Echoes Between Us Page 7

  “Why?”

  I drum my fingers against the table and a million plausible reasons flood my brain as to why she wouldn’t want to work with me. My instability—my addiction to jumping off high cliffs—that nobody knows about is a good reason for her to ditch me, but the truth—that my mother has different expectations—isn’t what I want to admit.

  I could snatch any reason, give it to her with a full dose of bull, but it doesn’t feel right. Not for the person who helped my sister when she was in need. Not for the person who is letting the bounced check slide.

  The longer I take, that spark that was there before fades and that’s a shame. Veronica pushes away from the table and stands. “Screw it. I’ll save you the burden of having to say no to me because I’m too weird to work with. Weird, right? Isn’t that what you and your friends said?”

  Dammit. “Wait.”

  But Veronica is fast, very fast, and I’m out of my seat chasing her. “Veronica!”

  She’s close to the doors of the library and if she gets into the hallway, I’ll lose her for sure. “Veronica, wait!”

  Last second, so abruptly that I almost run into her, she spins on her heels. “What?”

  “I have a form of dyslexia.”

  Veronica’s face twists up like I told her there’s a rabbit popping out of my ass. “So?”

  So? “When it comes to reading, researching and writing papers, it takes me longer. Is that what you want to deal with when working with a partner on this project?”

  Her anger slips away as she gives me a slow assessment. A look down and a look up. “Of all the things that could or ever would bother me, that’s not one of them.”

  There are hundreds of voices in my head. All of them always talking at the same time, but for a brief few seconds the voices stop. Silenced because whenever I tell someone this truth, they’re uncomfortable. It’s not a secret, I’ve never kept it a secret as the dyslexia is a part of me. Like the way I was born with my eye color. Some people don’t know how to handle something different. But this girl doesn’t even blink.

  Wonder what she’d say if I told her I jumped off of cliffs for a high? Internally, I chuckle. She’d probably help by pushing me off the edge. “Ghosts? That’s a research paper?”

  “Yes.”

  “I have to get a good grade in this class to help my GPA or I can’t swim. Researching ghost stories sounds like the easiest route to an F.”

  “The way I see it, you owe me, and I won’t hold that over your head to work with me, but I will ask you to take me to one of the places I want to research this weekend. If you don’t want to do the paper with me after our visit, fine.”

  I do owe her, and if she wants me to drive her someplace as a thank-you, I’ll do it. “Sure, but that doesn’t mean I’m doing the paper with you.”

  Veronica snatches my cell from my hand, and with a few quick swipes and taps, she enters her number into my cell then hands it back. “We have until Monday to decide groups, and I have a feeling you’ll choose me.” Then she’s out the door.

  I follow and watch as she glides down the hallway. Her blond curls bounce near her shoulders, her hips have a gentle sway as she walks. The girl is gorgeous, sexy, mesmerizing, and has the biggest, brightest personality I’ve ever encountered.

  In a world where most doesn’t impress me, I’m impressed.

  VERONICA

  I’m the last person out of school as I had to stop twice to puke in the bathroom. I hate migraines. Hate them. I once had a teacher tell me that hate was a bad word. I agree. It is a bad word and so is the word migraine.

  I step outside, and the sunlight is like a demon sent from hell to torture me. I shield my eyes using my hand, and my heart soars that I don’t have to walk home. Leaning against the hood of his Chevy Impala, Nazareth waits for me in the student parking lot. I never asked for him to come for me, yet I knew he’d be there waiting because that’s how Nazareth is.

  With my backpack dragging from my fingertips, I stop in front of him and barely have the energy to lift my head to look him in the eyes. He doesn’t ask how I am, nor does he ask where I want to go. His gaze flickers over my face, and it’s as if he understands all that’s happening beneath my skin—the normal exhaustion of school, the ugly pit in my stomach at being alone after he left, including and especially lunch, and then the pièce de résistance, the typical first day of school category-five migraine that causes blood-draining nausea.

  With an incline of his head toward the passenger side, I slide into his car, lean my head against the window and close my eyes. Nazareth doesn’t turn on music, nor does he say a word. He just drives, letting me rest. The headache, though, becomes worse instead of better. My stomach churns, and I try to focus on my breaths to keep from vomiting on the floorboard.

