Looking Glass

Chapter Six


With nine days left until Deirdre moved into her dorm, she and Noah had settled into a comfortable routine. Deirdre, an early riser, made breakfast, then Noah cleaned up. He went to work, and she stayed home and worked on her sculpting or hanging out with Matty and Leon. If she did go out or up to the roof, she left a note for him, and locked the door with her new key. The only trouble they had run into since the roof incident had been one evening when he had come home to find her still in his office. He had been about to yell at her when he had seen that she was completely absorbed in Wide Sargasso Sea. He hadn’t expected her to like reading, especially not highbrow literature. He used his breath instead to ask her what she thought of the book. Apparently, it was her favorite, which explained the dog-eared pages and tattered binding. He could have yelled at her for abusing the book so, but he refrained, glad that at least she was enjoying it. If it had been anything but a recent paperback edition, though, it would have been another story.

Things had been going so well, in fact, that Noah could admit to himself that he might actually miss her when she went to college. They had almost bonded these last weeks over good fiction and bad horror films. They’d kind of been having a good time together, which shocked the hell out of him. He wondered if she had been this cool for the past five years. He remembered the portrait she had painted of his mother. It was beautiful, capturing his mom’s child-bright smile and wistful eyes to perfection. Currently, that painting was downstairs in the basement, with the rest of his stored stuff. It was too perfect to look at, really. It captured his mother’s essence too well, made him forget that she was gone in every sense of the word. It was too perfect, and warred with the image he had in his brain of her. His poor mother. His poor, mad mother with a gun in her mouth, and all of her hair blown off.

He had never told anyone the story of how he had found his mother when he was eighteen. They had been planning for his graduation party. She had cloistered herself in the office, laughing that she had so many people on the invitation list she was making that the company of one more person would drive her overboard. Noah didn’t mention that she was mixing her metaphors, glad that she was smiling again, happy that everything seemed okay again. He had been watching Law and Order on the sagging, comfortable couch in the den. It was in the middle of a shootout scene, but one shot sounded louder, closer. And it had been very close indeed—just down the hall. He had always loved her hair. It was thick and blond and curly. When it was humid out, which was always the case in New Orleans, it tended to poof out into something akin to a poodle’s cut. And yet his mother had always managed to pull it off with aplomb and a laugh. And there her beautiful hair was, all over the floor and matted with her damaged mind.

She had stopped taking her pills three weeks before. The doctors had been convinced that she was doing so well, they were no longer needed. Not one of them had come to her funeral.

He was almost tempted to tell Deirdre the story, just so she would understand why it was he couldn’t bear to look at her lovely painting. But he held himself back. She was too young to truly grasp how violence could tear you apart.

****************

Only three days to go. Deirdre was surprised to discover that she would actually miss Noah. They had had a good time together, and she liked to think that he had realized how wrong he had been about her. He had even looked apologetic over his behavior for the last five years once or twice. She had to admit his years of hating her hadn’t been easy on her. He had been home for Thanksgiving break when Thomas had taken her in, and she had thought they were such a handsome pair. They hadn’t asked her any uncomfortable questions. Thomas had just let her settle in, and Noah had let her have the remote one evening while they were watching TV. When she had asked him why he wasn’t in Florida or something partying, he’d said that partying wasn’t the path to success, which she thought was very wise of him. She had been fourteen, and he had just turned twenty-one. To say that she had had a crush on him would have been an understatement. She’d fancied herself in love with him, a foolish sentiment that had lasted until the Christmas of the following year. Then she had realized that he wasn’t letting her do her own thing—he was ignoring her. His conservative ways weren’t the mark of wisdom—they were the mark of an asshole. And so she had stopped forcing her company upon the man she had so admired, the man who hated her and had never bothered to get to know her. On those few occasions when he came home, she secluded herself in her room, focusing on her sculptures instead of Noah.

Of course he had hurt her, she reasoned. He was a man, and that’s what men did to women. For a long, long time, she didn’t trust Thomas, either, always expecting him to boot her out on her ass again—or worse. But he didn’t hurt her, ever, and slowly, she started to not only trust him, but to love him. She had never known that she could feel for a man what she felt for Thomas. She knew he loved her too, and marveled that theirs still wasn’t a destructive relationship. Unlike her—well, unlike some she preferred not to think about.

