The Carrero Effect Trilogy

Chapter 15

I land in Chicago in the middle of the night, and the hired driver takes me to West Englewood. Although the roads are busy with traffic, the neighborhood seems almost deserted. The streets are poorly lit, but that doesn't conceal the grubbiness or dereliction of the area from view. The aura of poverty and hardship is reflected in the brown buildings and scruffy stores, and I get that old ripple of trepidation and uneasiness moving through me. That weight of emptiness I used to feel at being here returns with a vengeance.

I'm to meet Sophie at my old home, the apartment my mother has lived in since she brought me home from the hospital when I was born. My mother is stable in St Bernard Hospital, but I won't be able to see her until morning to assess how much damage has been done.

I'm still numb with a tinge of anger even thinking about her. I know this isn't natural; she's my mother. I should feel concern, devastation, and worry even, but I don't. I'm cold and empty and upset. I'm enraged at her that she keeps following the same path in life, over and over. She's my mother, yet all I ever learned from her was that the people who are supposed to be there for you, above everyone else, only have their own interests at heart.

I did learn one other valuable lesson from her: the only way to get through life is to trust no one except yourself. Self-reliance is the only way to live. Never let anyone get close enough to damage you irreversibly. I learned from her that men would only look to overpower you and abuse you. In her quest to find a man, she is so weak that she accepts any form of control they exert, any punishments they hand out.

She disgusts me. I'll never be like her.

The car pulls up in front of a shabby convenience store, its lights flickering in the dark, the letters peeling, the paint chipped, and the exterior ugly. The apartments above are brown and grubby. The windows appear dark and dirty from down here; icy shiver courses through me, and I shudder.

Home sweet home.

The driver gets out and retrieves my bags from the trunk, but I tell him I'll take them into the apartment myself. I don't want anyone in there, nor do I need his help. He reluctantly hands me the bags and watches me walk around to the side door, concealed by shrubs, and into the entrance hall of the building before he leaves. It's narrow and stinks of rotten food and urine, causing me to wrinkle my nose in disgust. I push my way up the stairs to the top landing, straight to the scratched blue front door which met me every day of my young life. A light inside shines through the center panel of glass, indicating that Sophie is here as planned. I knock on the door with a sharp rap.

Sophie opens it quickly. I guess she's been watching for my arrival. She's not what I expected and appears a lot younger in person than the fourteen years she told me on the phone. She's small and wiry with long tawny hair and vibrant blue eyes. She looks exactly as I did at the same age, even with her pouting lips and innocent, naive expression. It tugs at my chest, and I wonder if my mother saw me in this girl, and that's why she felt compelled to help her. The thought makes me snicker internally.

My mother was always good at seeking out those in need of help, offering her shoulder and arms, and driven to be a good Samaritan. All her energy went to trying to be a better person for other people, to help them. Yet she failed her child in ways she can't even begin to fathom and, to this day, completely oblivious that she was no mother. Ironic really.

Sophie is shy and sweet. She leads me through the living room and tells me she's cleaned up the apartment for me, removing all traces of the attack after the police were done. She is nervous.

I glance around numbly; it's exactly how I remember it. Nothing has changed, not even the paintwork. The bohemian, almost hippy-like décor, cushions, throws, mismatched furniture, and the odd art pieces from junk shops hung on the walls. The whole place is cramped and cluttered. The smell of bleach and incense lingers in the air, bringing back memories of so many nights locked within these walls, praying for the day I could run far away.

A memory of her battered and broken body by the couch when I was ten years old flits to mind like bile in my throat, but I push it down along with the wave of emotions and anger. I'll not allow myself to think about her until I see her tomorrow.

"I hope you don't mind, but I've been staying in your old room," Sophie blinks at me shyly, warily, but I give her a friendly smile.

"It's fine. I won't be here for long, a couple of days at most. I'll use my mother's room." I appraise her up and down again as she heads into the kitchen and makes us coffee. It's late; she should be in bed, but I'm curious about her. Watching her, I note that her childish mannerisms and apparent maturity for her age contradict one another, much like I always had been.

