Fragmented (7 page)

“Morning,” I greeted. I slung my bag on top of the table.

Raleigh looked up from her book and smiled. Her smile was dazzling and her beauty was effortless. “Good morning.”

The morning was grey and gloomy, but she wore another sundress and light cardigan. Her pale knees peeked out from the bottom hem of her dress. She wore red pumps, which struck me as peculiar. Shoes weren’t a necessity for her; they were a fashion accessory.

“I like your dress,” I admired. “Is it Anthropologie?”

“Good eye.” She smiled, but sheepishly looked down at her outfit. “I know it’s a little too dressed up for school, but I went months in the hospital only wearing pants with elastic waists,” she explained. “I’m probably overcompensating.”

“I think you look perfect,” I blurted out inelegantly.

Shut up, Harper.

“You’re not so bad yourself,” she countered with another warm smile.

I reached into my book bag. “Here’s your psychology notebook back. I also wrote down the lecture notes you missed.”

“Wow, thank you. You get more charming by the day.”

My laugh didn’t sound normal to my ears. “It’s not purely altruistic. I’m hoping it’ll help you forget about that text message from the other night.”

Her lips twisted into a smirk. “What text?”

I released a long breath. “Thanks.”

She didn’t ask me for whom the text had been meant, and for that I was thankful. Lies came natural to me—too natural.

Professor Berry strode into class and our conversation ended. Notebooks were taken out, and I did my best to follow and keep up with that day’s topic and not be distracted again by the girl seated beside me. Mistakes happened when you lost focus.

At the end of class, the rain had finally stopped, and I had a number of missed phone calls, all from Mrs. Henderson. There were no voicemails, but the calls were from only a few minutes prior. I called her back, not quite sure what to expect. After my mother’s attempt to file a missing person’s report on me, unprompted contact from the Henderson’s made me nervous.

“Harper, thank God,” Mrs. Henderson answered in a rush. “Sasha’s school just called. She got sick and needs to come home, but I can’t get out of my meetings, and I haven’t been able to get a hold of Thad. I know this is asking you to go above and beyond the call of duty, but would you be able to pick her up from school and stay with her until I get home?”

I thought about my schedule for the remainder of the day—lunch with my friends and psychology. “Yeah, I can get her.” It was only one class, I reasoned to myself. It wouldn’t be the end of the world if I missed one lecture, and I knew Mrs. Henderson wouldn’t have called me if it weren’t an emergency.

“You’re a life safer,” she exhaled. “I’ll call Sasha’s school and let them know to expect you. And I know you usually take the train, but could you possibly get a cab? I hate thinking about my baby girl sitting in the office, not feeling well. I’ll pay you back.”

“No problem. I’m on my way right now.”

+ + +

Sasha’s elementary school was a short cab ride away, and only a few blocks from the Henderson’s house in Lincoln Park. She was sitting by herself on a chair too tall for her swinging legs when I entered the school office.

I crouched down to her level. “Hey, kiddo. I hear you’re not feeling your best today.”

She looked at me with eyes the size of dinner plates. “I puked on my teacher,” she whispered hoarsely.

I choked back my laugh. “Hey, at least you’ve got good aim.”

My reaction coaxed a small smile out of my somber charge.

“C’mon,” I said, patting her knee. “I’m busting you outta this joint.”

I signed Sasha out of school like I was borrowing a library book, and we began the short walk to her parents’ brownstone, hand in hand.

Sasha dumped her backpack and shoes in the front foyer and flopped down on the couch with the remote while I moved her things out of the way and began to search for saltines and white soda. I made chicken noodle soup out of the can for lunch. I couldn’t find any crackers, but Sasha had a fistful of pretzel sticks to dip into her soup. She slurped the noodles and they flicked the tip of her nose, splashing chicken broth on her face and the dining room table.

“You’re a total mess, kid,” I said, handing her a paper napkin.

Sasha wiped her face and giggled, a sign that she was already feeling better.

When I was younger, I used to fake being sick all the time to avoid going to school. It had been right after my mom had been taken away, and my Aunt Olive, with whom I had lived until I graduated high school, had allowed me to stay home as often as I needed to. She didn’t work, so we’d sit on the couch watching television and eating Neapolitan ice cream right out of the tub until my Uncle Jerret got home from work. At the time, I’d thought I’d done an admirable job of fooling her, but in hindsight, she’d known exactly what I was doing.

After lunch, Sasha and I retired to the living room couch. I’d thought she might take a nap, but she’d lost herself to afternoon cartoons instead while I read my psychology textbook. A few hours later, Mrs. Henderson got home from work before her husband.

“Fancy duds, Mrs. H,” I approved from my place on the couch. She always looked nice, but her power suit that day looked even more power-y than usual.

“Thank you,” she said, slipping out of high-heeled shoes that would have me breaking my ankles. “I had a meeting with a big client this afternoon. I would have rescheduled, but these guys have been super wiggly and hard to pin down lately.” Her stocking feet padded into the family room where both Sasha and I lounged on the L-shaped couch.

“How’s the patient?” Mrs. Henderson asked.

“She’s hanging in there,” I answered.

She felt Sasha’s forehead. “My poor baby,” she murmured. “How are you feeling?”

Sasha’s eyes didn’t leave the television. “Okay.”

“You might want to send her teacher an ‘I’m sorry card’ or something.” My mouth quirked up at one corner. “Sasha told me she threw up on her.”

“And her desk!” Sasha added with glee.

Mrs. Henderson’s eyes perceptively widened. “Oh lord. I wonder what Emily Post would say about proper etiquette for this situation?”

