Leaving L.a.. Rexanne Becnel

she was five. He died in Korea. Her mom promptly had a nervous breakdown. That’s what they called it in those days. Anyway, my mother was raised here on the farm, for the most part by her grandparents, who were already old and devastated by the death of their only son. From the stories she used to tell, it seems like nobody really took control of her, and she grew up pretty wild. By the time your mother was born, both of the old folks had died. So it was just Mom and Alice out here on the farm and, later on, me.”

      He was listening intently, chewing on one side of his lower lip. “Even though Mom’s last name was Blalock, Grandma never married my mom’s father, did she?”

      “No.”

      He nodded. “That’s what I figured. But Mom won’t ever talk about it.”

      “It wasn’t easy for us, growing up around here.” Another understatement. “Back then Vidrine Farm was known as Hippie Heaven. You know, a commune.”

      I could tell by his blank look that he didn’t know what I was talking about. I rolled my eyes. “Go to the library and check the local newspaper during the seventies and eighties. There are lots of articles about Caro Vidrine and the Vidrine Farm.”

      “Maybe I will,” he said, frowning. “Once I’m not grounded anymore.”

      “You’re grounded? Why?”

      “They said I split for four hours without telling them where I was going. But I did tell them!”

      “Yeah, I heard you.”

      “And anyway, it’s not Carl’s place to ground me.”

      “Carl grounded you?”

      Daniel flung himself on his bed. “He thinks he’s my dad or something. But he’s not.”

      I considered a long moment, then decided, so what if I was pumping the kid for information? “Are your mom and Carl, you know, a couple?”

      He shot me an aggrieved look. “If you mean, like, are they getting married—” The rest was muffled when he slapped a pillow over his face and screamed into it.

      I stared at him in shock. He was a strange mixture of polite kid and raging teenager. Homeschooled and protected but part of a sick family history of neglect and depravity. Self-control versus self-indulgence, that sure described me and my poor, uptight sister. And now Daniel was trapped in a new version of the same hellhole. Mom the drug addict; Alice the religion addict; and me the—

      What?

      What was my addiction? What made me feel safe and in control? Shopping? That was temporary. Adulation? Unfortunately that too was temporary, especially since I didn’t have enough talent as a model, actress or singer to make the big time.

      So where did I turn for comfort? Certainly not to men. Men have their uses. But after my first disastrous love affair, I’ve never had any delusions about them.

      My hand moved once more to my stomach, and that’s when it dawned on me. This child. I was banking on her—or him—to be my happiness.

      I’d never wanted children. Certainly I’d been very careful to always use birth control. Always. But somehow I’d managed to conceive this child. And once I’d figured out why my breasts were so sore and my period was late, I’d become fixated on her.

      Me, a mother.

      I was determined to do it right, to do it as close to perfect as I could. That’s why I needed to get settled down in the right place and the sooner the better. My child would have the safest house and the best mother any child ever had. At least I hoped so.

      Daniel sat up abruptly, startling me back to the moment. “How long are you staying here with us?”

      “I’m not sure. Why?”

      “What do you think of Carl?”

      Now that was an interesting question. I decided to be honest. “He seems too old for Alice. And too rigid. And mean.”

      He snorted. “Nice description of the man who’s trying to be the next pastor at our church.”

      “You’re saying he wants to run the church and marry the former minister’s widow?”

      “You got it.”

      I tried to picture Carl married to my sister, to picture her crawling into bed with him, and felt a shudder rip right through me. “Do you think she loves him?”

      He gave a hopeless shrug. “I don’t know. All I know is I don’t like him, and he’ll never be my dad.” He looked up at me. “Did you ever meet my dad?”

      “No.” I shook my head. “Sorry.”

      Again he shrugged. “So how come you were gone so long? Mom says it’s like, twenty-five years.”

      “Twenty-three. And I left because I hated this house and everybody in it.”

      He picked up his remote control, pointed it at the stereo and lowered the volume. Then he stared intently at me. “You hated my mom, too?”

      I let out a long, slow breath. “When I left here…yeah. I hated her, too. I begged her to leave with me. I’d been begging her to leave ever since she turned eighteen. But she wouldn’t go.” Chicken-shit bitch. I managed a careless smile. “So one day I just took off on my own. But don’t you be getting any big ideas like that,” I added. “You’re only fourteen. And from what I can see, you’re not exactly in any danger here.”

      “You were in danger? In your own house?”

      I straightened up, stretched my legs out and flexed my ankles. “I thought I was. The kind of men who hung around here weren’t above hitting on a teenaged girl.”

      He digested that a moment, then in a low voice asked, “What about my mom?”

      “You mean, did they hit on her?” I thought back to those days, to how fat Alice was then, how frumpy and maternal. Meanwhile I’d been the leggy daughter, willowy and tall for her age, with an untamed head of fiery red hair—and a fiery temperament to match. To a certain sort of self-indulgent man, that’s like a signal light flashing “come and get it.”

      “Alice had a way of discouraging dirty old men. Look,” I went on, needing to change the subject. “I doubt your mom wants you knowing all this sh—all this stuff. The reason I knocked on your door was to try out an idea on you.”

      “An idea? On me? What do you mean?”

      “I write articles for magazines, newspapers. Usually they’re interviews with musicians or music reviews. Stuff like that. Anyway, I was thinking about an article on kids your age—what they’re listening to, what they might be listening to in the future. Sort of a check-in with the young teen music-lover. And I thought I’d start off with you.”

      He’d become somber during my description of the old days in this house. But the thought of being featured in a music article brought an eager smile back to his face. He swiped one hand through his sandy hair, leaving part of it sticking up straight. “Yeah. Sure. And I can hook you up with some of my friends, too.”

      “Great. Do you know any online chat rooms with mostly young teenagers talking about music? I thought I could—What?”

      His face had grown dour again. “I’m not allowed to go online for anything except school stuff. Especially not to chat rooms.”

      “Okay. That’s okay,” I said, wondering how long Alice could choke him before he burst free. “I’ll figure that part out myself.”

      “There’s one more thing,” he said, when I stood up.

      Another question about his mom in this house, I figured as I braced myself. “Okay, what?”

      “If I’m gonna help you with this article, well, I thought maybe you could help me with something in return.”

      “If you