She blinked away her reverie when she noticed her hand hurt. She had made a fist so tight, her nails had dug bleeding crescents into her palm. She laughed a little, nervously, and ran her aching hand under cold water a moment. Then she grabbed her purse and her keys, and went out. She needed a fresh sketchbook. It never crossed her mind to wonder what she was fleeing.

It was only eleven blocks to the nearest art specialty shop, so she decided to save herself the cost of a taxi and walk. It was a pleasant enough walk, through a decent part of the city. She enjoyed the differences between New Orleans and Chicago. Decaying glamour abounded in New Orleans, and the buildings of this city seemed shiny and new in comparison. Or, if not that, then old and brittle. Must be the frigid winters, she decided, that could make brick and cinder block and aluminum siding look like it would blow over in a stiff breeze. She pondered the irony of the moniker “Windy City” in this light. And didn’t see him till it was too late; she ran smack into him. He was big, and solid like a wall. His beefy hands held her upright when she would have fallen. She looked up to thank him.

Her heart tripped, causing a painful, panicked hitch in her throat. No, no. Not him. It couldn’t be him. He was out of her life. She blinked to clear her eyes, but he was still there. Joey Marks was as handsome as he had been six years ago, the last time she had seen him. Time had hardly touched him. His hair was still sandy blond, his eyes still achingly blue, mischievous. His smile, so terrifyingly familiar, even now, was wide and mocking.

“Why, if it isn’t little Dee, all grown up. Gosh, you’re pretty, baby girl.”

“Get away from me, Joey,” she growled.

He tutted. “Now, is that any way to treat your daddy?”

“No, it isn’t,” Deirdre agreed icily. “But we don’t have to worry about that, do we, since you aren’t my anything.”

The mischief in his eyes turned into something harder, something threatening. He pushed her against the storefront, trapping her there with his arms and his nearness and her own panic.

“I raised you like my own, didn’t I? Didn’t I feed you and keep a roof over your head, even after your slut mother told me the truth about you? You owe me, baby girl. And you’re so pretty now. I think I could come up with a way for you to repay me. Yeah, I could have some fun with that. Why don’t you come with me, and you can start.” His handsome face leaned closer and closer until his lips hovered less than an inch above hers, even though she had pressed herself as far away from him as the hard wall behind her would allow.

Joey’s pretty eyes stabbed her own with their piercing glare. She felt him smile. The malice that emanated from him always felt even stronger when his lips were open. Instead of descending those last few millimeters to kiss her, he dropped his head to the side of her neck, applied those beautiful, cruel lips there. Then Deirdre gained enough control to struggle, pushing vainly against his chest, thrashing her head to try to get away from him. He bit her in punishment, but remained latched to her neck like a leech. Finally she managed to catch him, hard, on the temple with her chin, and he raised his head. And punched her in the eye. She gasped in pain and her hands flew to cradle her injury. Out of her good eye, she stared at him, cowed, as he ran his fingers gently over the dark hickey he had made, and sweetly he smiled again.

“You’re mine, baby girl. Even when the mark doesn’t show, it’s there. But I can wait. I’ll find you again. There’s only so long you can run, Dee. Didn’t you learn that much from your mother?”

He dropped his arms, and she ran again.

***********

She had dinner on the table when Noah came home. He thought it smelled like heaven: fried chicken, mashed potatoes, peas. He had to admit he didn’t mind having someone around who could tell bake from broil. Everything was packed in a box, to which was taped a note telling him to bring it up to the roof. A closer look inside revealed homemade lemonade and matching silverware. Obviously the girl was a miracle worker. No wonder his dad kept so tight a hold on her.

His mood darkened slightly by that thought, he gathered up the box and headed for the roof. When he opened the door, he was struck by how small he felt up here. The view was spectacular—the Chicago skyline, backlit by a descending sun, was an awe-inspiring sight. He grinned at Deirdre, who was waiting for him. She had thought ahead, bringing sunglasses to combat the sunlight, which was right at eye level. She looked cute today, in her little shorts and sleeveless t-shirt, classic All-American girl. She hadn’t exactly turned out to be the druggie punk he’d been so sure she was. Not that he could see all that well, squinting as much as he had to in the late summer sun. Still, he was glad she had invited him up here. Before she had come, he’d only been up here once in the years that he had lived in this building. She made him see things, he realized. He was surprised to find he kind of liked it. Even more surprised to find he liked her.

