Save Me (The Me Novellas)

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any persons, living or dead,  is entirely coincidental.

SAVE ME

All rights reserved.

Copyright @2012

ONE

Seeing my parents sitting on my couch was never a good sign. I could count the number of times it had happened since I’d officially moved from my bedroom upstairs into the basement apartment. None. None was a number I liked. One was a number that made me suspicious.

I dropped my backpack on the round bistro table that served as my dining table.

“
Uh. Hi,” I said.

My parents sat close together, their knees touching. Mom had her hands folded in her lap, a bright smile pasted on her face. My dad was thumbing through the latest issue of Cosmo, his eyebrows furrowed. In horror, I wondered if he was reading the cover article:
His Burning Sex Need: Satisfy the Craving Your Man Won’t Admit To
.

I opened the fridge and grabbed a bottled water. “What are you guys doing here?”

There were firm rules in place to our living arrangements. I’d graduated from high school four years ago. To save money, we’d agreed for me to live in the basement as opposed to the dorms or my own apartment. The rules were simple: it was to be treated like my own place. They’d call before they came down. They’d knock. They’d respect my privacy. In return, I agreed to offer the same courtesy for going upstairs. Oh, and I’d also agreed to no all-night parties and to not turn my level into a brothel—Dad’s request. No brothel meant less income, but I figured it was a fair compromise.

“
We have some news,” Mom said. Her smile moved from bright to beatific.

I hadn’t seen her this happy since my junior year, when they’d decided to adopt a baby from El Salvador. We’d just sat down to dinner, a Mexican feast of burritos and enchiladas.

“
A what?” I’d asked as my fork clanged on the wooden table.

“
A baby,” my mom repeated. She speared an enchilada off the platter and transferred it to her plate.

“
Why?” I asked.

I was sixteen. They were done with kids. Diapers. Toddlers. All of it. At least that’s what I thought.

“
There are so many children in need, dear,” Mom said. She slathered sour cream on top of a burrito.

“
Aren’t there some a little closer? Like in, say, North America?”

“
Your dad and I have researched this,” she said. “The adoption rate in El Salvador is so low. And those poor children! They live on the streets if they’re not adopted, you know.”

We’d just finished discussing poverty in my Global Connections class and I wanted to point out that millions of the world’s children lived on the streets. And I was pretty sure they weren’t all located in El Salvador.

“
Okayyyy.” I grabbed a handful of tortilla chips from the opened bag on the table. “So, when is this going to happen?”

“
Soon,” she promised. “Right, Hank?”

My dad looked up from his newspaper. “What?”

“
The baby. From El Salvador.”

His expression cleared. “Yes. The El Salvadoran child. What about it?”

Mom waved her fork in the air. “I was just telling Katie our big news.”

He nodded. “Oh, good. Yes. Very exciting.” He buried his nose back in the paper.

For the next six months, we ate Mexican food four times a week. Mom and Dad bought Rosetta Stone and spent their evenings learning Spanish. Mom started a scrapbook titled Baby Es. When I asked if they’d found out the identity of the baby they were adopting, she’d said no.

“
Baby Es is Baby El Salvador,” she explained as she pasted in pictures of a maraca-themed layette she’d found and printed from some web site. “I was tired of calling it It.”

“
You just did,” I pointed out.

“
Well, forever more, the baby will be called Es. Until we find out what it—I mean, what his or her name is.”

And we did. We called the baby Es. And we waited for over a year before their application was rejected and my mom’s hopes were dashed.

They’d been deemed too old to be viable candidates for adoption.

But maybe a different country had different rules.

I sat on the edge of the armchair and took a sip of water. “Adopting another baby?  Maybe an entire family this time?”

“
No. Better.” I thought my mom’s face was going to split in two, her smile stretched so wide.

“
Better than a baby or entire El Salvadoran family?”

I couldn’t think of anything that would qualify. She loved babies. She’d already started hinting that Ben and I should get married. Not that she liked him very much. She didn’t. But she did like babies. And I was pretty sure she was ready for me to start providing them. I just wasn’t sure I was ready for that. And I was more than sure Ben wasn’t.

“
Yes.”

“
OK. I give up. Tell me.”

She scooted closer, her butt cheeks barely on the sofa cushion. “Hank, put that down,” she said, swatting the magazine. Dad reluctantly lowered it and tossed it back on the coffee table.

She turned to me. “We’re moving.”

I gaped at her. “You’re what?”

“
Moving!”

I shook my head. “What?”

Maybe I hadn’t heard her correctly. Ben and I had gone for a quick dip at the lake yesterday—a  warm late-April day pretty much demanded a lake visit since they’d only just unfrozen a few weeks ago—so maybe there was water in my ears. Or brain-eating amoebas.

“
Remember the Paulson’s?” she asked.

I nodded. Mitch Paulson worked with my dad at the accounting firm. He’d retired a few years ago, just before my dad had, and moved to Florida.

