The Atheist's Daughter Page 2

  But can I tell you a secret, Doc? Just between you and me and the black-lined pages in this book? The first day home, I quit taking the pills you prescribed. They fuzzed my brain up really badly, they made me feel slow, they made me feel stupid, and they didn’t help.

  AT ALL.

  Good thing you explained what the pills were supposed to do. It’s easy to know how to act when someone’s given you the script.

  Every morning, I flush the circular white pill down the toilet bowl. Every night, just before bedtime, I flush the rectangular pink one away, too. It’s a waste, sure, but I don’t have any choice. I tried to tell Mom I didn’t want to take them, didn’t really need them, and she freaked. You think I’m nuts, you should have seen how she acted.

  I caught her once, counting the pills in each of my bottles, just to make sure I was still on my medication. She was mortified when I came up behind her. She pretended she was checking to see if the pharmacy had filled the order correctly.

  ‘Cause the six dollar a month prescription fee starts to add up over a lifetime.

  I don’t want you to think I’m bitter about our time together. After all, it’s not like I wasted eleven months of my childhood behind locked doors, barred windows, and an electrified fence.

  Well, no, now that I think about it, it’s exactly like that. But I did get something positive from the experience.

  I started keeping this diary….

  Chapter Four

  Winterhaven

  “Sixty-two, sixty-six,” the clerk said.

  Kristin’s mother nodded, a worried wrinkle creasing her brow. Unsnapping the latch on her wallet, Becky Faraday tugged a credit card from the plastic sleeve holding it.

  A year ago, what was it Mom said?

  “No more plastic. We’ll keep one card for emergencies but that’s it. We’re done being held hostage by the MasterCard Mafia.”

  Kristin shook her head. Just when you thought you were out, they pull you back in.

  She left the store, the door’s electronic sensor offering a single beep of protest. The empty sidewalk stretched past her, long and wide, curving at the corner of the Mall.

  Winterhaven Mall was dying, it was that simple. New, it had boasted of twenty-four stores, a movie theater and a fast food restaurant. Now, only five shops still survived. Judging by the face of the clothing store’s sad-eyed owner, the Mall could expect one more vacancy in the near future.

  By Christmas, only the check-cashing store will still be open, she thought. Not that I care.

  In six months, I’ll be gone from here, too. When I need to go shopping, it’ll be in Ashfork.

  Ashfork’s three-story Parkway Mall was newer, better, nicer in every way than anything Winterhaven had to offer. In some ways, it was a reflection of the city around it.

  Ashfork was growing and expanding, happily embracing progress and all of the promises it offered. Besides its grand shopping Mecca, the city had a thriving Tech Center and a newly-constructed university. Its entire community was thriving, willingly surrendering its farmland to fresh business opportunities and ever-expanding housing developments.

  Ashfork was everything Winterhaven was not.

  “Mom doesn’t care,” Kristin told an empty storefront window.

  Becky Faraday rejected the very concept of progress. “We’ll shop local,” she said that morning, “until every last store in our town is closed.”

  ‘Shopping local’ meant higher prices, fewer selections and outdated styles. Everything was more expensive in their small town.

  No Dollar Stores for us. No Midnight Madness or Half-Price Sundays here, no two-for-one coupons.

  Live in Winterhaven, you pay full price for everything. You pay and you pay and the stores die, anyway.

  “Penny for your thoughts.”

  Kristin jumped at the sound of her mother’s voice. Becky was beside her, the store’s electronic buzzer failing to give warning of her exit. Holding a shopping bag in her arms, she looked at her daughter quizzically.

  “Thinking about finals,” Kristin said. With her lie came the sound: Schhhct!

  A sharp, stabbing noise reverberated inside her head. From experience, she knew only she could hear it. Besides, it was never the sound that bothered her when she lied. It was the physical sensation accompanying it.

  The skin on her face started to burn. Her lips pulled together like warm rubber, squeezing against one another. A stab of pain went through her as the lower lip melted into its twin.

