Runaway (Fox Ridge Shifters Book 1) Page 22

  Her phone chimed to remind her that her father’s caretaker waited at home. With no time to wallow in grief, she forced herself upright, whispered a prayer, and started the engine.

  “Ah. Thank you,” she said when it ground to life with a rumbling groan.

  On the way to the freeway, she passed a large high school, its tan stucco buildings reminiscent of the school she’d attended. She had been a shining star in school. High school valedictorian, summa cum laude in college. Her father had been so proud, he’d emailed almost everyone on his contact list.

  Now her father called her Ivy most days. The only good thing about him confusing her with her mother was he was unlikely to ask how the exam went.

  After an hour of bumper-to-bumper traffic, she faced down her father’s caretaker of the day, Brenda the Battle Axe. Brenda was good to her father, but for some reason hated Carolanne. As she walked in the front door, Brenda stood in the entry, holding her purse.

  “You’re late.”

  She glanced at the clock on the far wall. “By five minutes.”

  “I have a life, too.”

  “And I’m sure it’s a most rewarding one.” Carolanne closed her eyes briefly, ashamed of her loss of decorum. She liked to think she had good manners—class—but the combination of hunger and exhaustion had gotten the best of her.

  Brenda pursed her lips and walked out the front door, muttering, “Uppity bitch.”

  Carolanne suspected in Brenda’s mind it was ‘uppity nigger,’ but she merely closed the door with a gentle click. Too tired to muster up any indignation, she rested her forehead against it for a second before flicking the deadbolt and going in search of whatever spot Brenda had dumped her father.

  She found him in the den, clutching his favorite San Francisco Giants pillow and watching I Love Lucy.

  “Hi, Pop.” She kissed his forehead and rubbed his bald spot. “For luck,” she said, as always. She crouched down beside the recliner so he could see her face.

  “Do you remember this one, Caro?”

  He remembered her today. It almost undid all her resolve. “Of course, Pop. ‘Vitameatavegamin,’” she forced out over the lump in her throat. “Have you eaten dinner?”

  He looked confused for a moment.

  Carolanne pressed her lips together against the usual frustration she felt when trying to reach him, and said, “Soup, Pop? Did you eat soup?”

  “Yes. It was good.”

  At least Brenda wasn’t lazy. Carolanne usually left something in the crockpot, and Brenda always made sure to serve it to him. It was one of the reasons Carolanne tolerated her. Previous caretakers weren’t so conscientious. Relying on charity, Carolanne had to take what she could get.

  Chico, their chihuahua, pranced around Caro’s feet.

  “Did she feed you, too?” She picked up the little dog and carried his wiggling body to the back door to let him out into their sweeping back yard. He disappeared into the knee-high grass. Mowing. She wondered if Pop was too far gone to take care of it. Maybe not, if she helped. She nodded to herself at the idea. It was good for him to have things to do.

  Pop was never far from her mind nowadays, and Carolanne glanced back toward the hallway, where the light of the TV flickered in the doorway. Pop had always watched old TV shows to unwind when he first got home from work. Like remembering her name, it was a normal behavior—his old self—and those were the little things that brought the ache to her chest. If only for a moment she could pretend everything was alright again...

  Carolanne gave her head a firm shake, called to Chico, and proceeded to chase the little beast all over the neglected, weedy yard. Without law school and the bar to study for, she might have some time to pull a few weeds, she thought as she waded through a stand of dandelions in the rose beds. Her mood lightened. Pop did the yard work. They could do it together. It was good for him to have things to focus on, and yard work would be easy enough if she helped.

  “Come here you little monster!”

  Chico darted through the door and she followed him to the yellow kitchen she and her father had decorated together. After feeding them both, she washed dishes and scrubbed the counters. She looked up from the sponge she used on the stove. They had decorated the kitchen when they moved in after her mother’s death, but corners of the daisy-patterned wallpaper already peeled from the wall. She should spruce up the place before they sold it, but if they had money for that kind of thing they wouldn’t have to leave in the first place.

