Anna

 

Sundays are my favourite day of the week. After sleeping in a bit and lounging in bed with a cup of coffee and Kate Morton’s newest historical romance, I lazily make my way to the kitchen and pluck a ripe yellow pear from the pink bowl that sits on the counter.

I stand at the kitchen sink as I eat, juice dribbling down my chin, and swipe through my phone. I was able to sneak a few pictures from Dru’s show last night, which I send to both her and Elle. One picture, in particular, of Dru and Ethan leaned in close toward one another makes me smile but also fills me with a hefty dose of jealousy. I’m happy that my sister seems to have found someone special, she certainly deserves it. But I’m only human and when your last date was with a married guy, it’s hard not to feel put out.

I wash my hands and rinse out my mug before glancing at the clock. Esme will be expecting us soon, although I doubt Dru will make an appearance at brunch today after her big night.

After a quick shower, I wind my partially dried hair into a loose knot and dress in a pair of faded skinny jeans and a brightly patterned tank top that I sewed myself. I slip on a pair of pink flats and grab my canvas bag from the kitchen table and head out. My eyes wander to Sebastian’s door and I find myself curious if he’s home or at his studio. I’m the first to admit that my initial impression of him wasn’t exactly accurate, even if he did give me a long list of blinding reasons to see him as nothing more than a party boy type. But I suspect there’s more there.

 Esme’s place isn’t too far but I decide to take the bus so that I’m not late and to give my feet a break from last night’s torture. I swear I’ll never understand how some women can live in heels. I take a seat on the bench just down the street from my building and wait in the bright morning sun. It’s supposed to be warm all day; hopefully I’ll catch Jack in the park on the way home. Esme always cooks too much and I usually stop by afterwards with some form of leftovers. Of course, he’d never admit it, but I’m certain he’ll be expecting me and I would hate to disappoint him.

The loud city bus rumbles to a stop along the curb. I pull my pass card from my bag and flash it at the driver before taking an empty seat near the window. As we make our way through downtown, I watch the passing scenery of traffic and people while remembering the first time I spoke to my foster mother.

The lady with the cookies is back. She comes every Wednesday to help some of the kids with their school work. Last week when she was done explaining Cara’s math homework to her, she came and sat beside me. She didn’t talk or anything, she just sat there while I read one of the old Babysitter’s Club books that I found on the shelf in the rec room.

I’m not reading today, just sitting in my favourite purple chair by the window. I’ve been staying here for a month now. The other kids don’t like me, they think I’m weird. Cara told me so last night at supper. I’m wondering what we are eating tonight when the lady comes and sits beside me again.

“You don’t talk much, do you sweetie?” She holds out a container with blueberry muffins this time. I choose one and take a small bite.

“I don’t like it here,” I say. I haven’t told anyone that, I hope I’m not in trouble.

“Hm, well I can’t say I blame you,” she replies. “You probably miss your family and your old house.

I feel like crying so I don’t say anything at all.

“My name is Esme, and your name is Anastasia, right?”

“Anna,” I say.

“Anna. That’s a lovely name.”

“It was my grandma’s name,” I tell her. I never met my grandma, but my mom told me. I’ve never met any of my family. Joan says I have an uncle, but they can’t find him. She says she’s going to find me a family, but I don’t want a new family.

“My grandma’s name was Gert, that’s not nearly as lovely as Anastasia,” she tells me.

I try not to laugh because I don’t want to be rude, but that’s a funny name.

“So, lovely Anna,” she says. “I was thinking that maybe I could come and visit you on Sundays. Maybe we could go to the museum or maybe we could just sit here together. Would you like that?”

I like the museum. I should say yes but what if she brings the other kids too. They don’t like me.

“It would be just the two of us,” she says.

I take another bite of my muffin. It’s really good. I don’t talk with my mouth full because my mom wouldn’t like that.

“Okay,” I say.

“It’s a date,” she says with a smile.

The bus screeches to a stop and I slip my bag over my shoulder before I make my way down the narrow aisle and step off in front of the apartment building where I lived for most of my childhood. After that first day that Esme and I talked, she continued to volunteer every Wednesday to tutor the kids at the group home, in addition she would come every Sunday for our date. About one month after that, Joan found out that my great uncle had passed away a year earlier and I was officially without any living kin.

I was ten and Esme took me in. Dru came shortly after that and Elle was the last to arrive and complete our makeshift family. I still remember my parents and my younger brother Andrew, and I always will. But Esme and my sisters have been my family for the last fourteen years and I thank God every day for them.

I knock before opening the door, knowing full well that Esme likely has her hands too busy to open it for me. The modest kitchen is visible from the doorway and as predicted, her hands are busy kneading a large, round slab of homemade dough.

“Hey kiddo,” she says, smiling brightly.

“Hey! Am I the first one here?”

“Afraid it’s just you and me today sweet cheeks,” she says. “I told Dru to stay home and catch up on some rest and Elle called about an hour ago saying that she wasn’t feeling well.”