  The car eventually stops, and when I open my eyes, the sunlight is so bright that I’m temporarily blinded. Still, I slip out of the car and follow Nazareth to the aging, tiny blue farmhouse. My head feels as if it is a lead ball and my feet move as if there are one-hundred-pound weights attached to them.

  Nazareth opens the back door of his house for me. The hinges squeak, the sound like a jackhammer to my skull. The world tunnels, and the darkness in the periphery of my sight starts to close in on me. I stop at the bottom of the steps as I refuse to go any farther.

  “You always have permission to enter my house,” Nazareth says, and that gives me the okay I need. One should always be careful who they invite into a house because once you give death permission, you’ve lost the battle and the war.

  “Why are you friends with me?” I don’t quite understand why the question has tumbled out, yet it has. It’s like I’ve lost control. “I mean—other people don’t want to be my friend, so … why?”

  “Because you’re you and I’m me. We work. Plus you’ve never asked who my real dad is or why Mom and I moved here nor will you ever. You take me exactly as I am. Nothing more. Nothing less.”

  He’s never told me that before. “Jin is your real dad.”

  Nazareth gives me one of his rare grins. It hurts my heart because while it’s sweet, it’s also sad. “Go in before you pass out.”

  Inside the tiny kitchen, my stomach flips when the smell of something cooking on the stove hits me wrong. All sounds drown out thanks to the roaring in my ears. I waver on my feet, then there are hands on my face. Nazareth’s mom’s kind, dark eyes bore into mine, and while I can’t hear what she’s saying, I can read her lips. Will food make you sick?

  I nod.

  Like she’s a faded voice of a not-quite-tuned-in radio station, I barely make out the Let’s make you feel better and get you to bed. I grew a plant just for you.

  Greer takes my hand and leads me out the front door to her garden house. There I sit at the picnic table she uses to pot and repot her flowers and plants. On the opposite side of the table from me is Nazareth. He’s hard at work placing dried leaves onto a rolling paper. Once done, he rolls the paper into a thin strip then licks the edges to seal it shut.

  Nazareth stands, grabs a lighter from the top of a shelf that’s filled with tons of potted plants, most of them spices, and he straddles the bench I’m on to sit beside me. He lights the joint, sucks in a few puffs then gently blows the smoke in my direction. Nazareth doesn’t hold his breath in the search for the high. Instead, he continues to inhale and release until I’m surrounded by a cloud.

  I close my eyes and breathe in the oddly sweet scent. There’s a light pressure on my hand and I crack open my eyes enough to take the joint from Nazareth. I put it to my lips, suck in and hold the smoke for so long that my lungs might explode. I shake my head to help hold it a bit longer then let it out in a fast stream and pray that the high comes fast and it comes strong.

  * * *

  The sound of a door opening causes me to roll over in Nazareth’s bottom bunk bed. I open my heavy lids and lift my head. My sleep was deep and peaceful, and my limbs are gloriously lazy. Unruly red hair pokes into the roo
m. It’s Jesse. He holds a cell to his ear, and whispers, “Yeah, she’s here. V, it’s your dad.”

  The room is dark thanks to the heavy curtains, and I glance over at the digital clock on the dresser. It’s seven and my head drops back onto the pillow. Dad. I forgot to call Dad. I reach out my arm and wiggle my fingers in a “gimme.”

  “Hold on.” Jesse looks guilty as he walks in and hands me the phone. “Sorry for waking you, but he was worried. Just hearing you were here wasn’t enough.”

  “Don’t be sorry.” My voice is thick with sleep. “I want to talk to him.” I should have called him earlier or at least had Nazareth text him, but I couldn’t think beyond my pain. Odds are my cell is still in my backpack on the floorboard of Nazareth’s car.

  Jesse leaves, and I stretch as I place Jesse’s cell to my ear. “Hey, Dad.”

  “Hey.” The concern rolls off his voice in waves. “How are you doing, peanut?”

  “Better.”

  “Migraine?”

