Keep You From Harm (2 page)

W
hen
I see him, there’s no mistaking who he is. The same dark, blonde curls that flow down my back are cropped close to his head. He stares at me with the familiar pale blue eyes that my mother and I also share. His tall, rangy build is the male equivalent of my narrow five foot eight inch frame.

“Hello, Raielle. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.” He smiles, and it appears genuine, but I nearly cringe when he mispronounces my name the same way most people do.

“Raielle Blackwood, this is Kyle Dean,” the social worker says, also mangling my name. “Your brother,” she adds as I stand there staring at him. We’re in a small room at the Social Services office. The bright morning sun streams in through a single window set high into the concrete wall. My belongings are packed inside a familiar oversized duffle bag, which used to reside in our closet and is now sitting in the corner. The items inside were gathered from the apartment by strangers since I’m not allowed back in. Apparently, the crime scene is part of an ongoing investigation, and it can’t be disturbed.

“It’s pronounced Ray-elle not Rye-elle,” I inform him.

My brother’s grin falters, and he glances at the social worker. Her plastered on smile also falls briefly before reappearing. “Well, Raielle” she begins, saying it correctly as she steps toward the door. “I’ll let you two get acquainted while I finish the paperwork.” Then she promptly leaves the room.

My gaze gradually tracks from the closed door to the stranger standing before me. We eye each other in awkward silence, and I can see that he’s noting our similarities the same way I am. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you,” he says gently, like he’s talking to a skittish animal that might dart away if startled.

It hurts to look into his eyes, my mother’s eyes. As though reading my thoughts, he says, “I’m very sorry about your mother.” When I don’t respond, he adds, “Our mother.”

“That’s funny,” I lob back at him, unreasonably angered by his words. “She never mentioned you.”

His brow wrinkles, and he studies me curiously. “If you were trying to hurt me, you succeeded,” he finally says.

I’m thrown by his honesty. I watch him walk toward a ratty looking couch that’s pushed against the wall. He sits down, folding his long legs and clasping his hands together. “I live in Fort Upton, New York with my wife and my three-year-old daughter,” he tells me.

I stand in the middle of the room and continue to take him in. When I woke up this morning, a part of me was clinging to the hope that this was all a mistake. My mother would never keep something this big from me. But looking at him now, my throat grows tight. This is undoubtedly my brother, and by the way he reacted to my mean-spirited comment, it seems that even in her absence, she fucked him up, too.

“We’re setting up a room for you in our basement. It’s been finished. It’s carpeted and heated. It’s my daughter’s playroom. But we can turn it into a nice bedroom for you.” He’s watching me for my reaction.

“Why are you doing this?” I ask.

He takes a deep breath and exhales loudly. “Because you’re my sister. Because I didn’t even know I had a sister until two years ago when I found out our mother was a drug addict who had been neglecting you.”

I blink at him blandly, purposely not reacting to his words, but not liking his blunt description of my mother, despite its truth.

“Since then, I’ve wanted to meet you. I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“You wanted custody of me,” I clarify.

He nods. “Yes, if you weren’t being properly cared for I wanted to become your guardian. I understand you just learned of that yesterday.”

“Why do you think Mom never mentioned you?”

He watches me for a moment before answering. “I honestly have no idea. The last time I saw her I was six-years-old. You knew her much better than I did.”

His words are spoken calmly now, like he has no feelings about his abandonment. He’s right though. I did know my mother well or at least I thought I did. She was a weak person. Generally, when I wondered why my mother did or didn’t do something, the answer was
because it’s hard
. I can’t help but wonder why walking away from her son wasn’t too hard.

“I’d like us to leave this afternoon.”

I focus on him again.

“I’ve got your plane ticket and your things. My wife is looking into getting you enrolled in the high school.”

I start to feel panicky again. “But I have to bury her. There has to be a funeral.”

He nods. “I’ve already arranged it with a local funeral home. I’m taking care of her burial, but we can’t stay to plan the funeral. I have to get back. We can have a ceremony once we’re in Fort Upton if you like.”

“What did you arrange?”

“She’ll be buried in San Marcos Cemetery just outside of town. I ordered the casket and the headstone.”

I stare at him wondering how much that must have cost. After the way she walked out on him, I can hardly believe that he’s done this so quickly and willingly. I feel the gathering tears burning my eyes. I never could have paid for any of this. “Thank you,” I whisper.

His expression turns sympathetic, and I see another emotion that resembles compassion passing over his features.

I know I need to change the subject before I lose it in front of him. “Have you arranged to have my school records transferred?” I ask. “I have to be in the same level classes I’m enrolled in now.”

