Starting Over: Prologue

Emilea dearest, if you get the chance, please proof this for me. This is an edit of the story that used to have its own blog. If I make more headway with it, I might start a fictionpress account. Thanks, I love you!

Prologue

Waking up was disorienting. It wasn’t strange having Matthew and Sandy pressed up tightly against me, their hair wet with sweat from the summer morning heat. The loud fan blowing as hard as it could to keep us cool hadn’t startled me awake. It just took me a moment to realize where I was. I sat up quickly, eliciting a grunt from Matthew before he turned over. I quickly surveyed the room. When I located our book bags sitting on an old, white rocking chair, my heart slowed and I slumped in relief. Donny wasn’t about to storm into the room demanding why we were still asleep on a school day. We were in Mississippi, far from his reach. We were safe.

Still, safety wasn’t enough to coax me back to sleep. Extracting myself from Sandy’s arms while trying not to jostle either of them, I slid off of the large bed in the guest room Mabel had let us use. The room was simple but quaint. Lace curtains lined the one small window, and built-in shelves on either side of the window carried antique books, a small radio, some porcelain dolls, and a vase filled with a variety of flowers, no doubt picked from Mabel’s garden. At the end of the bed rested a hand-sewn quilt.

I smiled. The room reflected Mabel’s personality perfectly. Though I’d known her for less than a day, she seemed to be a warm, homey sort of person, and she had filled this room with her love and perspective on life.

I pulled socks over my feet to muffle the sound of my walking and tip-toed to the bathroom. After I relieved myself, I rinsed my hands and my face. When I glanced at myself in the mirror, I noticed a green, terrycloth robe hanging on the towel rack. I reached for it, and noticed a short note attached to it. I grinned as I began to read: “From the desk of Mabel Charity Blythe.

“Emmalyne,

I found this last night in my daughter Jaden’s old bedroom. You two are about the same size, so I thought it might fit you. I hope you like it.

Mabel.”

I laid the note carefully on the countertop, trying to avoid getting it wet, and pulled the robe on. It was a perfect fit, and the material caressed my skin.

After checking in one more time with Matthew and Sandy, I silently left the room and treaded to the kitchen. I glanced at the clock on my way in: 8:13. Anderson had mentioned that breakfast started at 8, so maybe there would at least be some oatmeal on the stove. When I arrived, I was mildly surprised to see Anderson sipping coffee and reading a newspaper. The remnants of a large stack of pancakes sat on a plate in front of him. My stomach growled.

Anderson started at the sound. “Oh, hey, Emmalyne,” he welcomed. He lowered his newspaper. “How are you doin’ this lovely mornin’?”

I grinned at his southern drawl. Kids in Charleston often teased me for the accent I brought with me from Texas, but mine could never compare to his. “Oh, you know,” I answered nonchalantly. “I’m kinda hungry.”

He was on his feet in an instant. He carefully folded his newspaper and stacked his syrup-covered plate in the sink on his way to the griddle. “What can I get for you?” he wanted to know. “Two? Three? Ten?”

I chuckled, almost stopping short when I realized that I was actually laughing. “Maybe I should just start with three?” I suggested nervously.

If Anderson noticed my hesitation, he didn’t comment on it. He poured three perfect circles of batter on the griddle. The appliance hissed with satisfaction as it forced the batter to slowly rise. Bubbles formed on the tops.

“What can I get you to drink while you’re waitin’?” he asked.

I jerked out of my fascination with the cooking pancakes. “Oh, uh…”

“I just fixed up a pot of coffee, if you’re interested,” he offered.

I laughed again, more of a bark this time. A world where I could tolerate any form of coffee had yet to be discovered. “I’m not much of a coffee person,” I admitted. “Maybe…orange juice?”

Anderson nodded swiftly. “Comin’ right up!” He yanked open the refrigerator door and removed a carton of Tropicana: Lots of Pulp orange juice. As he shook it up, he opened a cabinet and retrieved a short glass. He let me sit and pour it myself while he flipped the pancakes.

I sipped the juice and relaxed. It was a nice morning, and Donny wasn’t about to yell at us for drinking too much orange juice and wasting his hard-earned money. Anderson and I sat in companionable silence.

A few minutes later, he presented the pancakes to me with a flourish. Butter melted down the sides of the stack and syrup covered every part that was visible. It looked delectable, and I was suddenly ravenous. Anderson chuckled as I scarfed it all down and paused only to finish and refill my glass of orange juice.

When I finished eating neither of us made any move to leave, so I sat and studied the kitchen. It resembled the guest room in many ways—same lace curtains, a similar assortment of flowers on the window. The countertops carried large containers of flour, sugar, and other such baking goods, as well as an assortment of cutlery and common spices like salt and pepper. A cross-stitched piece was framed and hung on the wall next to the refrigerator: “Home is where the heart is”. Mabel’s touch was evident here as well.

Anderson cleared his throat, breaking my reverie. “I noticed that the kids slept in your room last night,” he told me. He watched me with a guarded expression.