  “Yeah.”

  “A bad one?”

  “Yeah.” One of the worst. “I was able to get through school, though. Nazareth picked me up and brought me to his house. Sorry I didn’t call, but I crashed as soon as I got here.”

  Dad’s silent for a few beats as he knows that means I smoked pot. The migraine medication my doctor prescribed doesn’t put a dent into my bad migraines, and when Dad told the doctor this, the other rounds of medication prescribed had terrible side effects or tore holes in my stomach. Maybe not literally, but it sure felt like it.

  While my father admittedly smoked pot when he was a teen, and he knows that smoking pot can help with the symptoms of my migraine, he’s still a dad. The years of having it shoved down his throat that drugs are bad and you’re an even worse parent if you allow your kid to do drugs, makes him feel like crap. Doesn’t help that anything involving me weighs on him like he’s holding the entire universe.

  So the two of us have an agreement—I only smoke when the migraine is tearing me apart and I tell him the truth when I do smoke up.

  “Tell Jesse I’m sorry for calling him, but I tried contacting Nazareth and … well…” Dad trails off.

  Nazareth didn’t answer, and he didn’t call Nazareth’s parents because no one has their numbers except their children. Even if Dad had their numbers, they wouldn’t answer. While Nazareth isn’t as disconnected from the world as his parents are, he still isn’t the type who follows social rules. He only carries his cell when he wants to, it’s often on silent when he does have it on him, and he has a habit of not checking it for days.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “I didn’t mean to worry you.”

  “I know. It’s okay. Can you do me a favor?”

  “Anything.” Especially after worrying him.

  “I want you to start keeping track of your migraines on the calendar in the kitchen and number them from one to ten for your pain level. They seem to be coming faster.”

  My lips squish to the side as Dad on high alert isn’t going to fit into my plans. While I’m hiding the presence of Mom’s ghost from him, I won’t lie to him about my migraines. I promised Dad and my mom I’d always be truthful to him about that. “Okay.”

  “If you’re having too many, I’ll ask the doctor to bump up your MRI.”

  I hold the cell away as that idea causes my eyes to water. I don’t like going to the doctor, having MRIs, having twenty gallons of my blood drawn and being held captive under a microscope, and I also hate how Dad has to rearrange his life for this nonsense.

  “I’m okay. It’s the first day, and you know I’m always like this at the start of school. Give me a few weeks and I’ll be normal again.” Normal for me.

  “I know, but you can’t blame me for worrying.”

  I can’t, and I hate that he worries.

  “Was it a good day?”

  Nope. “I’m making a new friend.” Blackmailing Sawyer into helping me. Same thing.

  “Good. Listen, I’m driving, and Jesse said Greer made some soup for you. I’m going to get off so you can eat. Text me to let me know if you go home or if you decide to stay there.”

  “I will. I love you, Dad.”

  “Love you, too.” Dad hangs up, and I rub the wetness and exhaustion from my eyes. It’s going to be okay. I’m going to be okay. I’m not going to get sick like Mom, and I’m not going to end up in a hospital hooked to a machine that breathes for me. Nor will Dad have to make the decision to take me off so I can finally die.

  I glance around at Nazareth’s narrow, attic bedroom he shares with three of his siblings. The room is simple: two bunk bed sets pushed against the wall and each bed is covered by a quilt Greer made for each of her boys. Nazareth’s section of the dresser is littered with guitar picks and books, and in his corner of the room are three guitar cases.

  Pushing back the heavy curtain of the small window, I spot the sun setting along the rolling green hills. Nazareth’s family owns a small farm, not even close to the size of Jesse’s farm, but about thirty acres. They grow their own food in a large garden and have chickens, pigs, goats, two cows and three horses.

  Greer’s voice drifts from the kitchen. “Jesse, I think you should turn your farm into a farmer’s market—like a pick-your-own-vegetables-and-fruit type place. You could bring in schools for field trips and teach them the importance of organic farming.”

  “It’s a thought,” Jesse answers, which means, no way in hell, but he likes Greer so he’s respectful.

