Feral as a Cat (Sons of Wonderland Book 3) Page 2

  “Ah, right on time,” he says, gesturing for us to come in.

  I push the door the rest of the way open, and Attie immediately goes and sits across from the woman taking up the couch. We’d tried to make the room as comfortable as possible, but it’s difficult when the walls are as white as freshly fallen snow.

  My mother had always liked bright colors. Now, she doesn’t even question the glaring white.

  “Is today a good day?” I ask Dr. Frank, and his tiny smile grows sad. He shakes his head.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Yoshida,” Attie says softly, smiling at our mother. “How has your day been?”

  Mom smiles at Attie, bringing her attention away from the sitcom playing on the television.

  “It’s been uneventful, unfortunately. I had lunch and then I’ve been watching my favorite TV show. Oh, what was it called again?”

  “The Best Days,” Dr. Frank answers helpfully.

  “Of course. That’s it. I’ve been watching that show. It’s terribly dramatic.”

  I watch my mom and my little brother interact for a bit, smiling when Attie laughs at something she says. Even with Dementia, she still has her sense of humor. Nothing could take that away. Unfortunately, the disease took away her children.

  Dr. Frank stands and motions for me to follow him outside the door. I turn and lead the way, my heart squeezing at whatever it is he wants to tell me. We never discuss her diagnosis in the room. My mom can be violent if she gets worked up. We’d found that any mention of the disease could cause her distress, so I leave Attie to talk to her.

  “Are you going to tell me why she has an IV in her arm?” I ask the doctor as he exits the room. We don’t go far, just enough that we can talk quietly. I can still hear the conversation between my mom and Attie going on. My eyes meet my little brother’s for a moment, and he barely nods his head, letting me know he can handle it. Attie is so strong.

  “I’m afraid it’s not good news,” Dr. Frank says, his eyes meeting mine in an attempt to get the information across. I’m sure he comes into contact with patients and families that refuse to listen, but he doesn’t have to worry about that with me. I listen to every word.

  I bite my cheek to prepare for whatever it is he’s about to tell me, knowing it can’t be good. No doctor ever says it’s not good news if it’s not terrible news.

  “Your mother has begun deteriorating at a rapid rate.”

  “What does that mean?” I ask, shoving my clenched fists into my pockets.

  “It means she’s stopped fighting the disease, and her age isn’t helping. It’s like her body is shutting down because her brain is. It’s not uncommon for a person to decide it’s their time, and their body seems to know it.”

  “Can’t we give her more medicine?”

  “Your mother is already on ten different medications daily. Her liver can’t handle any more.”

  “So, what does that all mean?” I ask again, meeting his eyes.

  Dr. Franks sighs and runs a hand through his hair. I can’t imagine this part is easy.

  “Your mother only had one good day last month. She’s had none this month. The rest of the time, she spends asking the nurses and caretakers if they can find her husband and tell him to bring her babies to her. She’s been on emergency oxygen for the last three months. Her liver functions are failing. I’m afraid to say, your mother doesn’t have that much time left.”

  I bite down hard on the inside of my cheek again to keep tears from springing to my eyes. I have to be strong for Attie. I turn to look at him again as he discusses the weather with mom. For the first time, I take in her appearance, really seeing. Her skin looks paper thin, pale, her veins bright blue underneath. There are bags around her eyes, and her hair is more unkempt than usual. When she reaches for the remote, her hand shakes as if it’s too much to bear. I swallow hard.

  Attie continues his conversation even though mom has dropped off, her attention no longer held with the weather. Attie always talks to her, whether she’s aware or catatonic. Some days, she’ll say nothing at all, just stare blankly at the wall.

  “Mrs. Diana, have you been working on your needlepoint?” Attie asks, glancing at the unfinished piece on the table.

  Mom smiles and leans forward to pat Attie’s hand.

  “You’re such a respectful young gentleman,” she says. Hope fills my body that perhaps, today can be a good day. “I hope my son is as respectful as you when he grows up. He’s only a baby. Come to think of it, where’s my Atlas? Do you know where my husband has gone off to?”

  I can see the tears glisten in Attie’s eyes, and it’s a struggle not to have them spill over my own lashes.

  “No, ma’am. I’m sorry. I don’t know where he is.” Lie. We both know that Dad died ten years ago. But Mom is stuck in a loop, thinking it’s fourteen years prior, when Attie was only a year old, and I was fourteen. To her, we should be much younger, so she no longer recognizes us.

  “Blasted man. Always wandering off. He probably has his nose in a book somewhere. He never could resist a good book.”

  Truth. Dad was a professor who studied mythology. I remember his bedtime stories being full of the Greek gods and Roman battles. I’d heard the Odyssey more times than I could count by the time I reached teenage years. He’s the reason I bear the name Calypso, and my brother, Atlas. He was cool like that.

  We used to tell mom the facts, let her know what’s true and what’s not. That’s what they always say. Bring in things that can remind her, things from home, items she would know. So, we followed their directions. We brought in everything we could think of, artwork from school, Dad’s journals, her favorite blanket. And it worked for a little while. We would tell her stories, and she would laugh as if she hadn’t been there to witness them herself.