“
Well, Mitch has started a second career. He’s a motivational speaker.”

“
Mr. Paulson?” I squinted, trying to picture it. Small man with a receding hairline and a paunchy stomach. Pencil-thin mustache, a beak of a nose. Fondness for Hawaiian shirts.

“
Yes. Isn’t that wonderful?”

“
Sure,” I said. I must have misheard her. I didn’t know how Mr. Paulson becoming a motivational speaker translated into hearing my mom say that they were moving.

“
He’s put together this tour,” she said. “A whole bunch of resorts in Florida. It’s actually a show of sorts. Some comedy, some music—but all with a positive message. A motivational message.”

“
OK.” I was tuning out. I’d definitely not heard her correctly.

“
Anyway, he’s asked your dad to perform,” she said. “To go on tour with him.”

I dropped the water bottle. It landed with a loud thud on the carpeted floor. “What?”

I was beginning to think my mom had suffered a nervous breakdown. She’d been going through pre-menopause for years. In hindsight, I was pretty sure that was the reason for the whole baby adoption obsession. Maybe insanity was also a symptom. Because she wasn’t making an ounce of sense.

“
The band, dear.”

My dad played in a band with other retirees at the local American Legion. He played guitar and sang. And he was good. But, like, American Legion good. My dad going to play on a concert circuit was the equivalent of my mom going on tour to belly dance. She’d taken classes last year at the local community center and we’d suffered through her end-of-the-year performance. She toyed with going on to the next level and Dad and I had both breathed a sigh of relief when back spasms put an end to her exotic dancing career.

“
But
…
why? How?”

Either she didn’t hear me or she chose to ignore me because she didn’t answer either question.

“
Your father is so excited,” Mom gushed. “Over the moon, really.”

The only thing Dad looked over the moon about was the Cosmo magazine on the table. He was staring longingly at it.

“
So you’re moving? To Florida?”

“
Yes. Isn’t it exciting?”

So they were moving and I was going to have the whole house to myself. That didn’t sound horrible in any way.

She nodded. “It’s really amazing how all this has worked out. Like it was meant to be. I mean, we found renters in less than a day. Renters who will be perfect–”

I cut her off. “Renters? Wait a minute.”

A slight frown creased her powdered forehead. “What?”

“
You didn’t say anything about renters.”

“
I just did.”

I held up my hand. “Back up. You have renters moving in here?”

Mom must have noticed the look on my face because she chewed her lip and said, “Hank, dear. Why don’t you tell her?”

My dad cleared his throat. “We’re not ready to sell the house here. But we do need to find a place to stay in Florida. And we need income.”

“
What about your band gig?” I asked sarcastically.

“
Well, sure. Mitch has plans to pay me a certain percentage of the revenue he takes in.”

“
Which is
…
?”

“
Technically, he’s in the red right now. Start-up costs,” he explained.

I rolled my eyes.

“
So, we thought it would be a good idea to rent out the house.”

My mom couldn’t contain herself any longer. “And we found someone the same day we advertised. Isn’t that amazing? Like it was meant to be!”

“
So, what? I’m going to be the landlord while you’re gone?” I sincerely hoped the renters didn’t have kids. Or dogs. The floors were thin.

“
Not exactly,” Mom said, the frown reappearing. She fingered the cushion and wouldn’t look me in the eye.

“
No?” I asked.

“
No,” she said. “You see, honey, we had to rent the whole house. Even your apartment. They’re moving in next week.”

TWO

I sank into the arm chair. “You’re kicking me out? Of my own house?”

Mom clasped her hands in her lap. “Oh, honey, no. Not at all.”

“
Yes. You are,” I said. “You’ve just rented the house. The whole house. Remember?”

“
Well
…
” her voice trailed off and she looked to my dad for reinforcement. He’d picked up the Cosmo magazine again. She sighed. “Katie, don’t you think it’s
…
it’s time?”

“
Time for
what?
”

“
For you to fledge, dear.” She smiled, a little teary-eyed. “All babies leave the nest at some point.”

“
Most aren’t kicked out,” I snapped. I stared at the ceiling, my mind spinning. I was in my last semester of college with no idea what I was going to do after graduation. I had a part-time job that barely covered clothing expenses and gas. And now I had no place to live.

“
Don’t think of it as a kick,” she said. “More like a gentle nudge.”

I stood up, anger flaring. “I have less than a week to find a place to live, Mom. I’m at a hugely transitional point in my life and you and Dad have suddenly decided, hey! Let’s add more stress to Katie’s life!”

“
That’s not fair,” she said.

“
No, what you’re doing isn’t fair.” I’d heard enough.

I grabbed my keys and purse from the table and left, slamming the door hard behind me. I fumed as I crossed the driveway to my car. I pulled my phone out of my pocket and called Ben.