  A bit foggy from the pot, I’m cautious going down the stairs, and when I step onto the first floor, I look to the left to find the living room that’s filled with desks for homeschooling. I then look right for the dining room and find Jesse sitting at the long wooden picnic table. Long enough that it easily sits ten people. Jesse feasts on a bowl of soup and a hunk of homemade bread. My stomach rumbles, and Jesse looks up as if he heard it.

  “Hey, V.”

  I hand back his phone. “Dad said he’s sorry he made you find me.”

  “No worries. It would help if someone actually used his phone.” He gives a side-eye to Nazareth who is in a chair in the middle of the kitchen.

  In jeans, Nazareth has his shirt off and his mother buzz cuts the sides of his hair. There is a new tattoo on his muscled chest, and I’m curious what the significance of that one is. But odds are he won’t spill. Something haunts Nazareth and not something kind like my mom. Even with a demon who hounds him, he’s still the gentlest person I know.

  Nazareth raises an eyebrow at Jesse’s comment then lifts the right side of his mouth.

  “I’m not a hypocrite,” Jesse mutters, and I laugh. Jesse is also terrible at answering his texts.

  As his mother continues to trim his hair, Nazareth cradles a baby rabbit in his arms and is feeding it with a syringe. The sight warms my heart. There’s no one else in the world who loves the world around him as he does. “Where did you find this one?”

  “In Jesse’s field,” Nazareth says, and I look over to Jesse for him to finish the story as Nazareth isn’t into filling in blanks.

  Jesse puts down his spoon to butter a slice of bread. “He heard the cries and found it. It looks like a coyote got ahold of the mom and the rest of the litter. Besides being scared, this one seemed untouched.”

  In the high chair, Nazareth’s little sister, Ziva, bangs her tiny fingers against the tray and squeals. She’s a cutie with her mother’s nose and smile, and like the rest of her full brothers and sisters, she has her father’s Chinese features. Jin obviously isn’t Nazareth’s biological father, but they love each other as if they were flesh and blood.

  Greer sets down the clippers on the island in the kitchen, hands Ziva a sippy cup, then heads to the stove. I love this home. With the rustic feel, tons of plants and herbs living in pots on the shelves and hanging from the ceiling to dry, this place is warm and welcoming.

  Nazareth’s mom walks back toward the picnic table, places a bowl of chicken soup on the table across
from Jesse as well as several slices of bread so hot it has steam. She settles her authoritative yet kind gaze on me. “Can you eat?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then sit and eat, and I expect you to eat it all. You need some good food in you instead of that frozen stuff you always eat. It’s a wonder you all don’t have migraines with the amount of preservatives you put in your bodies on a daily basis.” She tilts her head as she examines me. “How are you feeling, sweetheart?”

  Greer is beautiful. There are no other words to describe her. Even with her chestnut hair in a ponytail, even in worn jeans and a blue T-shirt that has a spit-up stain on the shoulder, even with no makeup—she’s movie-star gorgeous.

  “Better.” My favorite non-answer. “Thank you for the food.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  I sit like she commanded, and the first bite of the homemade soup is like heaven. Anything Greer makes is from scratch and typically grown on this farm—meat included.

  Nazareth is the oldest of seven children living in a three-bedroom farmhouse. If he didn’t have so many siblings, Jesse and I would live here. Literally. Well, then again, maybe not. Neither Jesse nor I want to live with Nazareth’s mom. She’s great, but a little overzealous in her homeopathic beliefs. Plus, on the scale that includes Tarzshay to designer, Nazareth’s parents would be considered dollar-store drug dealers.

  They don’t grow an exuberant amount of pot, nor do they sell to many people. They only sell to people like me, for medical reasons (since I’m considered family, I’m never charged). Then they also grow stuff for themselves that has a bit of a kick.

  If maybe Nazareth only had three siblings, we’d be here every night for dinner, but there are nine people in this family living in this small house so we don’t hang here much. Which makes my slow mind catch up. “Where is everyone?”

  “Because the boys thought it would be smart to prank me with putting crickets in my bathtub, they’re mucking out the stalls while Jin took the girls horseback riding. We wanted to make sure you got some rest.”