  The dark glass of an empty shop revealed her reflection. The lower half of her face had disappeared behind a sheath of skin. Smooth and featureless, this barrier of flesh locked her words inside of her.

  No one else saw this image. Unless she showed an outward sign of distress, even her mother remained unaware of the transformation. At thirteen, confused by the sudden change in her appearance, the sudden change in her life, she’d blurted out everything as it happened to her. Her mouth, the visions, all of it.

  Biiiig mistake, she realized now. First I got pubes, then I got breasts. How was I to know visions weren’t part of the package deal?

  “Comp 202 still giving you a headache?” Becky asked. “No, that was last semester, wasn’t it?”

  About to speak, Kristin caught herself. The movement pushed her mouth against the flap of skin. Her teeth rubbed the wet surface, scraping its virgin seal.

  A drop of blood fell onto her tongue. The dull, metallic taste always made her want to gag.

  “Semester before last,” she said. The words sounded faint to her, muffled behind their fold.

  Schhhct! In an instant, the sheath was gone.

  Her mouth was back. Cool air pushed in as if it had never left. Darting her tongue forward, she touched it briefly, reassuringly, over each of her lips. Except for the lingering taste of blood, it was as if nothing had happened.

  “I thought English Comp was going to be the death of you,” Becky said. “Thank goodness for Hawkins.”

  “My turn now. Poli-sci is Hawk’s kryptonite.”

  “Poor Hawkins.”

  “Poor Liz.”

  “Liz? Isn’t she going to the University?”

  “Only if she manages to graduate,” Kristin said. “She’s already signed up for summer school. Calculus.”

  “That’s Trevor Silva’s subject, isn’t it? The teacher who gives three hours of homework for every hour of class?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “Liz may never leave high school.” Shifting her shopping bag, Becky stepped off the sidewalk.

  Following her mother, Kristin stopped abruptly. “Mom?”

  Becky waited at the back of their sedan. “I could use some help here.”

  “Don’t you see?”

  “What?”

  “Piotrowski’s Café. The front door is open.”

  Becky pressed at the car’s key fob. “Damned trunk opener. I replaced this battery less than a week ago.”

  “Somebody cleaned the restaurant’s windows,” Kristin said. “Somebody painted the wooden shutters.”

  “Maybe they’re finally putting it up for sale.”

  Taking the car keys, Kristin opened the car’s trunk. “I think I’ll check it out.”

  “Now?”

  “I’ll walk home. It’s not far.”

  “It’s miles from here.”

  “I could use the exercise.” She started across the parking lot. Taking measured steps, she fought the urge to run.

  Please, please, please, Mister Piotrowski. Prove miracles can happen. Open your restaurant again.

  Help me escape from Winterhaven.

  Chapter Five

  Piotrowski’s Café remained exactly as she remembered it. Two stories tall, its gingerbread trim and arch-top windows were meant to suggest a whimsical European eatery. While stylish touches decorated the lower level, the second story’s charm was diminished by patches of cracked trim and a strip of gray stucco.

  Although she didn’t remember any o
f its customers complaining about the café’s appearance, Kristin felt the building’s need for repair detracted from its appeal. When she shared her thoughts with Martin Piotrowski, he offered his own opinion.

  “Customers come here for the am-bi-ance,” he said, breaking the word into three pieces, “they’re in the wrong city. They want mood-lighting, they can go to Ashfork or Lincoln City. In Lincoln City, all of the swanky places used mood-lighting. People get hungry there, they pay fifty dollars plus tip at some fancy lunch place. The food won’t be very good but they’ll get a candle on their table.”

  Martin believed in what he was saying. Opening his business, he sincerely thought good food, good service, and fair prices were all any restaurant needed.

  “That and an ad in the Pennysaver,” he told her.

  Poor deluded Mr. Piotrowski.

  He was in front of her now, his thin frame visible through the building’s open door. He swept the floor, the broom’s bristles pushing at the dirt in short, steady strokes. Climbing onto the front porch, she ran a hand through her hair. She tugged at the bottom of her blouse, smoothing its wrinkles.