“Hey, at least she’s keeping a good attitude about it,” I pointed out. “If that had happened to me, I would be begging to transfer schools.”

“Thank goodness for small miracles,” Mrs. Henderson chuckled. “Well, I’ve got it from here, dear. Thank you again
so
much.”

“It’s no problem.” I gathered my books and shoved them into my bag. “I’m glad I was able to help.”

Mrs. Henderson pulled her wallet out of her purse and produced several bills. “Here. For the cab and for your time.”

I did a visual inventory. It had to have been at least two hundred dollars. “That’s too much.”

“Take it, Harper,” she urged. “I remember what it was like to be a college student on a budget. Go do something fun for yourself.”

I took the money begrudgingly. I didn’t like feeling like a charity case, but I’d had to miss class to pick up Sasha early and I’d taken a cab, so I tried not to let the money sit too heavily in the back pocket of my jeans.

After another goodbye to Sasha and her mother, I hopped down the front steps of the Henderson’s Lincoln Park flat. It was still early in the afternoon, and done with babysitting, the rest of the day was my own. I could have shot up to DePaul to see Jenn, but I didn’t know her class schedule yet in order to find her and surprise her. Instead, I found myself looking up the number for my university’s registrar office.

CHAPTER FIVE

I drove down a long gravel driveway, following the directions on my phone’s navigation app. The turn-by-turn directions had steered me out of the city limits and into a neighboring suburb that looked more like a farm than a subdivision.

I reached my destination and turned off my car. A modest ranch-style house spread out in front of me, a far cry from the high-rise condos and multi-story walkups I was better used to. I checked the address I’d made note of in my phone again and, confirming I was in the right place, I got out of my car.

My boots crunched on loose gravel as I walked up to the front door. The windows were shuttered and only a dusty red van in the driveway suggested that anyone was home. I knocked, and a woman with stern features and hair pulled back into a severe bun answered the door. She wore a long denim skirt that reached her ankles and a white turtleneck. A large silver cross hung around her neck. “Yes?”

I was startled by the woman’s appearance. I didn’t know why I’d expected Raleigh herself to answer the door. “Oh, um, hello,” I greeted, pulling myself together. “Is Raleigh here?”

The woman’s eyes narrowed, and I thought I saw the door close just a little. “Who are you?” she asked suspiciously.

“I’m Harper. Harper Dawkins. I go to school with Raleigh. She said I should stop by to pick up the psychology notes I missed today.” She actually hadn’t, but I wasn’t about to tell this woman that I’d shown up on her doorstep, unannounced and uninvited.

“Harper.” The way the woman said my name sounded like it left a sour taste in her mouth. “I’ll never understand why parents give their children such strange names. Of course my own sister did the same thing when she allowed Anna to start going by her middle name.”

I didn’t know if I should defend my name or let the insult drop. “Who’s Anna?” I asked instead.

The woman nearly rolled her eyes. “Raleigh. Anna Raleigh King.”

My features scrunched together. “Raleigh’s real name is Anna?”

“Yes.” The door seemed to shut even more. “Why are you here again?”

I fished a notebook out of my messenger bag as if it were evidence that I was telling the truth. “I go to school with your niece?”

The woman, apparently Raleigh’s aunt, finally let me in.

When I walked through the front door, I resisted the urge to duck my head. The low popcorn ceilings were high enough that slouching was unnecessary, but the décor was disorienting; the house looked like it had been built in the 1970s and hadn’t ever been updated. I felt my anxiety spike at all the religious paraphernalia I found inside. I’d never seen so many crosses outside of a church.

Raleigh’s aunt hadn’t instructed me to take off my shoes, but I did so out of respect or reflex.

As I passed a formal dining room I saw one of those word paintings, only instead of something warm and encouraging, a somber message from the Old Testament was scrawled across the wall:
The Lord does not look at the things man looks at. Man looks at the outward appearance, but the Lord looks at the heart.

“Third door on the right.”

“Huh?” I tore my eyes away from the Bible verse.

I could tell Raleigh’s aunt was rapidly losing patience with me. “Anna’s bedroom is down the hallway, third door on the right. Didn’t you say you came here for school notes?”

“Oh, right. Sorry.” I mentally shook myself. I needed to keep it together or this woman was going to boot me from her home before I ever got to see Raleigh.

I walked down the corridor and passed two open doors—a bathroom and the laundry room. The third door on the right was open as well. Inside the small bedroom, I found Raleigh reclined on a twin-sized mattress with an afghan covering her legs. Sunshine shown into the room, scattered by a white, lace drapery that resembled an oversized doily. The natural light bounced off of Raleigh’s hair, already the color of sunlight. It reminded me of a key scene from one of my favorite old movies—when Cary Grant finally tracks down Deborah Kerr after she fails to show up at the top of the Empire State Building.

I was struck by how peaceful and serene she sat, reading her book. She looked so … so normal. Beautiful, but normal, I decided on—like she might stand up at any moment.

I rapped my knuckles against the wooden doorframe.

Raleigh’s eyes lifted from the page. “Harper.” She closed her book.

“Hi.” I righted myself.

If my unannounced appearance fazed her, she didn’t let on.

“What are you reading?” I asked.

She touched the spine of the old-looking hardcover book. “
Swiss Family Robinson.
”

I admittedly knew next to nothing about her, and yet the book selection was unexpected. Something more somber and serious like
Crime and Punishment
or
Wuthering Heights
seemed more appropriate. Something in my face must have given me away.