Black Flowers, White Lies Page 3

  “Oscar?” I call, breathless.

  He’s near the lobby entrance that leads to the street, with his ears alert and his striped tail twitching. The lady that lives in the penthouse stands on the other side, fumbling for her keys.

  “Wait!” She doesn’t seem to hear me. I scoop Oscar up as she opens the door.

  Safely in the elevator, I blink back tears. Ten more seconds and Oscar could have been killed in traffic. He purrs in my trembling arms, oblivious to his near-miss with danger.

  When I return to our floor, Norma is pounding on the door at the end of our hallway. She’s a short, round woman, barely five feet tall with unruly gray hair. “Mr. Wilson, turn that down!” she shouts. He probably can’t hear her with his ’80s music blasting. “The neighbors are complaining again!”

  She turns, spots me holding Oscar. “Pets need to stay out of the common areas,” she scolds.

  I’m too emotional to compose an answer. I turn my back on Norma and storm inside.

  “Curiosity didn’t kill the cat?” Blake says.

  “No, but your father almost did.” I make sure the door closes firmly behind me.

  “I had no idea he would run out,” Stanley says.

  I’m tempted to unleash a torrent of anger when Mom puts her hand on my shoulder.

  “It was an accident,” she says.

  I retreat to my room with Oscar. He’s okay. That’s all that matters. Oscar is safe. I hold him for a long time with my eyes closed. My heart barely stops racing before Mom announces that dinner’s ready.

  For years, Mom and I sat in our same two chairs, perpendicular to each other. I take my usual place before Blake can claim it.

  “Was I in your seat this morning?” he asks, sitting across from me.

  I set my jaw. “Yes.” Forget the stepfamily fake-niceness.

  Mom gives me her displeased look. “Ella’s a creature of habit. You can sit anywhere you want.”

  “No, I’m the same way,” he says. “I understand. This will be my new seat from now on.”

  It’s quiet as Mom passes the pasta and her homemade marinara sauce with vegan cheese sprinkles for me and a separate bowl of sausage for everyone else. I’m not inclined to start a stupid conversation. We eat in a silent bubble of awkwardness until Stanley compliments the sauce. “Delicious,” he says. “And I don’t remember seeing these plates before.”

  “They’re the good dishes,” Mom says, “since it’s a special occasion.”

  Even in my anger, I cringe. I’m not sure what the etiquette is when a father and son attempt to reconcile as part of a newly combined family. But I’m pretty sure you don’t draw attention to it with the dishware. What’s next—party hats and balloons?

  “Everything is so nice,” Blake says. Something in his tone—envy?—makes me think he’s eaten off his share of plastic plates.

  “We’ve had these forever,” I say. “They were a gift from—”

  “Did you have a nice time with Grace?” Mom interrupts. I guess she doesn’t want me to mention her dead husband’s mother tonight.

  “Yes.” I can’t talk about the Tarot reading. Mom is even more of a skeptic than Grace.

  “What did you guys do today?” Mom asks Blake.

  “We had lunch at Arthur’s Tavern.”

  Normally, I would chime in about the restaurant’s haunted bathroom, but I don’t see that going over well. Our dinner conversation is surprisingly complicated.

  “Good steak?” Mom asks.

  “The best,” Stanley says. “Blake and I had a lot of catching up to do. We spent the whole day talking. And he wanted to know all about you, and Ella, even the cat. His new family!”

  I’m thinking of a cutting response when I catch Blake’s exaggerated eye roll. I stifle a giggle. He must realize, too, that Mom and Stanley are acting weird. What is wrong with them? Blake’s arrival has them totally off-kilter. I imagine we’re part of some reality show about newly formed families. I’m tempted to glance around to search for hidden cameras.

  “What’s everyone doing tomorrow?” Stanley asks.

  “I have to run some wedding errands,” Mom says. “Ella, you’ll cover the afternoon?”

  I nod. I’ve worked every Thursday all summer, so it’s an annoyingly rhetorical question.

  “I’d love to see the store,” Blake says. “What time are you working?”

  “Eleven to four,” I say in unison with Mom. It breaks the tension, and we both laugh.

