The Family

THE FAMILY S. E. GREEN CONTENTS 1. Leah 2. Nyla 3. Leah 4. Nyla 5. Leah 6. Nyla 7. Leah 8. Nyla 9. Leah 10. Nyla 11. Leah 12. Nyla 13. Leah 14. Nyla 15. Leah 16. Nyla 17. Leah 18. Nyla 19. Leah 20. Nyla 21. Leah 22. Nyla 23. Leah 24. Nyla 25. Leah 26. Nyla 27. Leah Chapter 28 Epilogue Books by S. E. Green About the Author Copyright © S. E. Green, 2023 The right of S. E. Green to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted per the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1976. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in a retrieval system, in any form or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real people, alive or dead, is purely coincidental. ONE LEAH Present Day I move around the kitchen, pouring myself another mug of coffee, retrieving a container of fresh mango from the refrigerator, and washing Walker’s oatmeal bowl. Situated in North Georgia’s Appalachian Mountains, our log home overlooks the river that feeds a nearby lake. It’s April when the water and the air temperatures often merge, blanketing the area in fog. I worry about Walker’s drive down the mountain to work. In the snow, visibility tends toward bright and crisp, but in the fog, he often relies on memory to navigate. He’s been doing it successfully for years. Still, I worry. On the corner of the honed granite kitchen island rests my iPhone, plugged in and charging. It chimes, indicating someone is at our front door. A glance at the clock shows it’s 7:30. That’s odd. We’re remote and not expecting anyone or a delivery. I bring up the security camera as the person knocks. An image flickers onto the screen. Outside my front door is a very skinny girl with her head down, bony shoulders poking through a thin, long sleeve T-shirt. Her dull brown hair is shorn to a buzz cut. She turns, looking directly in the camera. I gasp. It can’t be. My beautiful and curvy daughter is a skeleton, a shadow of her former self. Her once flush cheeks look pallid. Her vibrant and happy eyes sit dark and sunken in. She knocks again. I trip over my own feet as I race from the kitchen, disengage the alarm, and fling open the front door. “Nyla? Oh my God. Nyla!” “Hi,” she hesitantly responds. My daughter’s voice melts through me. She melts through me. I haven’t seen or heard from her in over five years. My heart pounds. I don’t know what to do. My gaze bounces past her to the driveway where my Mercedes sits, beyond that the trees, and the road further on. How did she get here? What’s happened? I look back at her. Her mouth trembles into an unsure smile. The gesture snaps me back. Tears burst free. I step onto the front porch and wrap my daughter in a strong embrace. I hug her hard, more than aware of her delicate frame, and not caring. Nyla doesn’t return my hug. Instead, she folds her arms over her chest and tucks in beneath my chin. Just like she used to do as a child. * * * Now wrapped in a blanket, Nyla sits at the kitchen table, her feet up on the chair as she cradles her bent knees. I made her pancakes, her favorite, but she’s barely taken one bite. Instead, she stares out at the river. I can’t stop looking at her bony knees sticking through holes in her black leggings. When was the last time she ate? Where has she been? Does her father have anything to do with this? I want to ask all of those questions and more, but I won’t risk saying the wrong thing. Not again. Instead, I clear my throat and ask what I hope is a neutral question. “You don’t have any things?” Nyla shakes her head. “Do you need a doctor?” “No.” “How did you get here?” “I hitchhiked.” The thought of her hitchhiking makes my stomach hurt. “From where?” “Tennessee.” “How did you know I’d be here at Grandma’s place?” “I didn’t.” Her response confuses me. I moved here from Atlanta two years ago. If she didn’t know I’d be here, what was she going to do—break in? “You live here now?” she asks, still looking out at the river. “Yes.” “No more ‘big city’?” “No.” “Oh.” Some odd seconds tick by. “I’m so very happy to see you,” I add, still in shock that she’s here beside me. It’s all I can do not to cry again. Nyla finally looks over at me, giving a closed-lip smile that reminds me of her father. “Me too.” A shaky breath leaves me. I concentrate on not getting emotional. It’s one of the things that always annoyed Nyla. But a tear escapes anyway. I press a knuckle to the corner of my eye, praying she doesn’t see it. “I’m going to bed now. Okay?” Nyla asks. “Why don’t you grab a hot shower and I’ll get the room ready.” * * * I prepare the guest room, stripping the bed and putting on clean sheets. In the connecting bathroom, I hear the running shower. She’s been in there forever. At first, she left the door open, but I closed it to give her privacy. When she first left our condo in Atlanta, I convinced myself it would only be a few weeks. Every mother and daughter had fights. Nyla would be back after she calmed down. In truth, I initially liked the calm that came with her absence. But weeks turned to months. Months to a year.