  Kitchen done, and with no more bar to study for and no law school homework, Carolanne was at loose ends for the first time in a year. She decided to watch TV with Pop or read to him. He liked that. Besides, the early-onset Alzheimer’s made his judgment unpredictable. He shouldn’t be left alone. Pop was only sixty, but his brain was ninety-five.

  At nine, her father stood. “I need...I need...”

  “Bathroom, Pop?” When he shook his head, she said, “Do you want to go to bed?”

  “Yes.” He made a slow circle with his hand. “I need... Work. In the morning. I need to go to work.”

  After a disastrous lawsuit a year ago, he had lost his CPA license and hadn’t worked since. It was then she realized the full extent of his disease.

  She struggled for the right response. God, I suck at this. She wasn’t a natural caretaker, her nature too unyielding, too impatient. Still, she loved her father, and every time she interacted with him she dug deep to find the means to make this a comfortable time for him.

  “Sure thing, Pop. I’ll check on you in a minute.”

  “Nonsense. I can take care of myself.”

  Later, under the guise of saying goodnight, she checked to make sure he had brushed his teeth and wasn’t sleeping in his clothes again.

  Acknowledgments

  This work wouldn’t exist without the support and encouragement of my big sister Nancy. She read early drafts, made great suggestions, and told me over and over again, “You need to publish this.” Nancy also led the way, the first author in the family to publish her stories and show me that it was possible. (There’s a lot of us. It’s sort of an inherited disease.)

  You can find Nancy’s latest book here: https://tinyurl.com/ybohwlh6

  I would also like to thank my niece, Jodi, for the beta read, and my awesome editor, Hannah Sullivan. Any boneheaded mistakes you might have found were added by me after these people returned it back to me.

  Coming soon…

  Sprinter

  Carolanne Carson stepped from the cool interior of the Oakland Convention Center and told herself the sting in her eyes was from the sudden glare of July sun. After all, she wasn’t a woman who cried.

  Squaring her shoulders and raising her chin, she set off across the sweltering expanse of dark pavement toward her silver Camry. Not willing to let anything bring her down, she imagined herself striding into a courtroom as if she expected to slay her opponents with her wits and superior skills. As if she hadn’t just failed the bar exam.

  Carolanne didn’t need to see the results in October. Of the two hundred questions, she’d guessed the answer on at least forty. Property law—her nemesis—had taken up so much of her time there were other questions she simply hadn’t had time to answer. Contracts. Ugh. With school, work, and caring for her ailing father, there hadn’t been enough time to study.

  Out of habit, she raised her remote to open the driver’s door, but no chirp of the horn came from the car. She ground her already aching teeth. The door remote was one of many things no longer working on the vehicle. She reminded herself to talk to Pop—when he was lucid—about the grinding noise it made when she turned the key in the ignition.

  After opening the door the old-fashioned way, she settled behind the wheel and allowed herself a tired sigh. She rotated her jaw, which ached from clenching her teeth for the last two days. Her head reeled from hunger. She’d been too emotionally drained to eat. Crossing her forearms atop the steering wheel, she rested her head on them. Six years of
college, months of preparation, and it had all gone up in smoke.

  Her phone chimed to remind her that her father’s caretaker waited at home. With no time to wallow in grief, she forced herself upright, whispered a prayer, and started the engine.

  “Ah. Thank you,” she said when it ground to life with a rumbling groan.

  On the way to the freeway, she passed a large high school, its tan stucco buildings reminiscent of the school she’d attended. She had been a shining star in school. High school valedictorian, summa cum laude in college. Her father had been so proud, he’d emailed almost everyone on his contact list.

  Now her father called her Ivy most days. The only good thing about him confusing her with her mother was he was unlikely to ask how the exam went.

  After an hour of bumper-to-bumper traffic, she faced down her father’s caretaker of the day, Brenda the Battle Axe. Brenda was good to her father, but for some reason hated Carolanne. As she walked in the front door, Brenda stood in the entry, holding her purse.

  “You’re late.”

  She glanced at the clock on the far wall. “By five minutes.”

  “I have a life, too.”