"So, do you know who did this to my mother?" I ask outright to get it over and done with, to have the talk I've been dreading. She flickers her lashes up warily and shakes her head abruptly. I catch the apprehension and immediately wonder if she's lying. I used to lie for my mother daily. I know the signs.

"Does she have a new boyfriend?" I coax, although I know nothing of the men she knows nowadays.

What does it matter? Do I even really care?

"Yeah. I never met him; I don't know his name." She can't look me in the eye, and I know pushing her will tell me nothing. I had the same look of determination at that age, guarding my mother's secrets as though my life depended on it. I know she knows who he is.

"You found her? How bad is it?" I sit at the table, crossing my hands with precision; she comes over with the mugs, sliding mine before me, and sits opposite. Despite her looks, there is something so fragile about her, yet so strong and capable that I find it hard to believe she is only fourteen.

Why are her parents not looking for her? How long has she been here? She is too young and vulnerable to be alone.

"Yes. I came home from school. She wasn't conscious, but she came around when the ambulance arrived. I think it looks worse than it is. Maybe a broken arm … ribs; her face is a mess." She gazes at her hands the whole time she talks, and I note they're trembling. I think the girl still may be in minor shock, and I feel instant compassion for her. This is not her burden to bear.

"The man was gone, I take it?" I try a different approach.

"She was alone. I have a key, so I let myself in." I see it fully this time, the slight waver in her lip, the darting of her eye. She's hiding the fact that she knows who did this. She doesn't know me, and I know from experience she will never tell me unless I gain her trust.

"Do you want to come to the hospital with me in the morning?" I ask, sipping my coffee and watching her as I remain calm and steady. She moves in her seat uneasily and nods.

"Go to bed, Sophie. I'll get you up in the morning for breakfast." I smile warmly at her as confusion spreads across her face. I want this girl to know I only have her best interests at heart and that I'm nothing like my mother. She uses people like Sophie as a balm and self-gratification in helping needy people.

"I normally do breakfast and get your mother up," she says, blushing as though she has said something wrong, and my anger simmers deep down inside, sizzling with fire.

Of course, she's living my old life, being the caretaker, the cook, the cleaner, the mature, responsible one, while my mother is the eternal victim. Nothing changes.

"Not while I'm here, Sophie. You get to be the kid for a few days." I want to ask her about her life, why she's even here, and how she ended up in the homeless shelter meeting my mother, but I know it's late. I'll have time to talk to this girl, to save her from a life she doesn't need with a woman who can barely look after herself, let alone a teen. I won't let Sophie have the childhood with my mother that I endured. That much, I can promise. This ends here.

***

After cleaning up our mugs and straightening the kitchen, I head to my mother's room, pulling out my cell to call Jake while sprawling across the comforter.

He answers immediately, glad I'm here and sound okay. I've nothing much to tell him; I'm happy to hear his voice. I tell him that I won't see my mother until tomorrow and don't want to talk about her tonight.

He makes me laugh, talking about how much he's pining in my absence and being silly. My regular, mischievous Jake, that's what I need right now.

"You know, tiny, I don't have much going on. Just Daniel's birthday." I hear Daniel in the background protesting in response, but Jake ignores him and continues, "I could hop a plane and keep you company." He seems serious despite the casual tone of his voice, with an undertone I recognize.

"He's your best friend; you can't bail on his birthday bash," I object but sigh at how much I adore him for it.

"I'm sure he won't even notice if I'm not here; he has a new porn star to keep him occupied. This one has even bigger breasts than the last. I swear he will die from implant suffocation one of these days." Again, I catch Daniel's voice as he reacts to what Jake says, but it's unclear. Jake muffles a reply to him with a jibe and then laughs as he tells him to stop eavesdropping like a girl.

Men!

I laugh at Jake's joke, trying to picture Daniel with another brainless bimbo. He seems to choose girls who wear underwear as day wear and have a collective IQ of four.

