moved forward. The was no other sound aside from my own sigh and the rustle of the leaves. I pulled the sharp heels from my feet and carried them so I could climb the soft grass.
Father once jumped into the pond to retrieve a ribbon that escaped my hair. He worried the fish would eat the beads. Hugh spun me on the other side.
I looked toward the forest and could almost see us laughing and innocent. I contemplated the differences in him as I knelt in the soft soil and waited. I hoped to see the flick of a fin or a bubble of air but there was no sign of life.
The willow hid me as I stretched beneath its shade. Soft wind and hot, heavy air lulled me. Tears began to seep, vindictive and cruel. I didn’t want to feel but knew my sanity was slipping. I could never retrieve the pride I destroyed in the kitchen.
Shadows deepened through the day. I laid in the safety of privacy until my tears were mere trickles. My thoughts revolved around Ruth as my eyes glued shut against the world she knew. She must have spent time beneath the same willow. Maybe once she laid in its shadow and cried.
Behind my eyelids, I noticed the sudden change of brightness. I hummed in the shade and lifted my hands to clear the sorrow from my face.
“Sorry, I didn’t know you were here.”
I recognized the soft, deep whisper. My eyes snapped open to see him blocking the sun as he stood beyond the curtain of leaves.
“It’s fine,” I lied. I pulled myself up to sit as his silhouette hesitated. My heart hammered in my chest as he turned towards me. He lifted back the weeping branches and stepped forward, his face hidden with his emotions.
“I’m sorry for earlier,” I attempted as he lowered next to me.
His mouth pressed into a tight line as his brow furrowed. I looked away before he could turn and force me to witness pity in his damaging eyes.
His voice was gentle yet I could hear his hostility, “Don’t worry. I know better than to try to console you again.” I braved a glance to see him scowling at the grass.
I huffed at his dramatic flair. “I don’t like to be touched is all.”
His brows lifted and nostrils flared, “Fine. Next time I’ll let you land on the linoleum.”
“It was granite.” His nostrils flared. “So much for a peace offering,” I muttered. I wanted to stand and walk away but didn’t want to show more weakness. I held my head high as I clutched my pride and stared across to the trees.
He shook his head and stood. He began to storm away, his fists clenched. My smirk dissolved as he marched back to loom over me. “There’s no reason to lie. If you didn’t need to be touched, you wouldn’t have clung so tight.”
I gaped at him, ready to spit my own fury. My lips fumbled as I sought a valid argument. I found none, simply an inflated sense of pride.
“Fine.” I tilted my head to meet his eyes, allowing my ego to shrink. “It surprised me is all. I’m sorry for offending you.”
Something in my words made him grimace. He peered through the leafy limbs to the sparkling water. “Why did you choose to come here?” he asked.
My answer came with an unintended weight of honesty. “It reminded me of home.”
I didn’t know the willow felt relevant to my sadness. Maybe it was because of his story and the way Ruth was uncensored for him when she found him almost dead. I never knew my own mother as honestly as he had at that moment. I never heard her scream or knew she could hit another person. He saw her in a way I never would.
“Would you want me to take you?” He sensed my uncertainty and continued with a placid tone, “We could leave tonight.”
“Sure,” I tested, knowing I would regret missing the opportunity. He threw me a crooked, endearing smile. It was unsettling to watch such an abrasive person show so much generosity.
He offered a hand to help me stand. The thought of home made me reach out. I staggered at the volt that shot through me with his touch. His body shuddered as he feigned oblivion, too. I berated myself. I wasn’t the kind of person to grow weak over a handsome face or pretty words.
He scooped my shoes up from the grass as we walked. I allowed him to lead us into the house. We weaved through the dining room, kitchen, and into the stark white halls of the servants quarters. The sharp turns in the small maze of identical doors were confusing. He stopped at the end of a hall and opened a door indistinguishable from the others. It introduced us to a set of tall, winding stairs.
“I should let my mom know where I’ll be.” I nodded in understanding as he began the steep climb. He stopped and looked down at me. “You’re welcome to come up.” I followed out of curiosity. We wound our way to the top and he pushed open a heavy door.
I lingered over the threshold, trying to hide my awe of the attic. He moved across the wide, open space to his mother. She sprawled across the loveseat, napping. I looked around as he spoke to her, curious about his life.