  Shoulders back, she entered the building. “Mr. Piotrowski?”

  His pale blue eyes glided over her before returning to the floor.

  “Is there – ” Kristin paused, trying to find the right words. “I mean, are you opening your restaurant again?”

  The broom stopped moving. Holding its shaft in his large-knuckled hands, he gave her his full attention. “You of all people. You should know.”

  “Pardon?”

  “This isn’t a restaurant. It’s a café.”

  “I’m sorry. I mean – I do know that.”

  “Restaurants are for loud and noisy people who don’t care what’s on their plate. Give them something frozen, stick it in a microwave, they don’t even notice. What do they know about quality? They eat biscuits and gravy. They eat those Sloppy Joes.”

  “Yes.” With this single word, she tried to imply that eating Sloppy Joes was the equivalent of shoving your face into a pig trough.

  “A café is discrete. A café is for the discerning few. When you worked here, we never had more than eight customers at a time. Did we?”

  She shook her head.

  “That’s why I went out of business!” He laughed. “Eight customers, what was I thinking? I should have served the biscuits and gravy.”

  Leaning his broom against the wall, he opened his arms. Kristin stepped inside them, giving him a hug.

  She realized with surprise that she was now taller than the old man. In the months since she’d last seen him, he seemed to have shrunk. She could feel his ribs press against her from beneath his white cotton shirt.

  She squeezed her arms around him, her gaze resting on his balding head and its thin wreath of black hair. “I missed you.”

  He stepped back. “It’s been too long.”

  “I called.”

  “Message machines, I hate them. Put your finger on the wrong button, you erase everything. Everything!”

  “I sent you a card on your birthday.”

  “A lovely card. It’s on the mantel, next to my ceramic pig.” Kristin remembered giving him the tiny pink pig when the café opened for business. “You need a job?”

  “Me and everybody else. Nobody’s hiring.”

  “Our poor, dried-up little town. In the end, only you and I will still be here. Kristin and Piotrowski’s Café. Sloppy Joes, our specialty.”

  “You might want to ask Mrs. Piotrowski if she approves.”

  “The missus?” Martin’s smile faltered. “She won’t care. But…I’ll ask her.”

  Schhhct! His face shifted, blurring as a layer of age-blemished skin melted over his mouth.

  Beneath the layer of flesh, his jaw continued to work. “Might be a while, though.” His words came to her as if they’d been spoken through linen. “She’s in Florida with her sister. All orange groves and sandy beaches.”

  Kristin furrowed her brow in concern. “Where is she, really?”

  He regarded her solemnly. Using his shirt sleeve, he dabbed at his eyes. “You always know. Always. How?” His thin chest rose beneath the cotton shirt. “It has nothing to do with her sister. Nothing to do with Florida. She’s gone, that’s all.” His voice broke on the last word.

  Schhhct! As if it had never vanished, his mouth was back.

  “I don’t know where she is,” he said. “No phone number, no forwarding address. She doesn’t write. She hasn’t called. She just left.”

  “Why?”

  “Too many worries,” he said. “Things were bad when the café closed. Money problems, sure. Small battles, every day. Never a big fight, never anything important. I’d have done something if it had been important. All of sudden, she wants to leave. Has to leave.”

  Sniffing, he wiped his eyes. “I never could lie to you, could I?”

  Kristin remembered short, plump Chandra Piotrowski, her hair as full and white as her husband’s fringe was thin and black. Her happy, round face was slow to anger. In memory, at least, she adored her husband.

  Kristin could hardly believe she’d left him.

  “Nothing to be done about it, I guess.” Martin reached for the broom. “Things will work out. Everything always works out.”

  Not trusting herself to speak, Kristin bobbed her head slightly. She swiveled on her heel, ready to leave.

  “The job you wanted?”

  She hesitated.

  Martin twisted the broom handle between his fingers. “If I had one, I’d give it to you. This economy, it’s hard on everyone. I just don’t have any more money to lose.”

  “So you’re putting the building up for sale?”

