My feet tingle as Jackson and I take the stairs up to the third floor of the apartment complex, and twice I stop, Jackson waiting patiently for me to find the guts to continue. I didn't think it would be this hard.
Never in my entire decade since seeing them supposedly blown up have I felt as much fear as I feel right now. I've spent nearly ten years training, focused with burning intensity on one goal, and until Jackson came back into my life, I thought that focus, that intensity, would never waver. Now I'm seeing that my blind devotion has left me weak, at least in some areas, and I'm glad that Jackson is here with me.
We reach the third floor and we walk to our left, following the unit numbers as they drop from 310 toward 302. We get to the door, and Jackson takes my hand again. “Remember... live in the moment, focus on the goal. All that stuff you've been reading and training for, it applies here, too. Okay, Kat?”
At my assumed name, Jackson's words jolt me into place, and I nod, determined. I turn back to the door and knock three times, pleased that I don't sound weak at all. I'm ready to take this on, and as I hear footsteps approach the door, I'm strong, ready, and actually a little bit pissed off. These people left me behind.
The door opens, and I see, for the first time in ten years, my mother. She may be nearly forty-five now, and the years have added some stoop to her shoulders and some gray to her hair, the exact color as mine, but it's Theresa Grammercy. “Hello?”
“Mom... it's me,” I say, probably the stupidest reply in the history of the world, but I haven't exactly had a chance to practice this before, you know?
“Theresa Grammercy?” Jackson interjects, and Mom's eyes flitter to him, and before she can even start to protest, I see the truth. She knows who we are. “My name is Jackson DeLaCoeur.”
Mom's eyes come back to me, and there's guilt there, at least a little bit, but she doesn't move. “You shouldn't be here.”
“And you shouldn't have left me in New Orleans to live in foster care for six years,” I shoot back, keeping my voice low. “Now do you let me in, or do I have Jackson call the cops now? I know for sure that Michael and Theresa Ball are not legal identities.”
Jackson plays along, taking out his phone, even though there's no way in hell I'd call the cops. That would bring attention to me, and I don't have a legal identity right now.
Mom doesn't know that though, and backs up, letting us in. “The Lord teaches us to submit to the will of those in authority above us,” she mutters, and I see just how sad Mom looks. She'd always been pretty conservative, foregoing makeup most of the time, but she looks positively mousy now, her hair grown out, but hanging in two thick and limp braids that stretch halfway down her back. She's in a dress that I think might have started its life as a very ugly couch. Pale blue and pink rose patterns dominate the shapeless bag of a dress, and she's wearing house slippers. “You're breaking the Lord's will.”
“And I'm pretty sure if I dig in the Bible long enough, I'll find something that says that faking your own death and abandoning your daughter is also against the Lord's will, too,” Jackson replies, thankfully. Listening to her speak, I'm too angry and sad at the same time to form words. I want to scream and cry, but I'm paralyzed, not saying much at all. “Where's Samuel?”
“He don't live by that name no more,” Theresa says, but points anyway. “His name's Michael now. Like the archangel.”
“Theresa?” a harsh voice booms from the living room. “What the fuck are you babbling in there? We got visitors?”
The way Theresa flinches motivates me to speak, and I step forward, going toward the living room of the apartment. “Yeah, some ghosts from the past,” I say, walking into the living room. Samuel is sitting in a cheap recliner, his eyes going wide as I walk in. “Hello... Daddy.”
“Katrina...” Samuel whispers, then plasters a big, fake smile on his face. “Oh honey, it's so good to see you!”
Theresa and Jackson are right behind me, and I restrain myself carefully as Samuel gets to his feet and holds his arms out, coming over to give me a hug. I hold my hand up, and he stops a few feet away, realization dawning on his face that I'm not here for a happy family reunion. “I guess I should have expected that,” he says, dropping his hands and sighing. “Well, will you have a seat at least? We've got a lot to talk about.”
I look at Jackson, who arranges his body in the short connecting hallway, blocking most of it with his bulk while Theresa sits down in a wooden rocking chair, her hands folded in her lap and her legs jammed together. Her head is hanging slightly, but whether it's in shame or if she's praying, I can't tell. Jackson gives me a nod, and I grab an ottoman from the couch area and squat down on it. I don't want to be backed up against anything. “All right... talk. Start with why the fuck you faked your deaths and left me in New Orleans to go through six years of hell in foster care.”