Finding Truth Page 7

  Her dad—how long had it been since she’d thought of him? He’d been a good guy for a while, until his demons made him run away.

  “I don’t look much like my dad. I take after my mom, though her skin was clearer than mine and she was taller. Thinner. And her hair was wavy, not kinky-curly like mine.” Her fingers trailed over her forearm. “I have my dad’s freckles.” A memory suddenly came to her. Dad holding his hand next to hers to show her how she’d inherited his fingers. It was nice. Her dad, whose mom had been Irish and dad Dominican, had skin a lighter tan than hers, but freckles all over his face. And in some lights, his hair was auburn.

  Apollo traced her lips. “You’re smiling.”

  “I have happy memories. They’re not all bad, you know? Being a kid, not really understanding what’s going on, gives you a kind of shield between you and the world. Not having electricity, when you’re young enough to believe your parents, can be an adventure when it happens. Like camping.”

  “I have so many good memories,” Apollo replied, hands cupping her face. He kissed her, his plump lips catching hers. “But sometimes I think they hurt more because they’re good.” With a sad smile, he pushed away from the table before he helped her to stand. “I gotta go to the gym again. You good?”

  As he spoke, she heard the shower turn on above them.

  “Someone’s up,” she said. “I’m good.”

  He took a bottle of water from the fridge and stuffed it into the side pouch of his gym bag. “I’ll be back for dinner. You sure you’re good?” he asked again.

  She walked with him to the door and held his arm for balance when she lifted onto her toes and kissed him. “Promise.”

  With one last kiss, he left. Ryan had left the coffee machine on and had filled the reusable k-cup with fresh coffee. As the water hissed and spat, Nora thought about what she’d told Apollo. The happy memory had come easily, like it’d been waiting there for her to find it.

  She’d told him she was fine, wanting to reassure him. Now, though, as she sipped her coffee and listened for the footsteps of whomever was awake, she found it was true. Talking about her family hadn’t sent her into a funk. It was just a memory. She was better than fine. She was happy.

  12

  Matisse

  Matisse opened his eyes. He’d heard Nora shut the curtains and leave and meant to get up after her. However, his body was still on a day-was-night and night-was-day schedule, so the idea had merely crossed his mind before he fell back to sleep.

  His room was dark. The blackout curtains were closed. It left him off-balance, and he groped on the bedside table for his phone. It could be eight in the morning or one in the afternoon. He had no idea.

  The message on his phone made him forget about the time. It was from his mother. Written in her characteristic short tone, she commanded him to call her to talk about Thanksgiving. Was it already the holidays?

  Groaning, he fell back on the bed, phone dropping next to him. What had he done last year? He couldn’t remember. Was last year the year of the soup kitchen volunteering or was it when he felt the need to fly to New Mexico and race in the desert?

  It might have been the soup kitchen year. Either way, his mother’s message meant one thing—he owed her a visit home.

  And he didn’t want to go. Not this year. Not any year, really. What he wanted was to stay with Nora and his friends and start their own traditions. He was twenty-five years old, for God’s sake. How long was he required to visit his parents for the holidays?

  Without giving himself any more time to avoid the conversation, he dialed the number home and waited for his mother’s smooth southern voice to answer.

  “Hello, Matisse. Thank you for calling.”

  “Hi, Mom.”

  “I want you to come home for Thanksgiving. It’s been three years, and this year not only do I expect you to come, but I would be disappointed if you didn’t.” His mother’s statement of expectations and emotions brought him right back to elementary school and therapy. Back then, she was afraid he wasn't making social connections. She wanted him to be successful, so into therapy he went.

  What Matisse had learned was there was a reason for his struggle to make and keep friends. It wasn’t, like his mother initially believed, that he didn’t care about other people or doing what his mother wanted; it was that he had no idea how to do it. His therapist had explained social mores and skills then practiced with him, over and over, until he could problem solve and negotiate with the savviest kid on the playground. Which he did. He did it because it made his parents happy and because it was what he must do.

  Not anymore.

  Now, he used those strategies, and the knowledge all those years of talking to puppets had given him, with people who cared about him. He didn’t want to misinterpret their signals or hurt their feelings. He wanted his friends, and Nora, to be happy and to do things that made them happy.

  But his mom still didn’t believe he could make a decision without her laying out all the facts as she saw them.

  “I’m not sure if I’m coming home yet. I need to talk to the guys.”

  He didn’t need to see her face to know her sigh contained all of her disappointment. “Matisse,” she began. “Let me be blunt—”

  “Because you haven’t been already—” he interrupted, and she paused again, no doubt to let her silence sink past his skin.

  “Your family needs you. Things with the business have been... difficult, and your father needs to speak with you.”