To my surprise, he nearly smiles as he shakes his head. “It’s been less than forty-eight hours. I haven’t gotten to that yet.”

I nod and start listing what needs to be done. “I’m in all accelerated and advanced placement classes. The colleges I’ve applied to will be making their decisions soon and I need to be in those same classes at my new school to maintain my ranking.” I glance up and see him smirking.

“I take it you’re a good student,” he says.

“Yes,” I inform him. Generally, with my background, that comes as a surprise to people.

He sobers at my seriousness. I’m as serious as a heart attack when it comes to school. This is my way out. This is how I know I won’t follow in my mother’s footsteps. This is my constant. Every time my mother disappeared, and I was placed somewhere new, I diverted my attention to getting all my academic ducks in a row. Right now, I need this lifeline more than ever.

“Okay,” he agrees. “We’ll get to work on that next. I don’t know much about the high school, but our school district has a good reputation.”

I offer him a tight, but thankful smile.

“Do you already know what you want to study in college?

I answer immediately. “I want to take pre-med courses.”

This seems to intrigue him. “You want to be a doctor?”

I shake my head at the thought of that. I could never spend so much time near sick people. “No. I want to do research. Help cure diseases.”

His eyes are intent on mine. It looks as though he wants to say something more, but he takes a deep breath and turns away. “Let’s see if that paperwork is ready,” he says, moving toward the door.

As I watch the tall form of the man who is my brother leave the room, I can no longer hold back the avalanche of apprehension I’m feeling. I’m used to moving. I’m used to strangers taking me in. But my brother is a different kind of stranger. He’s already eliciting unwelcome emotions that I hardly recognize. I can only imagine what it would be like to have him as a real older brother, one who watches out for me and feels like family. I wonder if that’s what he wants. If so, would I welcome it or would I inevitably push him away? If he doesn’t want that, would I be disappointed? I’m surprised when I realize the answer to that may be yes.

I lower myself onto the same couch he just vacated and rub my hands over my face, trying to clear my head. I’ll be eighteen in a few months. I won’t be in his house long enough for any bonds to form and that’s probably for the best. Emotions are dangerous. So are expectations.

I
’ve
never flown on an airplane before. It’s an odd feeling knowing that we’re winging our way across the country, putting thousands of miles between me and San Diego. I’ve never even left the state and within minutes of taking off, California is behind us along with my mother and the chaotic life I’ve lived up to now.

Kyle seems okay to me. It’s hard to get a read on him. I’ve learned some facts about him while we’ve been traveling. He’s an auditor for the state of New York, which is like an accountant, he tells me. His wife stays at home with their daughter. He volunteered to me that he had a happy childhood. He was raised by his father and his father’s girlfriend. They never married because his father couldn’t find my mother to obtain a divorce from her. I knew my mother wasn’t married to my own father, but she used his last name. I thought it was because she wanted to have the same last name as me. Maybe she was using it to hide the whole time.

It’s dark when Kyle pulls into the driveway of a quaint, single story white house. From what I can see, it’s in the middle of a neighborhood crowded with other similar homes.

“Are you sure your wife is okay with this?” I ask Kyle for the third or fourth time.

“Chloe is fine with it. She’s looking forward to meeting you.”

When I step out of the car, I feel an unfamiliar chill in the air. It’s early spring, but New York obviously hasn’t gotten the memo. Kyle opens the trunk, and I pull out my duffle bag. He’s withdrawing his own bag when I hear voices. I look over at the house next door. Three guys are standing in front of a dark colored truck parked in the driveway. They all look tall and athletic. Two of them are horsing around as one pushes the other and then barks out a laugh.

“Those boys are your age. Myles lives there. He’s a senior, too.” Kyle explains. When he closes the trunk, the one who has been standing silently, apart from the other two, turns toward us. He’s taller and broader than his friends are. It’s too dark to see him clearly, but rather than glance at us and turn back around, he seems to be staring right at me.

“You’ll meet them when you start school,” Kyle continues, taking both bags and heading up the walkway.

His shadowed silhouette pulls at me as I stand rooted there, and my heart starts to pump faster. From his outline, I notice wide shoulders that taper down to a trim waist and long, lean legs. His hair is thick with unruly waves that curl down just past his collar. As he watches me, unmoving, I can’t help but wonder if his eyes are traveling over me in the same assessing way. I can feel my cheeks heat, and I’m thankful for the cover of night. I’m not boy crazy. I never have been. So, my reaction to this stranger takes me by surprise, and I purposely snap myself out of it. I tear my eyes away from him, and I catch up with Kyle.