My carefree trust of him diminished rapidly with my fear. “Were you spying on us?” I demanded.

He watched me for another moment, then threw back his head and laughed. The table rumbled with vibrations from his chest. I glared at his prickly brown-gray beard and his twinkly blue eyes. This was not a laughing matter. Anderson didn’t understand how fiercely protective I was of my siblings, how I would sacrifice anything for them. He didn’t get that I rarely trusted anyone with Matthew and Sandy’s safety. If he did, he wouldn’t be so careless with his actions.

After a few seconds, he focused on me again. “What cause would I have to spy on you?” He didn’t wait for me to answer. “I got up to get a drink of water last night, and I decided to check in and make sure you kids were okay. I guess I shouldn’t’ve been too surprised to find the three of you together. Is that typical for you?”

So he hadn’t been spying on us. He was as concerned about them as I was? Or was he? Mabel was, there was no doubt about that. Anderson couldn’t be so much different from his wife. Deciding for the moment that he was still trustworthy, I nodded. “We…find comfort in each other,” I explained. “We feel safer when we’re together.”

Anderson leaned back in his chair, studying me. “I noticed that,” he said. “Those kids…they trust you like you’re their mother.”

“Yes,” I agreed. I filed another mental note next to “wasn’t spying”: “recognized my maternal instinct”. “I’m sorta like the mother they never had.”

He frowned, suddenly serious. “Did your mother die?”

“Oh.” I frowned, too. I guess I could see how he jumped to that conclusion. Metaphorically, she had died to me, but that wasn’t what he wanted to know. “No,” I sighed. “She’s just…not much of a mother.”

For awhile Anderson sat very still. His only motion was his left hand stroking his beard. He seemed deep in thought. Abruptly he stood, coffee mug in hand, and refilled his cup from the coffee-maker next to the gas stove. When he returned to his place at the table, he met my gaze steadily. “I’m tryin’ real hard to figure you out, Emmalyne,” he said slowly, pondering his words even as he said them. “It’s like I’m lookin’ at a Where’s Waldo? book and I can see a bunch of people that look like you, but I can’t find you.”

I laughed lightly, trying to hide my inner turmoil. We weren’t supposed to talk about this for two more days. I wasn’t ready to trust him with my life story yet. I wasn’t even sure if I wanted to stay in his house all day. “I guess I’m not like most runaways you get,” I suggested.

Anderson laughed back. “Most runaways that come through here come alone, or with a boyfriend or girlfriend,” he informed me. His expression was suddenly solemn again. “Most aren’t spendin’ extra money and energy by bringin’ their younger siblings along.” He paused. “I’ve been wonderin’ about that.”

My heart pounded heavily. How much had he already guessed about us? I wasn’t ready to give away that secret. It was reserved for Forrest’s dad. “In all the few hours you’ve known us?” I finally teased.

His face changed from seriousness to anger. “Stop playin’ games with me,” he growled. I jerked, startled by his transformation. “I heard you talkin’ to those kids before you went to bed last night.” Spying, spying! “You were sayin’ that I’d help you get to Texas so you could finally see Forrest again, and that once you got there, all of you would be safe.”

I was terrified and deeply suspicious of this man, but I had to know why this was so bad. “What’s so awful about that?” I asked, voicing my thoughts.

Anderson leaned forward in his seat and lowered his voice. “This Forrest…you have affections for him.”

I wanted to laugh when he said those words—I mean, “have affections for him”? That’s not exactly a common phrase—but all I could do was blush and stare. My burning face gave him all the ammunition he needed to back his theory, but I wasn’t red because I liked Forrest. I didn’t like him, at least not like that. I was suddenly just as mad as he was.

“You think I’m dragging the two people I love more than anything in the world halfway across the country because I wanna hook up with an old boyfriend?” I yelled. He winced, but I kept going. “You don’t know me at all, Anderson Blythe! You don’t know what I’d give up for them. You don’t know—” I stopped abruptly. I’d been about to say, “You don’t know how much danger they’re in.” But that would’ve given too much away.

The tension in his face relaxed, leaving a softer, warmer look in its place. “I’m sorry I upset you,” he said softly. “I didn’t realize just how maternal you really are. I thought it was a cover-up you’d come up with so it would look like you were running away for a good cause.”

I exhaled, letting all my anger out in a rush of air. I laughed bitterly. “We don’t need a cover-up,” I whispered. “Our real story is good enough.”

Anderson leaned back in his chair. He opened his arms in invitation. “Will you tell me?”

I tried to evade it, even though I was resigned to it already. “It’s a long story,” I hedged.

He glanced at his watch. “We’ve got two days,” he answered. He smiled encouragingly.

I sighed. Here goes, I thought.

Hey, Emilea! So I know that it says Prologue at the top, but I'm pretty sure that I'm not going to have a prologue anymore, that I'll just go in order. If you want to see the first two chapters, I have them posted at www.fictionpress.com/~evelynshaye. Thanks!