  Ah. This was the purpose of her call. “I have nothing to do with his side of the business. When I agreed to take over Pepere’s business, it was with the assurance that our branches would be independent of one another. There’s no reason he needs to speak with me about business.” He let every ounce of his disdain seep into the word.

  “Matisse Boudreau.” His mother’s voice came out whip sharp. “I did not raise you to speak to me this way. I am your mother, and you will show me some respect. If I ask you to come to Thanksgiving, you will come. I know you have issues with your father, but you are family, and you will not forget it.”

  “I’m not coming to Mississippi, Mom.”

  “I’ve bought you a ticket and a ticket for each of your roommates. I assume they aren’t going anywhere?”

  “Cai is probably working.”

  “No matter. Invite a girl. I don’t care. But I expect to see you at my table on Thanksgiving.”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  “Do.” Nicole Boudreau sounded certain she’d won the battle. But she hadn’t. In the years since he’d been home, he’d gotten a lot stronger. He may break the rules from time to time, but he never broke the immutable ones. Never again would he put aside what he wanted.

  “Bye, Mom.”

  “I expect to hear from you in the coming week with the number of guests I can expect. Of course we have room for you all here at the big house,” she continued, but Matisse had checked out. Every so often he would grunt. The sound satisfied her, and she’d go on. Her voice used the same honeyed tones he’d listened for as a child. Her cadence was as gentle as the breeze the fan would waft over him on summer nights.

  He hated that fan. Hated the way the air blew his hair across his face. Most nights he picked up his pillow and smashed it over his face when the sensation became too much to handle. Amazing how his mother’s voice could soothe him one minute and irritate him the next. The honey too sickly sweet and the words false.

  “I’ve got to go, Mom. You’ve given me a lot to think about. I’ll be in touch.”

  His mother, so quick to remark on any of his missteps, let this one slide. “All right, darling. Remember what I said.”

  She thought she had him, but she didn’t. If he decided to go to Mississippi, it would be on his own terms. He made his own rules, and he never broke them.

  13

  Matisse

  The phone call with his mother put Matisse in a bad mood. Cai’s request to hack into Dr. Mur
ray’s study was the cake, and his mother demanding he come home was the frosting. Both situations left him twitchy.

  His skin didn’t fit him today, his shoulders were tight and neck ached. He went into the kitchen without really seeing and banged around the cabinets to get what he needed for coffee. He drummed his fingers on the counter, watching the timer for his French press count down.

  “I thought I heard you.” Footsteps slid across the floor, and Nora’s arms wrapped around his waist. “You’re up early.”

  “I am.” He winced at his tone. Too snarky. “I am,” he tried again.

  “You okay?”

  “I will be. Just got off the phone with my mom. Had a conversation I didn’t really want to have, and now I have to figure out how to tell her no and stick with it. She’s really good at making me say yes when I don’t want to.” The words tumbled out of his mouth, revealing much more than he’d meant to.

  She stepped around him, ducking under his arms to see his face. “What do you mean?”

  He shrugged, frowning. He really didn’t want to get into the unstoppable force that was Nicole Boudreau. But something about the way Nora watched him, face open and accepting, made him want to confide in her. Tell her everything. The last thing he wanted was for her to think he was some uncaring prick, who couldn’t even tolerate his family for one holiday.

  The alarm for his coffee went off, and he took the opportunity to side-step Nora and push the plunger on the press. He could feel her eyes on him as she watched him pour a cup for himself and one for her, dribbling warm milk into the hot coffee. He took a sip, letting his issues with his family play before his eyes.

  In the hospital with Cai, he’d torn into Ryan when he’d hinted at Matisse’s past. Here was his opportunity to tell Nora everything. She couldn’t have offered him a wider opening.

  Plucking her cup from her hand, he gestured toward the living room. “You’ll want to be comfortable. It’s a long story.”

  Eight Years Earlier, Bijoux Shore, Mississippi

  The light above Matisse’s desk flashed red, and with one button, he cleared the screen from his computer. Headphones secure, he ignored the sense of foreboding that came with the light. Someone was about to invade his space.

  The door opened and closed, and his father leaned against his gamer’s chair. Matisse focused instead on the screen. From the corner of his eye, he saw Dad watching the game he’d maximized, arms crossed. On the screen, a half-gorilla, half-ninja fell from a tree and sliced him apart with a samurai sword. He made a note to contact the game-makers about the inconsistency.

  Sliding the headphones from his ears, he spun in the chair and dislodged his father.

  “How’s school?”

  Matisse flung the controller onto his desk, annoyed he was interrupted to talk about things that didn’t matter. “Fine.” He was a senior and had been checked out of school since he turned—what? Ten? School was a joke. He was smarter than his teachers. He knew it, and they knew it and didn’t care for it.

  “Fine,” Dad said, nodding. “Look at my face, Matisse. How do I look?”

