Special Forces: Operation Alpha: Marking Mariah (Kindle Worlds Novella) (4 page)

“You can’t move there,” Mariah’s mother declared in her typical fashion. “That town’s full of rednecks.”

Mariah taped another box closed and grabbed a fresh flat of cardboard to form into another one before she had the patience to formulate a polite-enough answer. “Mama, this is Kentucky. Name me a town that isn’t.”

June Bailey sniffed and lifted her chin. Mariah raised an eyebrow at her, then resumed putting the box together. “If you’re just gonna sit there and watch me, you can go on home. I have packing to do and don’t require an audience,” she said after a few silent minutes. “I know nothing I do will ever satisfy you, but could you for one second be proud of me?” She clutched the roll of clear plastic tape, anxiety over her harsh words and the general fact of confronting her mother making her face hot. “I did it, Mama. I’m gonna be a music teacher, like I wanted—”

“No, you wanted to stay out there on that heathen west coast and pretend to be some kind of a pop star,” her mother said mildly, taking another roll of tape from the table between them. “Don’t go denying it, young lady.”

Mariah’s shoulders slumped. Cole chose that moment to race out of his bedroom and into the living room in his Batman costume, lightsaber toy in one hand. He clambered up onto the box she’d just taped shut and stood there, swishing the fake sword around and making laser noises.

“Get down from there right now,” she yelled. “I mean it, Cole. I’m not in the mood.”

He ignored her, in the way of little boys, and continued his battle with invisible foes. Mariah saw her mother’s upper lip curl in an “I told you so” way, which infuriated her. Between that and her son’s incessant buzzing sounds, she sensed the exhaustion give way to fury.

“I said, get down from there, damn it,” she shrieked, grabbing the boy under both his arms and plunking him onto the floor so hard he stumbled. “And you,” she said, heart racing as she pointed at her mother. “You can get out of here. I don’t need your help, since your help always comes with a helping of guilt and a side order of smug.”

The two of them, her son and her mother, gaped at her. She was not a yeller, or a fan of confrontation. She was a pleaser—the sort of person who wanted everyone around her to be happy and content. But she’d spent her near twenty-six years on this planet attempting to make her mother happy and had seemingly done nothing but disappoint. “I can’t wait to get the hell out of this town and away from you,” she went on, surprising them all. “I don’t care how many rednecks live in Lucasville.”

Depleted, she dropped into a chair, sending a stack of mail and papers from her last master’s degree project to the floor. Tears plopped onto her hands, which were clenched together in her lap. “I’m sorry,” she whispered to no one, and everyone. “I’m so tired.”

Cole put his hand on her leg. She looked at it, studying it for the millionth or perhaps the trillionth time since she’d first laid eyes on it. Then she tugged him until he got the hint and climbed into her lap, wrapping his arms around her neck and suffering her need to cling to him.

They sat quietly, something they’d done a lot in the last five years, foreheads together, eyes closed, breathing in unison. Her mother made a loud fuss about putting one box together then she put a hand on Mariah’s shoulder. “I’m going to let you have your little tantrum, young lady,” June Bailey said in her queenly voice. “I know you’re tired. But don’t think you can use that as an excuse to be impertinent to your own mother. You’re the one who wanted to finish school on time. You knew that meant long hours, especially since you’re responsible for this child.”

Mariah sighed and kept Cole close, reminding herself that he was not just her responsibility—he was her very heart, ripped from her chest and walking around outside her body wearing his father’s face, looking out of his father’s eyes and sassing her with his father’s attitude.

“Did you put your toys in the box like I showed you?” she asked Cole, ignoring her mother.

He nodded, glancing over her shoulder at his grandmother, confusion on his face. “But I found my saber,” he said. “So I wanted to play.”

“Okay then,” she said, peeling him off her and setting him on the floor, gently this time. “We have exactly twenty-four hours to get everything else ready. That means one day. The moving truck will be here tomorrow afternoon.” She gave his behind a friendly pat. “Go on Batman, use your powers to finish packing up.”