  From under my chair, Oscar gives a hungry meow. “I’ll feed you in a few minutes.”

  “How was volunteering? I told Blake how you get lots of cats adopted,” Stanley says. “I know you were worried about that one black cat named Flower.”

  “Petals,” I correct him. “I didn’t volunteer today.” I’m not taking the bait to make cat-related conversation after he endangered Oscar’s life. “When does school start?” I ask Blake.

  “I move into the dorm on the twenty-fifth.”

  “Have you always wanted to study psychology?” Mom asks.

  “Yes. It’s a great program. I’m more interested in the research angle than, say, counseling.”

  I busy myself by twirling my spaghetti around the fork. I used to meet with a psychologist after I had anxiety issues during middle school, but I haven’t needed to see her for years.

  “I even got permission to take a clinical lab course spring semester of my freshman year,” he continues.

  “That’s wonderful. I’m so happy you’ll be at a school nearby.” Mom beams at him, completely sucking up.

  “What about you, El?” Blake asks. “Have you thought about college?”

  “I want to study to be a vet. Like my dad.”

  Blake nods and I get the feeling he knew this already, that Stanley covered it in his afternoon discussion of all-things-Benton. I manage to change the conversation by asking him more about his upcoming classes.

  After dinner, I stack some of the plates, relieved the meal is over. Blake helps by carrying a pile to the sink. It’s a nice gesture, like he’s stepping into his role as the dutiful son, and I’m not sure if I love him or hate him for it.

  “Thank you, Blake,” Mom says. “How thoughtful of you.”

  I load the dishwasher, which apparently isn’t praiseworthy. I’m halfway done when Blake drops a plate into the sink. He reaches for it and yelps. Shards glisten among the dirty dishes. I scoop up Oscar in case fragments made it to the floor.

  Blake pushes against the fleshy part of his palm with a paper towel. The resulting red spot grows larger.

  “Are you okay?” I ask.

  He nods, but his pale grimace says pain, even to someone who’s only known him a day.

  Mom frowns at the injury but her eyes look distant, confused. If she’s angry about losing one of the plates, she doesn’t say anything.

  “How did that happen?” Stanley moves to his side. “Let me see.”

  “It’s fine.”

  “Looks like you need stitches,” Stanley says. “Do you want to wait here while I get the car? The parking garage is three blocks away.”

  “I can walk with you.” Blake looks at my mom. “Will you come, too, Andrea?” He asks quietly, as if she might say no. This whole combined-family thing must be as weird to him as it is to me.

  “Of course,” Mom says. She looks pleased that he asked. I wouldn’t invite Stanley along if I were hurt. Blake is certainly getting the better deal in the new stepparent department.

  “I’ll stay here and clean up,” I say, still clutching Oscar.

  No one answers me.

  Once the plan is decided, a mini-whirlwind follows: the finding of car keys, shoes, “bring water and something to read, honey,” then the door closes behind them. After I put Oscar in my bedroom out of the way, I start to sweep, but the glass seems contained in the sink. I carefully throw the biggest pieces into the trash, feeling bitter for a moment. I hope they appreciate my efforts. At least Oscar can safely roam free.


  I’m relieved when the kitchen is back in order. Mom kids that I came out of the womb and asked the doctor to please tidy up. It’s a dumb joke. I think my neatness gives her a certain pride (look at my daughter who keeps her room clean without asking!) and that probably reinforced my behavior over the years. I’m sure Blake could analyze the psychology behind it.

  When they finally return, Blake sports a bandage and they’re laughing about the clumsy doctor. I guess it’s the kind of joke you had to be there to find funny.

  I’ve had enough family for tonight. Oscar follows me to my room. “We have to adjust,” I tell him. “Blake won’t be here long.”

  Oscar has knocked a book off my nightstand, which he does about once a week. This time it’s the memoir Stanley gave me about a bitter old man whose life is transformed by adopting a cat. Mom obviously picked the book out for him to give me. He couldn’t have bought such a thoughtful gift on his own, and the irony of the grumpy man was obviously lost on him.