  “For lease, maybe,” he said. “A few days ago, I get a phone call from California. Out of nowhere, this lady, this Mrs. Norton, she calls me. She wants to know, would I be interested in renting the building?”

  “Are you?”

  “Why not? It brings me nothing now.”

  “How did she hear about the café?”

  “I asked her the very thing. A nice voice, Mrs. Norton, pleasant. She said she’s visited the Haven a few times and always liked it. Came for the big Pumpkin Festival a couple of years ago and stopped here for a nibble.”

  “That was just before you hired me.”

  “So the service may have suffered but the food was still good. She liked it, anyway. Our place, it always served good food. Our eight customers, they loved us.”

  “Yes, they did.”

  “She’s talking about a four year contract, the first year paid in advance. If we agree to terms, she still wants to call it ‘Piotrowski’s’. Because of the reputation.” He practically glowed with pride. “She’ll run things with her family. They’ll work downstairs, live upstairs. I’ve told her, anybody decides to use the deep fryer, they’re going to smell the grease all night long.”

  “Think she’ll need any help?”

  “Depends on how big her family is, I suppose.”

  “Does she seem nice? The lady from California?”

  “Nice enough, I guess.” His face softened. “Paying a year in advance, it shows she’s serious. I wouldn’t talk to her if I didn’t think she was serious.”

  Kristin reached out, taking his spotted, dry hand into her own. “Is this okay? Is this what you want?”

  “Of course.” Schhhct! His lips dissolved into one another. “You think I want to open this place again? All the paperwork, the late hours, who needs it? Mrs. Norton can have the café forever as far as I’m concerned.”

  Chapter Six

  Summer

  Twisting the doorknob, Kristin entered the house. Following the sound of soft music, she went past the tiled entry and into the living room.

  Standing on a plastic drop cloth, Becky wore a paint-streaked purple shirt with the sleeves rolled up and the two top buttons missing. Her blue dungarees were streaked with color at the waistband and showed wear at both knees.

&
nbsp; It was her mother’s work outfit; her uniform, practically.

  So, Mom, what are you going to do when the time comes to replace those clothes? Kristin wondered. The jeans are interchangeable but the shirt is a one-of-a-kind crime against the fashion world. I know it was Dad’s but it’s purple and hideous.

  Once it’s gone, what will you do for a substitute? Wander from store to store, seeking some outlet barn with a huge inventory of 20th century fashion mistakes – or will you be forced to give up painting altogether?

  For now, her mother stood in front of the wooden easel, contentedly working on the canvas in front of her. Passing through the room, Kristin couldn’t quite see what she was painting.

  Abandoned farm silo, maybe? Weathered windmill? She knew it was something along those lines, anyway. “Famished.”

  “Fridge,” Becky replied.

  Kristin padded out of the room, pleased. Too often, her mother got involved in a painting and forgot about food altogether. This time, supper was ready.

  Ignoring the dirty pan in the sink, she pulled open the refrigerator door and leaned inside.

  “Oh, no.”

  A big blue bowl sat on the refrigerator’s lowest shelf. Dappled beads of water hung from its plastic barrier but didn’t obscure the contents inside.

  Not mac and cheese. Not again.

  This wasn’t anything like real macaroni-and-cheese, prepared with actual aged and seasoned dairy goodness. The gummy slop in front of her was colored instead by some powdered plaster-like stuff from a little tear-away envelope. Put the powder into water, stir it around, and drop the mess into a saucepan. When the contents turned an unhealthy day-glo orange, it was time to eat.

  Cradling the bowl in one arm, she returned to the living room. “Care to explain yourself?”

  “Hmmm?”

  “Psuedo-food?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Not every meal has to come from a box. Sometimes – this is gonna sound wild, I know, but trust me, I saw it in a documentary once – sometimes, people actually prepare fresh food.”

  “My turn, my choice.” Becky brought the tip of her brush to the palette in her hand, its bristles moving from one pool of paint to another. Pushing the pigments together, mixing them into their own shade of pink, she brought the brush up. “Any luck with the job hunt?”