“Batman doesn’t have powers, Mama,” Cole reminded her with a patient tone. “He’s just an angry man with a lot of weapons.”

“You’ve been talking to your Pop-pop too much,” she chided him with a smile, swiping at her face as she attempted to re-focus on the task at hand. The living room had been packed up—not that it took much. She’d moved on to the kitchen when her mother had shown up, dressed perfectly as if for church and demanding that she explain herself for daring to take a job out of town.

“Pop-pop says Superman is better,” Cole declared, grabbing his light saber and swinging it around.

“Go, Cole. Finish. Mama needs your help, remember?”

He shot her a look that she figured she’d be seeing a lot of in the coming years—exasperation crossed with amusement. Then he trudged back to his room and slammed the door.

As Mariah watched him go, she noted that he had managed to outgrow his clothes yet again. His bony ankles were poking out the bottom of the black sweat pants she’d bought last October to augment the Batman costume. She turned and caught her mother watching the boy as well, her eyes hooded and pensive.

“Don’t let me keep you, Mama,” she said, keeping her voice neutral. “You didn’t get all dressed up to come here and help me pack.”
Obviously
, she thought as she started wrapping the few remaining, mismatched coffee mugs and glassware then laying them carefully into the box.

The woman didn’t move for a solid five minutes. Mariah studiously ignored her as she emptied out her remaining kitchen cupboards and set aside the food she’d pack in a different box, tossing out a few squashed granola bars and a bag of onions that had started to sprout small trees.

“I am proud of you,” June said. “It’s just…you…” She sighed.

Mariah put the stack of dishtowels she’d liberated from the drawer on the counter and closed her eyes, preparing for the onslaught of guilt and recriminations. Her mother had never fully recovered from her four wild years of college—years in which she’d barely spoken to either parent while sorting through all the many wonderful options—boys, men, friends, parties, booze, and a few drugs.

The odd phone call or text or rare email from her father never contained anything but support for her and her straight-A efforts. It was in college that she learned to operate on three hours of sleep and diet pills to keep her grades up, no matter where she’d wake up the morning after a party. He’d always kept enough money in her bank account so she could survive and have a bit of fun. She’d started waiting tables her junior year for extra cash. Which was when she’d met…

“I never liked him,” her mother said, breaking through her unwelcomed jaunt down memory lane. “You were too good for the likes of him. I thought…” June stopped. Mariah turned and faced her, arms crossed, the distance between them so much more than the few actual feet of air and boxes. “Then you got pregnant and were stuck.”

Even though she knew better, Mariah opened her mouth to protest, to defend herself and her decision. She’d wanted a baby. That urge had been so primal, so utterly overwhelming, she shuddered now, still able to recall its intensity. It had been a lot about tying her husband down, keeping him from flying off like the hot air balloon he no doubt was. And it had worked, at least during her pregnancy.

Her mother raised a hand, as if to ward off her words. “No, no, it’s all right. I know you loved him. There’s no accounting for the heart’s power. And that boy, your boy, he’s a wonder, a heaven-sent treasure to be sure.”

Mariah sighed, waiting on the inevitable “but.” To her shock, however, her mother strode over, grabbed her upper arms and squeezed them. “I love you, Mariah. You’re my one and only, my baby. I wanted…something more I guess. And now…” She shrugged. Mariah saw the tears welling in her eyes. “Now you have it. You’ve gone and done it. But it means you’re leaving me behind.”

“Oh Mama, please. I’m only two hours away.” But Mariah knew what she meant.

It was true. She had to get away, out from under her parents, to be on her own for real. It scared her to death. But the second she’d accepted Mr. Love’s job offer, she’d known this was what she’d been working toward for the last four years of class, work, her child—class, work, her child—interrupted briefly by the singing competition that she’d entered on a total whim.

And she’d won. In front of the entire country.