  But eventually, the facts began to upset her. We’d tell her a story, and she’d begin to thrash and call us liars. She’d throw things at us, scream at us to get out, to bring her babies to her, to find her husband. She’d be so uncontrollable that nothing we said would break through. When she got violent with a nurse, the doctors advised us to go along with whatever she said to ease her pain. So, we did, and the violent outbursts stopped. It had eased our mother’s pain, but it had increased ours, instead.

  “I want to take my mom home,” I tell Dr. Frank suddenly, my decision made.

  “That isn’t wise. Your mother needs constant medical attention. If she continues to decline, her organs will start failing, more than just her liver.”

  I watch Attie wrap a shawl around my mom’s shoulders, her smile up at him so gentle, appreciative, but without a single hint of recognition.

  “She deserves to be home. If this is her end.” My eyes don’t leave the sight of Attie making sure she’s warm, of my fifteen-year-old brother taking on too much responsibility, too much pain. The least I can do is make sure we can spend as much time with her as possible, even if she doesn’t recognize us. “She would want to be home,” I whisper, biting the inside of my cheek so hard, I taste blood.

  Dr. Frank studies me for a moment, looking for some sign. He won’t find one. I won’t let any of my emotion cross my face. I need strength right now, not tears. Finally, he nods his head.

  “It’ll take some time to get the paperwork together. She’ll be registered under the hospice program. We’ll make sure she’s comfortable. There’s also the matter of medical supplies, and things that will need to be done to prepare for her coming home.”

  “That’s fine. Whatever we need, we’ll get it.” I meet his eyes, my shoulders back in a semblance of calm.

  “Can you afford to?” Dr. Frank looks worried. He’s been the attending doctor since we first came to Helping Hands. He remembers everything, including the two bounced checks we’d had this year. I’d had the money, but the jobs I had took a little longer than planned.

  That hasn’t happened in months, though. It’s fine. We can handle it. We will.

  “We’ll make it work,” I tell him, m
y hands clenched tight enough to ache in my pocket. “We have to.”

  Chapter 2

  When we push through the doors and exit the building, I take the deepest breath possible. It always smells like disinfectant inside, and bleach on the deep clean days. Today had been a bleach day, and my nose hairs burn with the scent of it.

  We walk through the busy parking lot until we get to my vintage Harley, parked in the back; away from the idiot drivers who might back over it. It had happened before, back when I’d had a cheaper version. Now, I don’t take any chances.

  The beauty had cost me a small fortune and is the one thing I’ve been able to treat myself with. I had saved pennies to buy it, the sleek black machine beautiful, fully restored to its glory. It’s my pride and joy, after my little brother.

  I unhook the helmets from underneath the seat and pass one to Attie before buckling my own. The mood is tense, somber. Attie is always the one to break the tension.

  “So, when am I gonna get my own bike? The guys at school have been teasing me about riding on the back of my sister’s.”

  I chuckle, knowing full well that the guys tease him about it. I’m not worried about bullying. My brother has a great group of friends, all ones that I’ve met before. In fact, one of them had recently gotten up the courage to ask for my number. I’d laughed and asked if he needed a babysitter. The kid had blushed so hard, I thought he would explode.

  I’d been the only face they’d all seen for years, my mother’s illness common knowledge around town.

  We’d known she’d had dementia for a few years before the nursing homes, but it hadn’t been extreme. She’d forget which street to take, forget things at the grocery store that she needed. One time, she got everything to make hamburgers except the meat. Those were the small signs. Once, she got lost and ended up three towns over, trying to get inside someone else’s house she swore was hers.

  Then one morning, she’d woken up and started screaming that there were strangers in her house. Attie and I had just watched her, terrified, as she called the cops because we were trespassing. When she pulled the gun from under the bed where dad had kept it and pointed it at Attie, that had been the last straw. We’d had no choice, and she’d been admitted to Country Oaks that day.

  Attie had only been ten, and I had just turned twenty-four.

  That day, I became the guardian of my little brother. It had been tough to keep him out of the system. The courts didn’t seem to think that a twenty-four year old could handle her little brother, even though there were teenagers having babies and handling it all the time. When I pointed out that I was family, and that I was able to support him, they’d finally relented. Not without costing me a good amount of court fees, though. They couldn’t do something good without taking from people who need it most.

  I’d worked my ass off to open my own mechanic shop, something that my dad and I had dreamed of since I’d been a little girl working under the hood of his ‘69 Chevelle. The shop’s successful, and well-known in the city, but every now and then, work could get slow, resulting in a bank account far too small to pay for the expensive nursing home. Some days, we’d survive on Ramen noodles. But I always set aside a little money every month, a nest egg I’d been building for Attie’s college. He probably wouldn’t need it, not with how good he was at baseball, but it would be there just in case. I want to make sure my little brother doesn’t have to struggle, even if I have to take on all the struggle myself.

  “Another year, and you’ll be able to drive,” I remind Attie, smiling at him wearing the helmet. He always complains it ruins his hair, but he dutifully snaps it on, knowing how important it is to me. “Besides, I know you’re just eager to get that girl you like on the back of it.” Attie blushes and itches at his shoulder. “Have you asked her out yet?”