He grinned at her. “This smells incredible. Are you sure this isn’t the Colonel’s?”

“I’m sure.”

His smile dimmed a bit at her clipped answer. “So, uh, how was your day?” he asked, trying to ferret out if there was something wrong. He couldn’t think of any reason this could be his fault, but something might have happened while he was gone.

“Fine. Thank you.” Deirdre knew he noticed something was wrong, and decided to change the subject, direct it away from herself. The best way to distract Noah, she had learned, was to piss him off. She thought about the best way to do that as she set the food on the blanket she had brought with her.

When he bit into the chicken and moaned in delight, she had an idea.

“I guess it doesn’t take much to make you happy, huh?” She laughed insincerely. “If I had known that just cooking you a meal would make you not hate me, I would have done it years ago. That way I wouldn’t have had to deal with you being an asshole for five fucking years. I wonder, would you have assumed I was on drugs if I had cooked you a nice steak dinner? Or maybe it would have taken more to deserve your high esteem. A blow job, perhaps?”

“Whoa. Whoa. Where the fuck is this coming from? Did you invite me up here just to insult me?” he asked, shocked and offended.

“What? Were you hoping I was going to seduce you? Finally give you that head? Hell, you’re probably still a virgin. I certainly can’t see you unbending enough to fuck, with the huge stick that’s permanently up your ass. Hey, now, there’s an idea. Maybe that’s your thing—having a rod up your ass. I guess I never really thought about it before, but I could see you as a fag.” Deirdre felt sick about what she was saying to him, but she couldn’t let him see her face, couldn’t give him time to spot the hickey, which was still visible through the makeup she had used to try to cover it. If she drove him off, he would maybe hole up in his office for a few days, or spend long hours at work or something. She needed him to avoid her, since it would be pretty tough to avoid him as long as she was living in his apartment, especially when she had no reason. They had been forming a tentative friendship, but that would end either way. At least now she would have the comfort of knowing he had been her friend until she ruined it, not because he had assumed she must be a slut in a gang or something after all.

She knew it was selfish of her, but she would do what she had to do to survive. Just like she had always done. The time wasn’t right now, because Noah would notice and contact Thomas, who’d send out a search party or something. But if she waited... As soon as Noah dropped her off at college, she could make a break for it. Then she would have at least a couple of days before anyone noticed she was gone.

Noah didn’t know what was coming over him. Rage, he supposed, would make him see red like this. He didn’t know that could happen on a literal level. He had the strongest urge to throttle her. But some tiny part of him that still hadn’t lost control asked, why? Why, after weeks of goodwill, would she insult him like this? Even when they had disliked each other, they had been pretty polite, for Thomas’s sake. So why was she doing this now? With her big dark glasses, he couldn’t see her eyes, couldn’t read the emotions playing across them. It crossed his mind that he had never seen her wear sunglasses before—could she have planned this? And still the pressing question was, why?

He strode purposefully to her, and reached for her glasses. She flinched away when she saw his raised hand. He stopped mid-reach.

“I don’t hit women. Insult me all you please, but you should know I don’t hit women.” He dropped his hand to her jaw, ran his fingers down it. She trembled, mostly in fear. He lifted her chin up, forcing her eyes to meet his own through the dark lenses.

She knew the exact moment he saw the hickey. His fingers tightened on her chin for an instant before he pushed her away. His eyes were as cold and dark as Deirdre felt.

“Apparently, you did have a good day. And here I thought—never mind. Tell me, what would Dad think if he knew you had a huge hickey on your neck? Hmm? I’m sure he’d be so proud of you in this moment.”

Now Deirdre was really grateful for the sunglasses, as her eyes widened and filled with tears. She knew she deserved this for what she had said to him, but he had pushed exactly the right button. Thomas would be ashamed of her, but that had to be the least of her concerns right now. Joey could cause a lot of trouble if he knew that there were people she cared for.

“You disgust me.”

She looked into Noah’s face and knew he was telling the truth. She should be glad. Instead she reached a finger under a lens to wipe away a threatening tear. And hissed in pain when she caught more bruise than tear.

“What? What now? You gonna pretend you’re crying? Grow up, Deirdre. I don’t know what kind of game you’re playing here, but don’t expect me to participate.”

Deirdre nodded and rushed for the stairs.