  They were playing this game. Irritated, he infused as much antipathy as possible into his voice. “Well, your eyebrows are low, and your eyes are narrowed. Not to mention you’re frowning, and your arms are crossed. All signs point to mad. Are you mad, Dad?”

  His father missed the sarcasm. And they said Matisse had autism.

  “I am, Matisse. I am very disappointed. Did you change the graduation programs so your name was Matisse Boobdreau?”

  He snorted and realized he’d given himself away.

  “Dammit, Tisse. They’d already sent them to the printers!”

  “Lucky it’s a small school, then. And they should really proofread.”

  “Matisse.” His father stared at the ground, shaking his head. “Your mother and I pay a lot of money for you to attend this school. You’re lucky to be graduating at all. Most kids like you don’t.”

  “Yes. I am lucky.” As he was so often reminded. He could have been in a public school with special kids. Little did his parents realize he’d have been a lot less trouble in a public school. Davis College Preparatory was full of kids who had disinterested parents with deep pockets. With plenty of money to buy their way out of pranks, Matisse and his cronies had a good time. A questionably-legal time, but a good time nonetheless.

  And to think his mother was worried about him making friends.

  “The headmaster is demanding we pay for new programs, corrected of course, and rushed, since these are unusable. What were you thinking?”

  He’d been thinking what if he could access the school’s administrative pages. When he’d broached the idea with his friends, they’d thought it was hilarious. It’d been ridiculously easy to access a teacher’s email and the shared docs. In fact, before his father had interrupted him, he’d been busy with a little math homework and fudged some test scores and incomplete homework assignments in his English class. Without making it too obvious, he’d managed to get his grade from a C+ to a B-. Not bad.

  “It was just a joke, Dad. Stop stressing. It’s not like we don’t have the money. Didn’t you get into trouble with your friends?” He opened his eyes wide to convey innocence in his question. His grandmother had told him enough about his father for Matisse to know he’d gotten into his own tight spots.

  His father sighed. “You can’t keep this up forever. I know Headmaster Laroque, but when you go to college, it’s going to be different.”

  “I’m not going to college. Have you seen any college applications come through these doors?”

  After a long-suffering sigh, his father ruffled his hair. The sensation of fingers against his scalp had his skin crawling, and he jerked away from his father.

  “You know,” his father began, ignoring the way Matisse stood and walked away from him. “Your mother had mentioned something about that months ago. There are plenty of schools you can get into, especially after they see your SAT scores and we make a donation to one of their in-need departments. I’m not worried about it.”

  “Fine.” The crawling feeling had moved from the top of his head down his spine and across his ribs. His entire body shivered, leaving him sweating and nauseated. “I’m going out.”

  “I’m taking the money for the programs from your account,” Dad yelled as he barreled out the door.

  “Fine,” he yelled back. “I don’t care.”

  Each part of his body seemed disconnected from the other. His hands clenched and shoulders rolled. His head pounded. The hum of the air conditioner drilled into his brain, and the freezing blast of air hit him hard as he hurried downstairs toward the front door. Upon opening it, he smacked into a wall of moist air.

  Summer in Mississippi. His bike was still in the driveway where he’d left it, blocking entrance into the garage for anyone who might want to park inside. The leather interior of his father’s high-end sedan would have a surface temperature hot enough he’d feel it through his expensive pants.

  He kick-started the bike then tore down the driveway and from the quiet neighborhood street to the busy road running parallel to the coast. As soon as he hit the road, the breeze from the ocean cooled the air and his body calmed. Wiping first one sweaty palm then another on his jeans, he uncurled and sat up to use one hand to drive the bike.

  Stop and go traffic kept him from opening up the throttle and speeding as fast as he’d have liked through town. But the combination of wind and forward momentum did its magic.

  With a burst of speed, he forgot about his father and school and concentrated only on what he saw. Katrina had gutted his town, but more than five years out, things were starting to look the way they had when he was a child. The beach was clean. Tourists flocked back to the casinos, doing their part to pay for the Gulf Coast’s revitalization.

  It was Friday, and his classmates would be gathered at his friend Rome’s pool house. He turned the bike away from the coast. Rome's brick house, curved dri
ve, and careful landscaping were all designed to look older than it was. Like everything else in Bijoux Shore, Rome’s family had rebuilt their house. As he parked his bike and strode toward the noise coming from out back, it struck Matisse that with enough money any damage could be fixed.

  The pool house was the Friday night de facto hang spot. His friends generally fell into two groups: the gamers—the ones making the most noise, yelling at each other and the TV as they played whatever game they’d decided on—and the interactive gamers. They were the quieter ones who drank and played pool or poker. Their discussions were less raucous, even with the drinks.

  Matisse’s friends were by no means the most popular kids in school, but at Davis Prep, popularity was based more on family connections than hitting home runs or making touchdowns.

  “Hey!” everyone greeted, almost as one.