Page 22 of Toxic Hope
“No way,” I reply, shaking my head, but still staring at the car. “You told her what happened. You said she believed you. She wouldn’t take his side. She was only trying to get in our heads.”
Or is that only what I want to believe? If she goes against us on the record, we’re fucked. There’s only so much any of Dad’s friends can do to help us out of that. We could have our lawyers tear her down, make her look unreliable, like she’s got an ax togrind against us, but then there’s the video from the elevator, too. Maybe we shouldn’t have cornered her like we did.
I cannot get her out of my head. That’s the only thing I know for sure.
And when she appears, a small figure that quickly gets bigger the further she gets from the hospital door, the world around me gets sharper. Clearer. I would swear I can see every twitch of her face, every movement of her eyes as she hurries to her car with her arms folded and her shoulders hunched. Did she get bad news today? Do I really care? Not about the news itself, but about her. What she’s thinking. What she’s doing next.
“Are we seriously following her? I thought we were going to get pizza.” Preston sounds bored, but he can deal with it. It’s not like we’re going to be out all night.
Without answering him, I start the truck and follow her at a safe distance. Instead of turning left out of the parking lot, the way I would to go home, I make a right. She’s up ahead of me, taillights glowing in the growing darkness. A beacon I can’t help but follow, the way I can’t help but think of her.
We don’t say a word. I couldn’t explain the need to do this if I tried, anyway. This compulsion. I wouldn’t have a minute of peace tonight if I went straight home instead of doing this. If I never saw her car, it would’ve been different. But now she’s there, at the front of my thoughts, and I can’t shake her.
Within ten minutes, we’re entering a sad neighborhood I’m not very familiar with. The kind of place I make it a point to avoid. Let’s put it that way. Tiny houses, scrubby lawns, chain-link fences. Cheap kids’ toys in the front yards. That’s where she leads us, to a small, single-story house with green siding and a swing on the front porch. She parks at the curb, then goes through the open front gate and straight up the walkway without wasting a second. Like she’s in a hurry.
“You think she knows we’re here?” I ask as I pull in a few spaces behind her and across the street.
“She would’ve looked over here,” Preston murmurs before unbuckling his seatbelt.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
He cocks an eyebrow my way, smirking. “What? We came all this way just to see where she lives?”
I didn’t think about what we would do once we got here. Now, I’m following my brother out of the truck and down the sidewalk. A dog barks as we cross the street, and a baby cries through an open window. I’m so glad we don’t live this close to our neighbors. I don’t need to hear everybody’s business all the time.
Walking up to the front door, I notice flowers in front of the porch and a few potted plants flanking the front door. It’s quaint. I wonder if Emma is responsible for it.
I don’t know what we’re going to say once she answers the door, but that doesn’t stop me from ringing the bell. There’s a shadow on the other side of a curtain hanging in front of the glass, then a lock flips, and the door swings open.
But instead of Emma, a woman who is probably in her early seventies stands on the other side of a screen door. “Yes? Can I help you?” she asks. Her soft gray curls are held back in a clip, and a pair of watery blue eyes stare at us from behind thick glasses. She’s wiping gnarled hands on a rose-printed dish towel as she looks back and forth between us.
Preston finds his voice first. “Hi. We’re friends with Emma and thought we would come over and say hello on our way home. Is she here?” He’s not just good at finding loopholes. He thinks a lot faster than I do sometimes.
The old woman’s eyes light up, and a smile starts to spread. “Emma’s friends? That’s nice. She just got home—in fact, I wasabout to put dinner on the table. Are you hungry? I made enough for an army. Lasagna, if you’re interested.”
Yes, the aroma of garlic hangs heavy in the air, not that I’ve ever minded garlic. I usually put extra on my pizza, which I would be eating anyway if it wasn’t for this detour.
“We’d love to.” Sliding a glance toward my brother, I open the screen door and walk into the house, with him following me. The living room is about as tiny as I would guess, looking at the house from the outside, and it’s cluttered as hell. Old-lady cluttered—too many throw pillows and blankets, framed pictures, figurines. And candles. A lot of candles.
“Grandma? Who—” To my left there’s a hall leading to the bedrooms, I assume, and Emma stops dead in the middle of it with wide, startled eyes.
“We just came by to say hi,” I announce with a grin. “Your grandma invited us to have dinner with you. I have a soft spot for lasagna.”
The old lady can’t see her, which means she feels free to snarl at me before flipping me off.Asshole, she mouths, but fuck her. This is starting to become fun.
“Is there anything we can do?” Preston asks, heading into the kitchen behind Grandma.
“Oh, no, everything’s ready. But you boys should wash up. And you never told me your names.” She points to the sink. “Get those hands clean, now.”
“Yes, ma’am. I’m Easton Scott,” I tell her, and then jerk a thumb at my brother. “This is Preston.”
“And in case you couldn’t tell, we are twins,” he adds, rinsing his hands.
“I thought I was having double vision.” She laughs and waves a hand before opening a cabinet and pulling out another couple of plates. “You just call me Lois. Have a seat at the table. I thinkthere should be room for all four of us so long as you boys keep your elbows off.”
“Grandma, I don’t think they came over for dinner.” There is a definite edge in Emma’s voice. She stands in the doorway, arms wrapped around herself, the toe of one sneaker tapping the floor. “And I’m really not feeling up to company right now.”
The two of them exchange a look, the kind where there’s more going on under the surface. God knows Preston and I have had plenty of those conversations.