Her cover of Beyonce’s “If I Were a Boy” had been number one on mobile music downloads for two solid weeks. She’d had one of the celebrity coaches ready to sign her to his label on the spot.

Mariah gulped and looked away. Her mother crushed her into her arms for a few seconds then let her go. The tears had not fallen. No big surprise. June Bailey wasn’t one for going overly emotional. “You did us proud at that competition. And you did me prouder by coming home, shouldering your real responsibilities, and getting this degree. Not getting caught up in all that unrealistic nonsense.”

Mariah sucked in a breath and disentangled herself, not in the mood to hear what she already knew—the self-justification that barely covered her extreme embarrassment about leaving behind “that nonsense” she had adored so very much. The coach, a famous pop star himself, still sent her text messages twice, sometimes three times a week, half a year after the big win, letting her know that his offer stood. That he’d fly her back out on his dime. Put her up in a place she could pay him back for, once she started earning the millions she’d make, according to him.

When she’d taken the teaching job offer, she’d sent him a text, telling him her news. Shutting that particular door, she figured.

“Congrats,” he’d responded. “I understand. But know that my offer is good for the duration. Please consider it.”

That had been three weeks ago. She hadn’t heard from him again.

“I have to get this done,” she said, turning away and picking the dishtowels up again. “Will you—” she stopped, gulping back panic and a sudden onslaught of tears. “Will you and Daddy be here tomorrow, when the moving truck comes?”

“Of course,” her mother said. She put a hand on Mariah’s shoulder again. “You’ll be just fine.”

“I know that,” Mariah said, moving to the side and out of her mother’s reach. Rude, she knew, but she needed the woman to get out, to leave her to her tasks, otherwise she’d chicken out and never manage to do this thing.

Four hours later, she and Cole sat in camp chairs, watching a video on her laptop she had opened on top of a pile of boxes, and shoving pizza into their mouths. They were both tired and testy as they finished. “Go on, finish your milk,” she insisted. He pouted, and picked it up half-heartedly, just enough so it slipped through his greasy fingers and hit the edge of the box before smashing to smithereens on the floor.

“God
damn
it,” she yelped, jumping up and jerking him into her arms so he wouldn’t step into the mess of glass. “Shit,” she muttered, as he struggled to get down, parroting her curse words in a way only he could, guaranteed to piss her off. “Hush, Cole. Just hush. I’m gonna put you in the shower so I can clean this up.”

She carried him as he flailed and protested, knowing the shower would calm him, even though he’d be without his beloved tub toys now that they were packed away for the move. He hollered when she stripped him out of his filthy Batman costume and lifted him into the tub—their last time having this particular confrontation in this space, she mused.

When she wrenched on the shower water, he kept up his protests until she got the water temp correct, then he stood there, glowering at her, the water sluicing off his skin. His tone was so perfect—darker than hers, a bit lighter than his father’s. Somewhere between a rich nutty brown and light mocha. She used to love to kiss it when he was a baby, to press her nose into the fold of his arm or behind his knee, taking in the amazing purity of his existence.

“Don’t like Mama,” he said, snapping her out of her haze.

“Really, well, that’s cool with me. Stay here,” she warned. “I’ve gotta clean up that mess.”

“Sorry,” he muttered, looking down, letting the water hit his tightly curled hair. She crouched down and met his eyes.

“This is going to be fine, Cole. You’ll make new friends. We’ll have a bigger apartment. Mama will have her real job.”

He smiled. Her heart lifted as it always did. “Singing?” he asked. “Mama gets to sing like on the TV?”

“No, sweetie. Not like that. I’m going to teach kids to sing. Big kids, in high school.”

“Oh,” he said, losing interest. “Okay.”

She handed him the thin sliver of soap she’d left out for the purposes of their last showers here then jerked the shower curtain closed. The place she’d found had actual doors on the shower in the bathroom Cole would use. It was twice the size of this dump. A condo, actually, rented to her by a doctor somehow related to her new boss, Kieran Love, Principal. Rented to her for half its real value, as she learned after researching prices.