  The book has fallen open, face down. I glance at the page where it’s landed, sucking in my breath when I spot the page number. Eighty-eight. My lucky number repeated twice.

  5

  THE BET

  What are the odds of my book landing open to page eighty-eight? Eight, my lucky number, always makes me think of Dad. I shiver at the coincidence. Then, after closing my bedroom door, I dig out the mini-album of Dad photos from the hiding place only Grace knows about: a tampon box on a shelf inside my closet. It’s next to a package of sanitary pads so it doesn’t look obvious. Grace did the same thing to keep her diary secret and it’s been mom-proof for years.

  The first page of the album, where my favorite photo of Dad used to be, is empty. I search the closet and finally find the photo tucked in a back corner. Did it fall out last time I looked through the album? Or did Mom go through my things? Both seem unlikely. I know Grace would totally make fun of me, but I can’t help wondering if maybe it’s a sign from Dad. First the book lands on the eights, then I find his photo. But that’s ridiculous, right? After sliding Dad’s picture back into place, I bury the tampon box inside a bin of winter sweaters for good measure.

  In theory, I could have asked Mom for the photos I took. But she doesn’t appreciate my connection to Dad. She didn’t even believe me when Dad’s spirit saved me.

  It was on my eighth birthday and Mom had surprised me by saying we could get ice cream before dinner. Bouncy and excited as the two of us walked to the ice cream place, I wasn’t paying attention to much except the flavors that ran through my mind. Cookie dough, strawberry banana, rainbow sherbet. I loved them all, but was leaning toward the sherbet. We were a block away from the shop when a man’s voice shouted, “Ariella, wait!”

  No one called me by my full name, the one Dad chose for me before he died. I froze on the spot.

  Mom looked at me, impatient. “Let’s go,” she said, taking my hand.

  “Daddy said to wait.”

  She was still staring at me, perplexed, when a car careened onto the sidewalk. It crashed right where we would have been walking. The driver had suffered a heart attack and lost control, but because of Dad, we stayed out of his way.

  Dad kept us safe, I explained to Mom.

  She rationalized that I must have fantasized Dad’s voice, imagined his warning. I stole the photos from her album the next day. When I became old enough to walk to the cemetery alone, I didn’t need to rely on her to take me. She’s never told me outright not to go so frequently, but she gets a pained expression if I mention it.

  Now, I reread the section that the book opened to. It’s about black cats, how they’re often considered unlucky, even evil, and therefore abused. Around Halloween, disturbed people can use superstitions as a reason to torment them. The page goes on to talk about violence against animals in general and how it can be a sign of psychological problems.

  In October, the Hoboken shelter doesn’t allow the adoption of black cats for fear they’ll be mistreated. My favorite cat there is an older black one named Petals. She’s having a hard time getting adopted. I think about stepping up my efforts to find her a home when I volunteer next week. A cute photo on the shelter’s social media sites might help. But that hadn’t been enough in the past.

  Thoughts of Dad, mistreated cats, and ways to get Petals adopted swirl through my mind until I fall asleep.

  On Thursday, I snooze the alarm twice before getting out of bed for work. I start to dress in my Freedom rocks shirt with the cat and the American flag, but I hear Grace’s critical voice in my head and decide to wear a button-down blue top with black shorts and cute sandals.

  Blake and I leave for the bookstore after breakfast. “I was thinking,” he says as we walk there, “that we should get your mom a wedding present from the two of us. Do you have any ideas?”

  I shrug. I had planned on taking a lot of photos during the wedding, then creating an album for when they came home from Paris. The real photographer would probably make them wait weeks for the images. But I don’t need Blake’s help taking pictures. What else could we give Mom? “She needs a new purse, but that’s hardly special enough for a wedding. Maybe a nice frame? And what about a gift for your dad, too?” I ask.

  “I’ve got him taken care of. Wait! Does your mom have the old, new, borrowed, blue thing covered? She seems like she would appreciate the tradition.”

  “Hmm. She’s wearing an antique clip in her hair. The dress is new. She mentioned borrowing my silver shoes. But I don’t know about anything blue.”