The front door swings open, spilling light out onto the walkway. I hesitate as Kyle moves more quickly and embraces the woman who steps out to meet him. She has a round face framed by long, brown hair, parted in the middle and swept back behind her ears. Her chin rests on Kyle’s shoulder. Her dark eyes widen when they find me standing behind him. I hear her gasp. She pulls out of his embrace and continues to stare at me.

“Raielle, this is my wife, Chloe,” Kyle says.

“She looks so much like you,” Chloe whispers, her gaze moving over me in shock.

He acknowledges her observation with a tired grin. “Let’s go inside.”

Chloe seems to realize she’s staring at me and rearranges her face into a tight smile. As her surprise settles, her assessing eyes find mine. “It’s nice to meet you, Raielle,” she says before turning to go into the house.

Warning bells start to go off in my head. The look on Chloe’s face, I’ve seen it before, too many times in too many foster homes. She’s wary of having me here, but her reluctance is loosely packaged within a façade of good manners.

I follow them through the front door into a small sitting area with floral couches and bright yellow walls. “I’m very sorry about your mother,” she says quietly, looking up at me. Chloe is about average height which means, in my clunky shoes, I tower over her. She’s curvy and attractive with round eyes that shimmer in the dimly lit room.

I feel awkward and out of place as I glance around their home wondering if I’ve just stepped into an alternate reality. This is the kind of overly decorated middle class house you see on sitcoms. “Thank you for letting me stay here,” I say politely.

“No need to thank us,” Chloe says. “I’m afraid you’ll have to sleep on the couch tonight. Our friends have an extra bed they’re giving us. But it won’t be here until tomorrow.”

“That’s fine,” I tell her, not bothering to mention that I’m used to sleeping on the couch.

“Are you hungry?” She asks like she’ll actually make me a meal if I say yes.

I shake my head.

“We got dinner at the airport,” Kyle explains.

Chloe clasps her hands in front of her. “Well, you’re probably tired.” She points behind her. “The bathroom is right down the hall, and the kitchen is in there. Penelope is sleeping. So, you’ll meet her in the morning before I take her to preschool.”

“We’ll get your school records taken care of tomorrow,” Kyle reassures me before I can remind him.

“You can start school whenever you’re ready,” Chloe says brightly. “You’re all registered. The high school is just about a mile that way. Most of the kids in this neighborhood walk, but I can drive you if you like, especially on the cold mornings.”

“Could I start this week?” I ask. I’m anxious to make the unfamiliar familiar, to begin a reliable routine.

“Why don’t you wait until next week?” Kyle suggests.

I’m about to plead my case when Chloe speaks up. “Let Raielle rest tomorrow and then start on Friday if she wants.”

Her support surprises me, and I think it surprises Kyle, too. But as he looks at her, I can see him weighing his decision. At that moment, a realization hits me. Kyle is in charge of my life now. Although my environment has always been out of control, I’ve been in control of my actions and myself. For the first time though, I may be living with an authority figure who intends to pay attention.

Kyle sighs. “Fine. If you want to start Friday, go ahead. But if you change your mind, you can always start next week.”

I smile at his decision and nod my agreement.

Then I watch as Chloe makes up the couch for me. Once that task is complete, Kyle and Chloe smile awkwardly as they say their goodnights. The whole situation is bizarre and uncomfortable. My brother and his wife have just met me for the first time, and here I am living with them. We’re strangers, and we certainly do not hug each other despite the pause after Chloe’s goodnight when I think she may be weighing that possibility. I’m relieved when she doesn’t follow through. Unless I’m reading her hesitation wrong, and she’s actually worried about my stealing their stuff while they’re asleep. I find myself smiling at that thought. Chloe seems like the typical sheltered suburban girl. Something I’m certainly not. I’ve been exposed to my fair share of crime, but I’ve never directly committed any offenses myself. At times, I’ve been hungry enough to think about stealing food, but I never did. When there was no money to buy notebooks for school, rather than swipe them from a store, I would raid the recycle bins behind the school for discarded handouts or even write on my clothes and make sure not to wash them until after the exam. I’ve worked hard not to stumble into the typical pitfalls of my situation. Chloe has nothing to worry about, and I wonder if I have anything to worry about where she’s concerned.

I could have imagined the grudging acceptance of my arrival in her expression. Even if it’s true, and she doesn’t want me here, I can’t really blame her. I come from a messed up situation. She has no idea what to expect from me.

I pull in a deep breath, surprised by how shaky and disoriented I feel. After slipping on some sweats and a T-shirt, I locate my toothbrush and trudge to the bathroom. When the light comes on, I see lots of blue tile on the walls and on the floor. To my left is a bathtub filled with toys, including a yellow rubber ducky. No doubt about it, this is an alternate reality, a home filled with the clichés. My lips dip down into a small disbelieving frown before I turn toward the sink to brush my teeth.

