Dream Keeper (Dream Team 4)

“So, will you ask them to help find Birch, or what?” she pressed.

Okay, I made really good money as a stripper.

Bought myself a nice townhome in a nice complex with great landscaping and the War of the Seasonal Décor happening, awesomely furnish that townhome, keep my kid (and myself, I had to admit) in trendy/stylish/good quality clothes type of good money.

I even made a monthly deposit into the savings account Corbin and I started when Juno was born that I wrested from him when she was five and I found out he was still fucking his high school sweetheart. And when I used the word “still” I used it in the sense that he hadn’t quit since high school. And at that time, I was twenty-five and he was twenty-eight.

If I could keep those deposits up and play with that money, shifting it around in high-interest CDs and the like, it would take the pressure off financially should Juno go to college or a trade school. And if she didn’t, then it’d be a nice nest egg for her to set up for life, saving her from credit card debt she might accrue because she needed pots and pans and a couch.

What was left over from my earnings was little and it was firmly set aside for a rainy day. And because it was sparse (though growing) and anything could happen, I never touched it.

But I supposed when your mother had cancer—and Saffron was not hiding that things were bad—you considered it a rainy day.

Birch no way, no how would come home to join hands and kumbaya God.

That said, my brother was a good guy. Funny and smart, and until he took off, he and I as the outcasts of that crew were thick as thieves.

I got it. I didn’t hold a grudge. I totally understood why he vanished.

But if I knew my brother, he’d want to know this was going down with Mom.

So rainy day time, maybe I should use that extra to hire a private investigator.

If Auggie and the guys, trained in all sorts of things, could find Birch in an hour, so could another PI.

I mean, how much would an hour and a few computer searches cost?

“I’ll figure something out,” I told Saffron.

She stared at me.

“Promise,” I went on.

Saffron sighed.

“I’ll give Mom a call,” I said.

“Fine. But I’m your point person about Birch. Dad and I don’t want you upsetting her.”

It never felt good, being that daughter who “upset” her mother.

I did it a lot by just being me.

“I’ll try not to upset her,” I replied.

She sighed again, this one about five notches above the last one in the level of beleaguered she was, before she walked to the door.

When she had it open, I put my hand on the edge, and shared, “I can help with other things too, you know.”

Having moved over the threshold, Saffron turned to me.

“We need your and Birch’s spirit and guiding light. That’s what we need.”

“Okay, I’ll consider that. So now let’s talk about what Mom needs.”

That got me Saffron’s fuck-you face (though she’d never used the F-word in her life, still, that face totally told me to ef off).

Then she turned and strode on her sensible heels to her minivan that she selected herself, even if she had no husband, no children, but did on occasion need to cart a number of carcasses to revivals.

I watched her get in.

I watched her drive away.

Then I closed my door, rested my head against it, and gave myself a second to gather some strength in the midst of my seriously shitty day.

After that, I went to the phone and called my mother.

I did not mention Birch.

I did offer to make casseroles to help feed her and Dad, as well as come over to clean if she thought that might help.

She declined and asked me to Sunday’s service.

I declined and asked if I could come and visit sometime outside of church time.

Considering I’d just failed in my goal of not upsetting her, she shared I upset her by not saying, “Of course, darling! Come over straight away. I’m scared and anxious and the best thing for me would be time spent with my girl.”

She told me she’d think about it.

She then said she had some corn bread to make, and she had to go.

Wanting to do what I could for my mother in this time, I did what she asked.

I let her go.

Chapter Three

“Stepdad”

Pepper

It was not even a half an hour after my sister left, I was sitting at my desk in the office zone when I saw the car pull into my drive.

My desk faced the window so Juno’s desk could face a carefully, and prettily, constructed gallery wall of corkboards, chalkboards, whiteboards and cute shelves, all hers to use to be creative and express herself.