  “And I’m sure it’s a most rewarding one.” Carolanne closed her eyes briefly, ashamed of her loss of decorum. She liked to think she had good manners—class—but the combination of hunger and exhaustion had gotten the best of her.

  Brenda pursed her lips and walked out the front door, muttering, “Uppity bitch.”

  Carolanne suspected in Brenda’s mind it was ‘uppity nigger,’ but she merely closed the door with a gentle click. Too tired to muster up any indignation, she rested her forehead against it for a second before flicking the deadbolt and going in search of whatever spot Brenda had dumped her father.

  She found him in the den, clutching his favorite San Francisco Giants pillow and watching I Love Lucy.

  “Hi, Pop.” She kissed his forehead and rubbed his bald spot. “For luck,” she said, as always. She crouched down beside the recliner so he could see her face.

  “Do you remember this one, Caro?”

  He remembered her today. It almost undid all her resolve. “Of course, Pop. ‘Vitameatavegamin,’” she forced out over the lump in her throat. “Have you eaten dinner?”

  He looked confused for a moment.

  Carolanne pressed her lips together against the usual frustration she felt when trying to reach him, and said, “Soup, Pop? Did you eat soup?”

  “Yes. It was good.”

  At least Brenda wasn’t lazy. Carolanne usually left something in the crockpot, and Brenda always made sure to serve it to him. It was one of the reasons Carolanne tolerated her. Previous caretakers weren’t so conscientious. Relying on charity, Carolanne had to take what she could get.

  Chico, their chihuahua, pranced around Caro’s feet.

  “Did she feed you, too?” She picked up the little dog and carried his wiggling body to the back door to let him out into their sweeping back yard. He disappeared into the knee-high grass. Mowing. She wondered if Pop was too far gone to take care of it. Maybe not, if she helped. She nodded to herself at the idea. It was good for him to have things to do.

  Pop was never far from her mind nowadays, and Carolanne glanced back toward the hallway, where the light of the TV flickered in the doorway. Pop had always watched old TV shows to unwind when he first got home from work. Like remembering her name, it was a normal behavior—his old self—and those were the little things that brought the ache to her chest. If only for a moment she could pretend everything was alright again...

  Carolanne gave her head a firm shake, called to Chico, and proceeded to chase the little beast all over the neglected, weedy yard. Without law school and the bar to study for, she might have some time to pull a few weeds, she thought as she waded through a stand of dandelions in the rose beds. Her mood lightened. Pop did the yard work. They could do it together. It was good for him to have things to focus on, and yard work would be easy enough if she helped.

  “Come here you little monster!”

  Chico darted through the door and she followed him to the yellow kitchen she and her father had decorated together. After feeding them both, she washed dishes and scrubbed the counters. She looked up from the sponge she used on the stove. They had decorated the kitchen when they moved in after her mother’s death, but corners of the daisy-patterned wallpaper already peeled from the wall. She should spruce up the place before they sold it, but if they had money for that kind of thing they wouldn’t have to leave in the first place.

  Kitchen done, and with no more bar to study for and no law school homework, Carolanne was at loose ends for the first time in a year. She decided to watch TV with Pop or read to him. He liked that. Besides, the early-onset Alzheimer’s made his judgment unpredictable. He shouldn’t be left alone. Pop was only sixty, but his brain was ninety-five.

  At nine, her father stood. “I need...I need...”

  “Bathroom, Pop?” When he shook his head, she said, “Do you want to go to bed?”

  “Yes.” He made a slow circle with his hand. “I need... Work. In the morning. I need to go to work.”

  After a disastrous lawsuit a year ago, he had lost his CPA license and hadn’t worked since. It was then she realized the full extent of his disease.

  She struggled for the right response. God, I suck at this. She wasn’t a natural caretaker, her nature too unyielding, too impatient. Still, she loved her father, and every time she interacted with him she dug deep to find the means to make this a comfortable time for him.

  “Sure thing, Pop. I’ll check on you in a minute.”

  “Nonsense. I can take care of myself.”

  Later, under the guise of saying goodnight, she checked to make sure he had brushed his teeth and wasn’t sleeping in his clothes again.