I slept so soundly last night that I am unprepared for the restlessness that keeps me awake on the couch for hours, watching the hands on the clock inch their way toward morning. It’s too quiet here, not like in the city. With only the noise of a ticking second hand to break through the silence, I have to work hard to block out the images that won’t be put away so easily tonight. I roll from my left side to my right, feeling the place where the couch cushions meet digging into my side.

I finally doze off just as the sky begins to brighten only to be startled awake by a loud “Hi” directly beside my face. I turn to see a little girl tilting her head at me as though she’s trying to decide exactly what I am.

“Hi,” I say wearily to her as I sit up stiffly.

“I’ve got purple marbles,” she states, lifting her hand to show me several marbles resting in her palm.

“That’s nice,” I reply, smiling my amusement through a wide yawn.

“You can have one.” She pushes her hand at me.

I reach out carefully and take one from her.

She grins at me before turning to run into the kitchen with her loose hair flying behind her. “I gave her a marble!” I hear the girl exclaim.

“Sit down and eat your breakfast, Penelope,” Chloe says. Then she steps out of the kitchen, dishcloth in hand, and looks at me. “Did you sleep well?”

I nod even though I didn’t.

“That’s Penelope. Her favorite color this week is purple.”

I grin. I’m used to living with little kids.

“Would you like some breakfast? We’ve got fruit and cereal,” Chloe offers.

I shake my head. Every time I closed my eyes last night, I saw blonde hair swimming in a pool of congealing blood on our kitchen table. My queasy stomach will definitely protest if I put food in it.

I turn away and grab my duffle bag. I want a shower and then a long walk to clear my head.

Once I’m dressed, I find Chloe still in the kitchen, cleaning up from breakfast. “Is there a downtown I could walk to?” I ask.

“Well, yes,” she says, turning from the sink to look at me. “But if you’d like to wait, I can take you after I’ve dropped Penelope off at school.”

I smile politely at her offer, but I don’t want company this morning. “I actually feel like walking. I was just looking for a destination.”

“Oh,” she remarks, seeming unsure before reluctantly giving me directions to the town center, which turns out to be about two miles away.

“Take my cell number with you in case you get lost.” She turns to find a piece of paper to write on.

“Okay, but I don’t have a phone to call you from.”

She turns back around to face me, seeming at first surprised and then worried as she stares at me and chews her bottom lip. Then she reaches into a drawer and hands me an extra house key. Watching her, it almost feels like she’s nervous. Uneasiness pricks at me as I wonder what’s causing this reaction. A part of me just wants to ask her. Between the graciousness she displayed last night that seemed forced and her strange hesitation this morning, I really don’t know what to make of her. But, of course, I won’t say anything. Sometimes confrontation works. Other times, it just digs you deeper. I’ve never gotten in trouble for
not
saying something.

Once I’m outside, I stop at the end of the walkway and glance around the neighborhood. It’s a bright morning with no hint of the winter chill from last night. I’ve never lived anywhere where the seasons change and my slim wardrobe reflects that. I wonder about the possibility of finding a job. Back home I had part-time jobs all over town, and once a week Apollo would pay me to sit on the stoop and collect cash that was owed to him. Familiar people would stop by to hand varying amounts of money to me. I was supposed to check their names off a hand-written list he gave me. I never asked questions, and I always turned in every cent. He once told me I was the only person he completely trusted.

I turn when I hear someone yelling “Hey” from the house next door. The owner of the voice has long, sandy hair that he pushes off his forehead as he nears. An olive-colored messenger bag is strapped across his chest, and it bounces lightly against his khaki-covered hip. I recognize his silhouette as belonging to one of the boys I saw laughing last night, but definitely not the tall one who I think was staring at me. The guy coming toward me could easily pass for one of the surfers that were abundant at my old school.

He stops in front of me. We’re about the same height, and I stand perfectly still while he unabashedly looks me over from head to toe. “You are going to be a very popular girl here,” he says with a smile that displays deep dimples in both cheeks.

Despite his statement, the glint in his eyes isn’t appreciative or predatory. It’s closer to intrigued or amused, and I wonder if he’s popular or picked on here.

“I’m Myles and you must be the long lost sister I’ve heard about.”

I arch a brow at him. “You’ve heard about me?”

He shrugs. “Chloe and my mom are friends. What’s your name?” he asks.

“Raielle.”

“Well, Raielle, will you be attending Fort Upton High School?”

I nod.