  “Excellent! Then we have our mission for tomorrow. We’ll go to the mall and buy her something blue. Maybe jewelry?”

  “Sounds good.” I try to keep my tone neutral. I’m impressed that Blake is giving her gift this much attention, but shouldn’t I be the one with the awesome idea? I guess I should be thankful it will be from both of us. Maybe he’s more thoughtful than I realized.

  He checks his phone while we walk, then tucks it into his pocket when we arrive. I try to see the bookstore through Blake’s eyes. Benton Books is on the ground floor of a brick building nestled between Manicure Mania and a trendy fitness center on Newark Street. It’s an old-fashioned family kind of store, with a few comfy chairs and a children’s nook with a tot-sized picnic table for kids to sit and read.

  There aren’t any customers in the store. Mom purposely planned her wedding and honeymoon for a slow time of year. We’ll be open for limited hours with reduced staff while she’s gone, so the employees get a vacation, too.

  Except for Henry. He’s always cranky toward me and could use the vacation more than anyone else, in my opinion. Retired and now on a second career as the assistant manager, he’s my grandfather’s cousin on Dad’s side of the family, and he doesn’t like me for some reason. Whenever I arrive, he gathers his cardigan and moves into the back room to process returns. Mom raves about him, how responsible and efficient he is, but I suspect he keeps busy to avoid me.

  I introduce Blake to him but we don’t chitchat. If he notices Henry’s aloofness, he doesn’t mention it.

  “Can I help with anything?” Blake asks after I show him around.

  “Not really. You should probably be careful with the stitches in your hand anyway.” Still, it’s nice that he offers.

  He grabs the latest Psychology Today and relaxes in one of the chairs with his feet stretched out in front of him. I leave him there while I sort through mail on the front counter. When he’s not paying attention, I skim through some books about true ghostly encounters. I can’t find anything about ghosts being able to move photographs, but I do find some stories about other objects changing places.

  An hour later, the door jingles and a guy about my age, maybe a year older, walks in. He’s got dark spiky hair tinged a deep blue and his T-shirt sleeve doesn’t quite cover the tattoo on his bicep, a swirly symmetrical shape. The bit on his muscular arm that’s visible makes me curious to see the rest of it.

  I straighten some papers at the register, plann
ing to give him a few minutes to look on his own, but he comes right to the counter.

  “Hey.” His eyes are deep blue like his hair.

  “Can I help you?” I ask.

  “I’m looking for a book on cats.”

  “Really?” My incredulousness sounds borderline rude. “I mean, a novel or nonfiction—”

  “A pet guide,” he says.

  “Okay, follow me.” I glance around for Blake but his chair is empty. I lead the blue-haired guy to the nonfiction section and pull out three cat books. “This one is the best on behavior, this is a good health reference, and the last one captures cat-owning philosophy.”

  “Philosophy?”

  “You know that owning a cat is way different than a dog or a hamster, right?”

  “Right,” he says earnestly. He takes all three to the register and pays cash.

  I worry that I sounded condescending. He seems like a nice enough guy, so I try to draw the conversation out. “Did you recently adopt a cat?”

  “Not yet. I thought I’d go to the shelter next week.”

  The mention of the shelter perks me up. “The Hoboken shelter? I volunteer there. If you come by on Monday, I can introduce you.”

  “To the shelter manager?”

  I grin. “No, to the cats. I should be in the cattery after twelve.”

  “Great.” He smiles. His teeth are very white, but one tooth on the top is crooked in an adorable way. He either threw his retainers away or never had braces. “I’m Gavin,” he says.

  “Ella,” I say. “There are kittens, of course, but if you don’t mind older cats, the shelter has some sweet ones.”

  “Thanks.” He takes the bag of books. “See you next week.”

  I watch him stroll out. It’s a confident walk. Purposeful, but not quite a swagger.

  “What am I thinking? He’s so not my type.”

  “Who?” Blake asks.

  I jump, startled. He’s quieter than a slinky stray. “This guy who might adopt a cat.”

  “Isn’t any animal lover your type?”

  “With a tattoo and blue hair? Mom would think he looks dangerous. I’m not even sure Grace would approve.”