Secret for a Song by Falls S. K

Author:Falls, S. K. [Falls, S. K.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: contemporary fiction, psychological fiction, munchausen syndrome, new adult contemporary, new adult, General Fiction
ISBN: 9781490346014
Publisher: Createspace
Published: 2013-05-31T06:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twenty Seven

I closed Mum’s door and made my way downstairs. I found Dad at the breakfast nook, staring at Mum’s newest not-yet-assembled dollhouse and drinking. He looked up as I walked in and offered me a wan smile.

“I never got her hobby,” he said. “Fixing up dollhouses, painting them, and then throwing them away. Why go through all the trouble?”

I shook my head. “Is it true? About the DWI?”

He took a long drink and then looked at me. “Yes,” he said simply.

It felt like a punch to my stomach again. I swallowed past a lump in my throat. “What...what are they going to do? Will she have to go to jail?”

“No. It’s her first offense and she’s got a hell of a lawyer.” The smile that flashed on his face fell off just as quickly. “They’re going to suspend her license and she’ll have to take some classes. Show them she can handle her drinking, that sort of thing.”

Handle her drinking. Isn’t that what drunks said? I can handle my drinking. I can stop when I want. It was like the worst, most clichéd joke in the book.

On the counter, Dad’s phone buzzed. I was closer to it, so I looked at the screen. It said Preston.

“Someone named Preston,” I said, handing the phone over.

“Christ,” Dad muttered. “The guy can’t take no for an answer.”

“Who is it?” I remembered Mum and Dad arguing about a Noah Preston earlier.

“Some liberal asshole lawyer who wants a meeting with me to discuss something or another. Not going to happen.” He stood up, palming his highball glass. “I’ll be in my study.”

I wondered if he should be drinking if Mum wasn’t going to be allowed to anymore. Shouldn’t he quit in a show of solidarity? But my parents were never solid about anything. They were amorphous when it came to our family, floating around the house to the corners where there was the most space, the most emptiness.

I went back up to my room and slid out the book on multiple sclerosis. Playing with the curling edge of one of my bandages, I began to read.

The next morning my phone buzzed, rattling against my nightstand, and I jolted awake. My heart seemed to know who it was before my brain caught up—it thrummed like a hummingbird’s wings.

Good morning. Sleep well?

Drew. I smiled, even though my mind flashed with a picture of Mum in bed, telling me she’d been arrested for driving drunk.

Yeah. You?

Like a baby. You kiss well.

I could feel myself blush at the blatant flirting, even though I was alone.

Going to Ptwscptt Psrk. Come queh me?

I squinted at the misspelling.

A minute later: *Prescott Park. And *with. Sorry.

I smiled and texted back: Of course.

I washed up and checked on the drained abscesses. The original packing that Dr. Daniels had put in was still intact, and now it was blood-soaked. I didn’t know how long I should leave it there for maximum impact/infection, so I hadn’t dared take it off even though it had been three days.

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