  “No, she doesn’t even know I exist.” Attie looks down at the ground, so oblivious.

  I doubt that girl has anything but feelings for my little brother. Every morning when I drop him off for school, she only has eyes for him. She probably thinks the same thing, that Attie doesn’t know she exists. Oh, teenage love. So much simpler, and yet so much more dramatic.

  I smile, trying to hide the sadness from creeping in. I understand why he might be too scared to ask the girl out.

  “You just need a few seconds of courage. That’s all.” I open my mouth to tell him what the doctor said, but think better of it. Now isn’t the time to burden him with the details. There’s always later. “Mom is coming back home to live with us,” I say instead.

  When Attie’s eyes meet mine, I realize I don’t need to go into details, after all, not right now. He knows. He knows that mom isn’t coming home because she’s getting better. He understands that the news isn’t good. My fifteen-year-old brother just nods his head and climbs onto the back of the motorcycle. I follow suit and start her up.

  The rumble of the engine soothes my soul, at least for a little while.

  Tomorrow. I can always deal with everything tomorrow.

  Chapter 3

  Cheshire

  Something slaps me in the face, making me growl softly. When I sit up and hold up the offending material, I realize it’s my leather pants, and not the threat I assumed it was. I blink my eyes to clear the sleep from them before looking towards the door.

  “Get dressed,” White says, slight disdain in his voice. “Now.”

  I yawn, stretching my arms above my head until my bones pop.

  “What’s got ahold of your cotton tail this morning?” I taunt, the corner of my lips ticking up.

  White’s eyes drop to the naked female beside me, out cold from a night of exploration. Her blonde hair spills over the pillows, a mess of curls and stickiness. She smells like peaches and hairspray, a scent my nose absolutely hates. But she’d fucked like a mad woman, so it had been worth it to spend the night inhaling the fumes.

  White sighs and scrubs a hand down his face. “We’re here to find your mate, Cheshire, not so you can whore yourself out to the general population.”

  I grin at that and roll my eyes. A soft sigh escapes the woman beside me, and I fight the urge to frown. Annoyance fills my body as I realize I’ve been here too long.

  “I’m trying to help. How else would I know if she’s my mate or not?” It’s stupid to taunt White this way. I’ve already seen the prophecy come true twice now. But still, I can’t help but brush it off, and pretend that there’s nothing in it for me. I won’t let my life be decided by a few rhymes.

  White shakes his head, no anger on his face. That unsettles me more than anything else he could have said. White had been angry with me the first couple of times he’d found me in bed with a woman. A few times, I’d invited him to join in, only for him to scowl and storm away. I knew he would never actually jump in, not without Jupiter anyways. White was well and truly smitten with his mate, as he should be. Jupiter was perfect for him, a light that chased away his darkness. For me, my darkness is a permanent part of me. It can’t be chased away by a dainty little redhead.

  “You’ll know without having to get into her pants,” White says. It’s the same line I’ve heard him say since we came to this world, and I ignore it just the same. I doubt there’s a woman out there that’s so perfect for me, it’ll change everything. There’s no way. My luck doesn’t run that deep. And I have no urge to give away any more feelings only for them to be taken away. “Get up,” White orders again. “I have this tingling. We’re close. This sleepy little town has promise.”

  I frown and look down at the woman snoring beside me, blissfully unaware that there are two predators in her room that could easily kill her if they wanted. These people could be so dense sometimes, or perhaps just as self-destructive as I am.

  “It’s not her,” White says, disgust on his face. “Get dressed. We’re going out.”

  White storms from the room with another look of disdain, no doubt waiting for me to follow. I’m getting really sick of his orders, as if he’s the general
here and not me.

  I sigh and climb from the bed, tugging on my leather pants. The woman rolls over and groans in her sleep, the scent of hairspray smacking me in the face again. I wrinkle my nose, my tail flicking from side to side in annoyance.

  Her hand reaches out towards the other side of the bed, but when she opens her eyes to look for me, I’m already gone.

  Chapter 4

  The sounds of classic rock echo around the mechanic shop, the noise both comforting and soft, competing with the high-powered fans trying to keep the shop cool. My mechanic shop is a decent size, four bay doors for pulling in the vehicles, but today, there’s only one project.

  I’m leaning under the hood, tightening a bolt, cursing the older black Impala while also crossing my fingers that this is it. We’ve been chasing problems on this thing all day. The owner said it had been flooded recently after a southern freak rainstorm, and after drying it out, it began to understandably have problems. The things with the cars 1980s and newer is all the electrical. An engine can survive flood waters once it’s drained and dried out, but the wires and electrical bits can’t. And all the newer vehicles can’t run without the electronics.

  “Try it again,” I shout to Rob, my partner.

  Rob has been in my life as long as I can remember. He’d been a good friend of my dad’s and after dad had passed, he’d stuck around. He’s always been a sort of uncle to Attie and me. He’d been the one to help me get my mechanic shop off the ground. He’s the reason I don’t go running and screaming every time a new problem arises. He’s our rock.