Page 4 of Finding Home

I run my fingers through Raine’s soft, blonde hair. “Just like Gramma, yes. Mommy’s body is gone now—” Thewords feel like razor blades being dragged across my heart. “But her spirit will always watch over you and love you.” I don’t mean to do it, but I lose it; and that’s when Raine loses it, too.

“I don’t want Mommy in da heaven!” she screams. “I want Mommy herenow!”

“I know, baby. I want that, too. But she had to go.”

“Mommy come back herenow!”

“She can’t. But I’m here, and I promise I’ll always take care of you.”

“I. Want. My.Mommy!” Raine wails, huge tears pouring down her cheeks. She leaps off the couch and puts her hands on her little hips. “You get my mommynow!”

Raine reminds me so much of her sassy, charismatic mommy in this moment, my body reacts violently. Holding my hand to my mouth, I lurch off the couch, sprint past Raine into the nearby bathroom, and retch out the entire contents of my stomach.

When I’m done, I sit on the floor, crying and whimpering. How the fuck am I going to do this? I’m twenty-four and a waitress. Without Claudia’s money from The Drummer, I can’t afford to live in Seattle on my own. Although, come to think of it, now that Claudia is gone, I don’t even want to live here. Big city life was always Claudia’s dream, not mine. I much prefer the quiet pace of our small hometown.

I make a snap decision. I’ll go home to Prairie Springs—to the place where my parents can help me—financially, emotionally, and logistically—to the place where I can safely break down and curl into the fetal position for however long, while my parents look after Raine.

As resolve floods me, Raine waddles into thebathroom doorway and whimpers that she wants her mommy. Realizing I’ve got to pull myself together for Raine’s sake, I force myself off the floor, gulp down water from the faucet, and splash cold water on my face. When I finally feel capable of speaking, I scoop up Raine and take her to my bedroom.

We lie on my bed together for about twenty minutes, with both of us crying our eyes out. But, finally, Raine sits up and announces she’s hungry and wants Mommy to come back from “da heaven” to make her pancakes.

There’s no point in trying to explain it all to her again. She didn’t comprehend the situation when Claudia’s mother died a few months ago, so she’s not going to understand her mommy’s death any better now. Hell, I’m twenty-four, and I don’t understand death—especially not when it happens to a gorgeous, vivacious, brilliant twenty-four-year-old who lives and breathes for her baby girl.

I wipe my eyes. “I’ll make pancakes, while you stay here and watch a show.” I grab my iPad and Raine makes her selection; and when she’s calm and distracted, I race into the kitchen with my phone to place a call to my parents.

Thankfully, my mother picks up after only two rings, despite the unusual timing of my call. I never call Mom for our daily chat before work. We always talk while I’m walking home from the restaurant after my shift.

“Are you okay?” Mom asks, her voice on edge.

“There was an accident,” I gasp out. “Claudia’s gone, Mom. Raine is here with me. She’s fine. But Claudia is dead.”

The rest of the conversation is a blur to me. Words are exchanged, and my mouth moves, but my brain isn’t connected to any of it. By the end of the conversation, the only thing I’m sure about is Mom is sending plane tickets for Raine and me to come home on thenext flight out.

Claudia wasn’t allowed to take Raine back to our hometown of Prairie Springs, thanks to the horrendous agreement she signed with The Drummer. ButInever signed that thing. AndInever took a penny from the asshole and never will. Which meansIcan do whatever the hell I want with Raine—which is exactly what I’m going to do.

Chapter 3

Caleb

Three weeks later

A rehab facility in Malibu, California

With sweat beaded on my brow, I bash my toms and kick my bass drum, hard, in time to the song blaring in my headphones—"Bleed” by Meshuggah. It’s my go-to whenever I need to sweat and blow off steam. Or, these days, whenever I’m trying to exorcise the grief, guilt, and shame that constantly ravages me, ever since my mother died without knowing she was a grandmother. Not to mention, without me being there to hold her hand, as I’d promised.

I’m clean and sober now, unfortunately, so I can’t drink myself into oblivion or smoke a bowl to numb the pain. For well over two months now, and thoroughly against my will, I’ve been high on nothing but fucking life, man. I don’t recommend it.

The door to the small, sound-proofed studio opens without warning and a staffer dressed in the facility’s uniform of black scrubs pokes his head into the small space. Breathing hard, I stop banging, slide my headphones down to my sweaty, tattooed neck, and glare at the guy. Everyone knows this hour every day is more important to my well-being than the useless, daily therapy sessions I’m required to attend. Everyone knows not to bother me when I’m here—that this is my version of church.

“Sorry to bother you, Caleb,” the staffer says quickly. “You’ve got a visitor in the lounge.”

My eyebrows ride up. “On a Wednesday?”

Once a patient makes it through detox the first week, they’re allowed to start participating in Visitation Tuesdays. In my case, that’s meant regular visits from my little sister, Miranda, four years my junior, throughout my time here. Also, early on, it meant occasional visits from my longtime attorney, Paula, who had to deal with the fallout of my destructive tantrum at that hotel in New York.

Still breathing hard from my exertion, I ask, “Is my attorney here?” Normally, I’d assume my sister, Miranda, is my visitor, since Paula stopped coming once all legal issues had been resolved. But Miranda flew to Paris with a group of friends yesterday, so it has to be Paula, since she’s the only other person on my approved visitors list.

My sister keeps pushing me to add more names to the list—my three bandmates from Red Card Riot, for example. Some other close friends, too. But like I told my sister, I don’t want to burden anyone else with my bullshit, nor do I want to deal with my bandmates’ rampant anxiety about how my stupid actions have made us temporarily uninsurable for our next tour. If I’m being honest, I’m also notwilling to be subjected to my friends’ well-intended pep talks.

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