The Intern(31)

“Jesus Christ, I’m sick of your bullshit.”

“What’s past is past. I got nothing going on with Sylvia anymore. Haven’t for years. She works for Ray as a receptionist. He came crying to me, saying she’s sick with leukemia, can I take the kid while her mother gets treatment.”

She hated Eddie then, not for herself, but for her poor mother, who’d wasted her life on him, ungrateful monster.

“If Ray’s so concerned, let him take her. She’s not my problem.”

“He can’t. He’s at the Mayo Clinic with Sylvia.”

“The Mayo Clinic? Wait a minute. How long are you asking for the girl to stay?”

“Just while Ray gets Sylvia settled. Then he’s coming back, and he’ll take the kid. I’ll make sure of it.”

“Till he gets her settled? What’s that mean?”

“A few days, that’s all. The kid’s quiet. She’ll be no trouble.”

“And what if the mother doesn’t come back? What then?”

The way she talked about Sylvia dying, in a voice so cold, so matter-of-fact—Kathy wanted her dead. She closed her eyes and prayed. Please, God, strike down that evil witch. But nothing happened. They were still talking in there, and Kathy had to hope they’d let her stay.

“She’s not gonna die, I promise,” Eddie said.

That was the first hopeful thing she’d heard. She grabbed on to his words, whispering them like an incantation as she fidgeted on the plastic-covered sofa. She’s not gonna die, she’s not gonna die, she’s not gonna die.

“No,” Mrs. Wallace said loudly.

“What do you mean, no? Don’t tell me no.”

“It’s too much to ask. I don’t want her in my house.”

“Your house? This is not your fucking house. I pay the mortgage. I pay for your car, your clothes, your food. I support your mother and your deadbeat brother. You know what that means? What I say goes. And I say, make her up a bed in the sewing room. Feed her. And send her to school with Charlie in the morning. It’s a few days. You can handle it.”

“Charlie! Did you think about him for one second? About your legitimate son? What am I supposed to tell him?”

“Whatever you want. Say she’s a long-lost cousin. I don’t care.”

“How dare you put her above this family! Goddamn it, Eddie. You motherfu—”

There was a crash, followed by the tinkling of broken glass, a scream, and several loud thumps. Mrs. Wallace let out a wail. Stomach in knots, Kathy cowered on the sofa, pulling a hard, shiny cushion over her head to block out the yelling and crying. It went on for a while, but eventually things got quiet. She sat up, hearing muffled sobs and Eddie talking in a soothing tone. She couldn’t make out the words, but the pitch was conciliatory. Did the wife win the argument? She didn’t want to stay in this creepy house that smelled of cabbage with a crazy lady who hated her guts and a man—her father—who from the sound of it just hit his wife. But the other option was foster care. They fed you dog food there, beat you with belts. And worse.

A key turned in the front-door lock. A kid entered, taller than her, his red hair dark from the rain. This must be Charlie, the legitimate son. She sat up straight and pulled her hand across her face, wiping away the tears that had leaked. Kids already called her names. She didn’t need him to see her shaking and go telling everyone she wet her pants or something.

Catching sight of her finally, he stopped short.

“Who are you? What’s going on?” he said.

“Your parents are fighting.”

“No shit, Sherlock. They always fight. I asked who you are.”

“I’m Kathy. Who are you?”

He took off his coat and hung it on a hook near the door, looking at her through narrowed eyes.

“Charlie. What are you doing here?”

“I don’t have anywhere else to go.”

“What are you, like homeless?”

“No. My mom is sick.”

He nodded, not unsympathetically. “Okay, but why did they bring you to my house? Your folks know my folks or something?”

She should claim to be that long-lost cousin, or there’d be hell to pay with Mrs. Wallace. The lie was on the tip of her tongue. But that ugly word rang in her ears—bastard—making her hot with rage. Screw that lady; it would serve her right to tell her precious son the truth. She itched to rock the boat, even if she tipped it over.

“No. It’s because I’m your sister.”

His face went slack. “What?”

“They brought me here because Eddie is my dad. Last time I checked, that makes me your sister.”

His eyes registered shock, then resistance, then the fear that she was telling the truth. The kid knew his father well enough to wonder, at least.

“If he’s your dad, then who’s your mom? Not my mom?”

“No, you wouldn’t know her. Her name’s Sylvia.”

He stared at her open-mouthed.

“You do know her?” Kathy asked.

“I met a Sylvia one time, with my pops. At a Red Sox game. Really pretty, blond hair, red dress?”

Sylvia had made quite the impression, apparently.

“That’s her.”

“You don’t look like her.”