“Oh no, I hope she feels better soon.”

“Just a touch of the flu I think.”

I set my bag on the kitchen table and wash my hands before I start peeling and slicing the apples sitting on the counter for Esme’s apple cinnamon French toast.

“Did you have fun last night, dear?”

“I did, I can’t believe how busy it was. I haven’t talked to Dru yet today, did she say how it went?”

“She was going to wait until after lunch to call Cassie,” she tells me. “She didn’t want to seem too eager,” she chuckles lightly.

We work in companionable silence as we often do. Esme taught me the single gal basics, as she calls it, before I graduated high school. She wanted to make sure us girls could cook decent meals for ourselves. When I’m not devouring Stephanie’s homemade pasta, I often make things that Esme taught me.

“How’s everyone at Linden?” I ask.

Linden House is the group home where I was first placed after my parents died, and it’s where I met Esme. She still volunteers as a tutor once a week. She first started when her husband Joe passed away from cancer, about six months before I found myself there. She was still working as a sixth grade teacher part time but she wanted something extra to keep her mind occupied, she said. Teaching was something we often talked about on our Sundays together all those years ago.

“Full to the brim,” she says. “But it’s a good group of kids. You should come by and say hello.”

Never able to have children of her own, Esme has a soft spot in her heart for the kids that wind up in the system. Linden House takes in twelve and under and is meant to be a temporary solution until approved foster parents have room, but kids often end up staying longer than expected.

“I’d like that,” I smile.

Once the first two loaves of bread are done, Esme pulls them out and places them on a wire rack to cool. She slides the next two into the oven while I dump two large handfuls of cinnamon coated apple slices and a hefty chunk of butter into a frying pan. The apples sizzle as the spicy scent fills the air and Esme wraps an arm around my waist, squeezing me tightly before she pads back to the counter behind me and begins slicing the bread.  

Once we’ve eaten, I tidy up and help with the dishes before I make a few sandwiches for Jack. I wrap them in foil and place them in a plastic bag, along with a couple of oranges and a small container of the cooked apples for dessert.

“You’re looking well rested these days,” Esme notices. “Do I need to come over and help with corpse disposal or did your hired assassin take care of that for you?”

“Ha, ha. I did not have Sebastian killed,” I say. “We’ve called a truce.”

“Sebastian eh? Well that sounds nice,” she winks.

“It’s not like that. We’re just friendly, that’s all,” I insist.

“Well, friends are always good to have,” she says grinning.

“Yes. Friends are great,” I say, picking my bag up off the table. “Okay, I’m out of here, I want to stop by the park and see if I can find Jack.”

She drops the rag she’s using to wipe the counters and wipes her hands on her long red skirt before she places her palms on either side of my face.

“You are beautiful on the inside and on the outside, my Anastasia,” she says, kissing my cheek. “And don’t you forget it.”

“I love you too,” I say.

It’s mid-afternoon by the time I reach the park. I decide to walk through rather than around, so I can enjoy the fresh air. I know Jack will be scarce today because the park will be busy, so rather than looking for him in his usual spot, I keep walking to the quieter side where there aren’t as many benches and tables set up and likely less people. Bingo. 

Jack is sitting on the grass under a large tree, drinking a cup of coffee. I wave as I approach and hold up the bag in my hand. He smiles in return.

“Hi,” I say, sitting down beside him. “Good call on the shade.”

“Mmhm. How was Sunday brunch today, Miss B?”

“Lunch, on me,” I say, passing the plastic bag to him. “It was good, thanks.”

“You’re too kind,” he says, setting the bag down on the grass beside him.

“It’s no trouble at all,” I smile. “So? What’s new?”

Jack and I make small talk, again, not getting too personal. I’ve never asked what led to his circumstances and he’s never offered an explanation, so we continue to leave that as is. We talk about the weather and the construction on the other side of the park. It’s a plain conversation but I enjoy it anyways. We walk to the edge of the park before parting, me for home, and him to the nearest shelter after waving off my offer to call around for him.

I take a small detour on my way and stop in at the fabric store. I fidget with a package of needles for my sewing machine and mindlessly begin to wander the aisles. I run my fingers along the different shades of yellow fabric, thinking I should make a new dress since my other one was completely unsalvageable. Just as I’m about to pull a bundle from the shelf, my gaze flickers to the bin ahead of me and I see a flash of pink. It’s vibrant and bold and reminds me of a Gerber daisy.

Why the hell not?

 

*

 

“What the fig is wrong with these kids today? Was there a damn full moon last night that I’m not aware of?”

“Heck if I know, just avoid eye contact and keep passing out the coloured paper,” I say. “We’re almost there.”

Melinda slumps her shoulders and continues stepping around the tiny tables and chairs, handing out craft paper while glaring at the clock on the wall. So far today we’ve had two bloody noses, three tantrums over the rotation of centre time, and one accident. Full moon or not, today is dwindling along at a snail’s pace. I’m hoping that we can keep the kids busy with some colouring for the last ten minutes before it’s home time. One of us is required for outside supervision today during pick-up, so I take pity on Melinda and send her out.

