Page 9 of Redemption
Turning my head, I roll my eyes to where she cannot see.
“Glass reflects, Mallorie Jade. You aren’t as sneaky as you would like to think.”
How did I get here—back in a town I promised I wouldn’t come back to? Why can’t I get a handle on my life?
Mom pulls me out of my musings when she clears her throat, another out of the character action for her, and says, “I think it’s time we discuss your future now that you’re back.”
There it is—the need to control me until I live up to her standards.
“I have a plan, Mom.”
“Yes, well. We’ve seen how your plans have worked out for you so far. Maybe it’s time you try listening to your father and me.”
Would it hurt if I opened the car door and jumped? We aren’t driving very fast—forty at most. I would survive. On the flip side, I might end up with a broken ankle. Then, I would be stuck in their house, unable to escape.
There’s not a win for me here, but I push the unlock button just in case that feels like the better option after this conversation.
“Mom,” I say, “I don’t want to live off my trust fund and head up the next social soiree.”
Hurt etches into the creases of her forehead. That jab wasn’t fair. Just because that life wouldn’t be fulfilling to me doesn’t mean it hasn’t been for her, but she always digs and digs until I lose the sense that God gave me.
“‘I’m sorry, Mom.”
“Don’t be. You certainly said what you meant, but I’ll have you remember Mallorie Jade, you came home to us, not the other way around.”
“Yeah, I know.”
She’ll never let me forget it.
She sighs. “Did you at least find a church while you were away?”
I want to laugh because church to my parents has always been a way to keep up the appearance—to be the good Southern Christian family we portrayed. Yet, to me, it was a place where I found peace when I felt out of place with my family—until Langston, that is.
It’s been six years since I last stepped foot in a church because I figured God didn’t have much to say to me.
I force myself to keep that bitter laugh from spewing out and say, “No, Mom. I didn’t.”
Then I brace myself for a verbal lashing, but once again, it doesn’t come. She merely purses her lips and slows to a stop at the stop sign. She looks right, then left, and instead of turning right to go home, she makes a left.
“Where are we going?”
I want to go home and have this day end—not extend it.
“Your father wanted us to stop by the hospital. He couldn’t get off today, so I promised to bring you to him.”
“Color me shocked,” I say, crossing my arms. I scoot lower in the seat, waiting for her to scold me on my posture, but it never comes.
Within minutes, we are pulling into the Harrison Memorial Hospital—owned by none other than the Harrison sitting right beside me and the other one somewhere in this hospital.
My great-great-grandparents opened it, and with each generation, it has grown bigger. It’s no big city hospital. Patients have to be transferred out if anything major happens because we can’t handle a big patient load, but it works for the town. And as a doctor, it keeps my dad swamped. That, plus the fact that he has a hand in running the place, means he’s practically never home. Not that he’s ever had a good home-life/work-life balance.
From behind me, Mom reaches for her purse and swipes on some lipstick before flipping her sun visor closed and opening her door.
“Come now,” she says without bothering to look my way.
Once out of the car, she slips her purse high on her shoulder and walks with her nose pointed up like the queen she knows she is. She doesn’t look back to make sure I’m following. She just assumes I am because no one would ever be crazy enough to go against a direct order from Abigail Harrison.
With a frustrated growl, I shove my door open and race after her to catch up, keeping my head low in case we run into anyone.
