Chapter Fourteen

Once again, I was able to drive home properly. Mitch offered to drive me, but the ice had worked its magic again. My ankle was numb. Luckily, the foot and toes had enough feeling to work the gas and brake pedals. Mitch also offered to go round up a pair of crutches for me. He'd drop them off within the hour. Disappointment was written all over his face when I told him that wouldn't be necessary; I had several pairs at home.

I almost invited him over when he continued searching for an excuse to stop by. Almost, is the key word here though, because I didn't do it. The deciding factor in my decision came because we had spent thirty minutes or so together without criticizing each other. Why risk spoiling a good thing? So I didn't.

When I pulled into the garage at home, my eyes did a quick survey sweep over the clutter. Not a single crutch in sight, even though I knew the last set got tossed out here. It seemed logical to check the hall closet once I was inside the house. I found two pairs there. The old wooden pair went back into the closet. I carried the other pair into the kitchen with me.

Kitty was weaving between my legs as I attempted to sort junk mail and the important stuff. When her meows became too persistent to ignore, I temporarily gave up on the mail and opened her a can of food. With that out of the way, I carried crutches and mail into the living room and took a load off on the couch. I started going through the mail again, but couldn't concentrate. That inner voice was nudging at the brain walls, urging me to make the call.

Once I had my foot propped under a throw pillow on the coffee table, I punched in the memory numbers to Joe's place. Three rings before I heard her hello. She must have repeated the word three times before the moment of silence was upon us.

When the quiet was broken by her chilling, "I can hear you breathing, Fay," the hair on the back of my neck stood tall. The way my finger was quivering it took a second longer than it should have for it to land on the off button.

My good foot flew up and hit the coffee table at the sound of the ring. The telephone jumped from my hand and hit the carpet. Before ring number three, I had phone in hand and at my ear. "Since we somehow got disconnected, I thought I'd call to answer the question you wanted to ask, Fay. Joe has not returned home yet."

Silence on my end.

Then, "Have a pleasant evening, Fay."

The click came from her end of the line. It wasn't until, "If you'd like to make a call, please hang up and try again," that I hit the off button.

I willed myself to get up. To get mad. To drive on over there and order Angel Adams off Joe's property. But instead, I remained on the couch, frozen with fright.

During this brief time of paralysis to the trunk of my body, my mind was up and running at top speed. She called me by my first name. I never gave her permission to call me Fay, instead of the respectful address of Mrs. Cunningham. Not only didn't she respect her elders, but how dare she call me in the first place? How did she get my number? It's unlisted. She probably knows where I live, too. It wouldn't surprise me if she wasn't the one who followed me in the fog.

That thought is what got me off the couch, checking every window and door in the house to make sure each and everyone was locked. I dug around in bedroom drawers until I found an ankle brace I had saved from a previous injury. Once I had it strapped on, I picked up dirty clothes scattered around the room and headed for the laundry room down the hall.

The telephone started ringing as I poured detergent into the washing machine. I sort of did this skip-hop-thing back to my bedroom.

"Hi, Mom," followed my out of breath hello.

I sank down on the edge of my bed, relieved it wasn't Angel again, but not totally at ease by the sound of my daughter's voice, either. She never called home just to check in and say hello.

"Hi, honey. Everything okay?"

"Everything's great, Mom. Just thought I'd call and let you know I won't be able to make it home this weekend."

It may not seem very motherly of me, but the first thought that crossed my mind upon hearing her news was, at least I won't be spending the entire weekend doing a month's worth of her dirty laundry.

"And I thought we'd get to shop for summer clothes," was my verbal response to her.

"We can do it next weekend. Okay?"

"Sure. So what's up with this weekend?"

Silence.

"I have a class now, Mom. How about I call you tomorrow."

"Okay."

"Oh, and Mom, you might want to check with Dad about paying the bill here at school. I won't get my final grades if he doesn't."

We exchanged good-byes and love you's, but I was fuming by the time I hung up.

The one and only responsibility Allen retained after our divorce, and he neglected to honor it. God only knew how I tolerated the man as long as I had.

I limped back to the laundry room and got the washer going before I dialed the number to Allen's law office. This also allotted me a few minutes to cool down before I placed the call. His secretary informed me Mr. Cunningham was in a meeting and could not be disturbed. Not even by his ex-wife. But she would give him the message that it was urgent he call me.

My ankle was throbbing by the time I hung up. I thought it a wise move to stretch back on the bed and prop pillows under it. At least until the clothes were ready to be switched to the dryer.

I closed my eyes and thoughts of why Alicia did not answer my question about what she was doing over the weekend began forming. Overall, she was an exceptionally good kid. Good grades, good selection of friends, and best of all, drug free. Unlike so many of her classmates, she resisted the grunge look and remained with the clean and neat style.

A boy. She was seeing a nice, clean cut, and handsome young man. That was the only reasonable explanation for her giving up a weekend of running up my credit cards on a shopping spree.