“God bless you. First drink is on me,” she says as she walks by.

I hang up some dress up clothes and stack the last of the building blocks to kill time when the bell rings and I sigh with relief. I love my job. But today has been rough and for the first time in a long time, I’m taking Melinda and a couple of the other teachers up on their invitation to happy hour.

Once all the kids have their backpacks and outdoor shoes, I send them in the direction of the front door where another teacher is waiting. I’m just gathering my things when there is a soft knock on the door. I look up and see a familiar face.

“Mr. Kent, how are you?”

“Jay, please,” he says. “Do you have a minute?”

“Sure.”

I gesture to the small blue table nearest the door and we each take a seat in the comically small plastic chairs.

“Sorry,” I apologize. “Everything around here is miniature.”

“I wanted to talk to you about Darius,” he begins. “I wanted to take advantage of speaking to you in private while he’s with his mother this week.”

“Yeah, for sure,” I say. “He’s been doing great in class, a little on the quiet side at times, but he listens to directions and plays nice with everyone.”

“I’m glad for that, he’s a good kid,” he says.

“So…what’s the problem?”

“Right. Well his mother has been throwing around the idea of sending him to boarding school. She talks about it right in front of Darius and he’s been having nightmares about being sent away.”

“Wow. Boarding school? I didn’t even know those places still exist, it sounds so old fashioned.”

“Apparently they do. We’re going to be having it out in court, there’s no way in hell I’m agreeing to that bullshit,” he seethes. “Sorry. I just, I’m a mess over this.”

“I understand completely. Is there anything I can do on my end?”

He exhales roughly and hesitates for a moment. “Could you just, maybe, keep an extra eye on him? I know you have a big class and I don’t expect special treatment, but I’m worried he won’t talk to me and his mom is just, well, she’s not exactly maternal.”

“I would be happy to look out for Darius,” I assure him. “It’s part of my job and no trouble at all. Maybe I’ll pull him aside on Monday and just ask him how he’s doing? Maybe he’ll tell me something he hasn’t been telling you.”

“I would really appreciate that Ms. Brookes,” he says.

“Anna.”

“Thank you, Anna.”

“Of course,” I say, standing from the small table. “I’ll give you a call next week if I have anything to report.”

“Great,” he replies as Melinda walks back into the room and looks at him expectantly. “I’ll get out of your hair now, have a good weekend ladies.”

“You too,” we both say.

“Le sigh,” Melinda says dreamily. “He’s so fine.”

“Okay love bird, grab your purse so you can buy me that cocktail,” I say, flipping off the light switch.

“Oh, sassy,” she says. “I like it when you’re all annoyed with your job and need booze to cope. It’s almost as if you’re like the rest of us peasants,” she teases.

“Yeah, yeah, don’t make me lose my nerve,” I say. “My sofa is sounding pretty spectacular right now.”

“No,” she says firmly, pointing a slim finger in my direction. “We are going to happy hour like normal underpaid servants in the public education system and we are going to eat fat burgers and manipulate Coach Rogers into buying us a round.”

“And how exactly are you going to do that?”

“With my natural charm, obviously,” she replies as we exit the building and head for the parking lot.

Melinda drives us to Cinder’s, a small pub known for its cheap drinks and greasy food. When we walk in, we spot our co-workers at a large table in the back and make our way across the bar.

Cinder’s is your typical dive bar with vintage liquor signs hanging on every wood paneled wall, along with a few featuring scantily clad women from the fifties. There’s a bank of pool tables in the far corner and a large, worn out bar that curves along the one wall. We eat and drink and of course, trade horror stories from the week. Melinda, much to my surprise, manages to convince Coach Rogers to buy everyone a round.

 It’s nearly eleven thirty when I finish sipping my second mojito and decide to call it a night just as everyone orders another. I have the bartender call me a cab and head outside. The night has cooled off, so I slip on my jacket before I duck into the car and give the driver my address. Downtown is still very much alive, but I can hardly keep my eyes open. I shake myself out of it just as we pull up to my building. I climb the stairs and go over my list of chores for the next day as I fish for my keys. I can hear the T.V. coming from Sebastian’s place, but nothing wild and crazy.

As I approach my door, my stomach drops when I see that it’s open. Not wide open, but open just enough that my heart begins to pound wildly in my chest. I don’t know if someone is in there, but I don’t want to risk it. I feel a slight comfort in knowing that Sebastian is still awake and take a small step back, the floor creaking beneath my feet. Suddenly my door flies open and a dark figure rams right into me, knocking the wind out of my lungs and causing me to fall backwards. My head smacks into the wall behind me before I fall to the hard floor as the figure scrambles over me and runs down the stairs.

Everything begins to get a bit blurry and when I try to sit up, I sink back down, my head hitting the floor again with a thud. My eyelids feel heavy and just when I think I should yell or make some kind of noise, they shut completely…and everything goes dark.