"I needed that," I giggle and wipe moisture from my eyes, smiling like a fool. "You always cheer me up, you know?"

"It's my job, Bambina, as your official shoulder to cry on." He sounds like he's moving around, and I recognize the sound of jingling keys. My mood is dying because I know he has to go.

"Are you getting ready to go out with him now?" I probe, wishing he was here. I get a heavy feeling knowing that soon he will need to hang up, and I don't want him to.

"Sure am, but I can change plans if you say the word. One little word, Ems, and I'm on a plane to windy Chicago."

"Jake, don't. I'm okay, really," I brush him off, ignoring the sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach while hating myself for refusing him. He sighs noticeably, and the humor drops from his tone.

"I just want to be there for you and make sure you're all right, Emma. Is that so wrong?" The pleading edge is so far removed from who he is. It just stirs guilt. My heart constricts for him while picturing that wounded face.

"No. It's just complicated with my mother, and I don't want life to touch on the one I have now," I try to explain, hoping he won't get annoyed and that he'll understand.

"Guess I'll just have to get smashed out of my head and drunk-call you in the early hours then, Bambina. Better get prepared for it," he chuckles softly, and I shake my head, groaning mockingly to ease the tension.

"Please, just don't ask me to research any fetishes for you. I don't want to know what weird and kinky things you get up to on nights out." I grimace at the thought, pushing that horrid tightness in the pit of my stomach away.

"I could always come and show you some of the weird and kinky …."

"Jake!" I laugh fully, relieved at his innuendo on the other end of the line, his mood back to fun.

"Can't blame a guy for trying." There's the return of that smirk in his voice, back to the naughty Jake I miss most.

"You never stop trying," I point out with a raised brow. "I need to go; it's getting late, and I have to get up early."

"Okay, shorty. Call me tomorrow, okay? I swear I'll try not to drunk-dial you, but I ain't making no promises," he says with a chuckle. "For some reason, your cute little face comes into my head when I want to have 4.00 a.m. drunken chats about the weather, cats, and weird fetishes," he laughs, a deep, hearty, tumbling noise that only highlights how far away he is.

"Go away, Carrero. I'll be silencing my cell, so you can't do that to me again," I laugh convincingly, hiding the pang of sadness coursing through me at having to hang up.

"Sweet dreams, Bella. Dream of your sexy boss; I hear he's a big, manly hunk."

I roll my eyes and sigh heavily, shifting on the bed where I have gotten relatively comfy.

"You know you could bottle all your excess ego and make a killing with it as a new Carrero product. You certainly have enough to spare," I jest, lingering to keep him on for a few more seconds as I cradle my cell.

"Good idea, Anderson. I noticed you didn't disagree that I was your hunky boss. That'll keep me warm tonight." I can almost hear him winking down the line. "Go to bed. Sleep tight, and don't let the bed bugs bite … that's my job, Bambina."

"So many things I could sue you for, boss! I should record our telephone calls. I would make a killing in lawsuits," I jibe back. My mood is lighter with his jokes.

"Baby, you would miss my attempts at sexually harassing you. I don't want you thinking that you're some ugly little wallflower that no man wants to bed. I have to keep your self-esteem high to keep up with mine."

"Jake, I'm hanging up now. I can tell you're already on the vodka." A faint voice behind him sounds like Daniel Hunter again, still eavesdropping.

"Whiskey, actually! I like my drinks to put hairs on my chest. Goodnight, Emma. I miss you, kiddo." The smile in his voice makes me picture his best Hollywood sex god smile and dimples, and again the pit in my stomach starts aching.

"Goodnight. I miss you too, Jake." I really do.

I reluctantly put the phone down, wishing he was here with me. His light, carefree banter, even just for ten minutes, was enough to put my whole evening in a better mood. Sighing and getting ready for bed, I let nothing but thoughts of him fill my head, keeping the shadows at bay.

I find that he's on my mind as I fall asleep, not my return to Chicago, and it helps push me to a peaceful slumber.