Page 4 of Ruining Hattie

BASTION

I pull up in front of the address typed on the report and stare at the house. I wasn’t sure what I was going to find, but this perfect slice of Americana wasn’t it.

The home isn’t huge by any means, but it’s well cared for with a red brick path leading to the white-sided two-story with black shutters. A generous porch runs across the front of the house, and the hedges that line the walkway to the house from the sidewalk are perfectly manicured.

It’s about as far as you can get from the dilapidated apartment I escaped from when I was eleven.

My hands wrap around the steering wheel of my rental car until my knuckles turn white.

What the hell am I even doing here?

It’s a good question and one I still can’t answer.

When I woke up the day after reading the report, I knew I had to come see with my own eyes that my mother is still alive.

I booked a last-minute flight for some reason.

Maybe it’s the disbelief that my mom is actually still alive after the way I left her.

Maybe someone stole her identity after they found her dead in her own vomit.

It’s not like there was anyone who would report her missing.

Then there’s the final theory—maybe Mr. Smith is really shitty at his job, and he has the wrong person, who knows?

There has to be a more logical explanation than the fact that my mom cleaned herself up and got her shit together but never came looking for her only child.

I don’t even know why the fuck I care. I’m thirty-seven years old, not a child anymore, and I made it on my own without her.

But the fact is, something inside me needs to know. So I continue down the street, parking on the other side of the road. Far enough down that I can see the house and its comings and goings, but not close enough to draw the attention of the residents.

I grip the steering wheel for about a half an hour before a modest sedan pulls into the driveway. Cursing the way my heart beats faster at the possibility that the car could hold my mother, I try to see who is driving, but the tinted windows don’t allow it.

When the driver’s door opens, my throat constricts that this could be the moment.

A second later, a wash of relief floods through me.

Yeah, either Mr. Smith got it all wrong or this is just a friend.

It’s not my mother, but a woman in her early twenties with long dark hair, dressed as though she’s just come from some boring office job.

The front door of the house opens, and an older woman steps out onto the porch.

A rush of air leaves my lungs, and I gasp because there’s no doubt this woman is indeed my mother. Though she’s much older than the last time I saw her, and it’s hard to tell with her healthy weight and glowing skin, it’s her.

Her hair, now gray, is cut in a bob to her shoulders, and she’s wearing a pair of beige capris and a light blue T-shirt. She’s no longer gaunt with deep, dark grooves under her eyes and no meat on her bones. It’s obvious she’s healthy and taking care of herself. Which for some reason pisses me off.

The way she smiles at the young woman making her way around her vehicle and up to the porch makes me feel as if there’s a volcano in my chest ready to erupt.

“Well, well, well, hello, Hattie,” I say to myself.

My mom brings her in for a hug and closes her eyes as though she’s savoring the moment. My hand falls to the door handle, but I stop myself from opening the car door and hurling myself at them. Instead, I swallow down the bile rising up my throat and blow out a breath.

As if the tender hug wasn’t enough, my mom pulls back and runs her palm down Hattie’s innocent face, and I break out into a cold sweat. I don’t know if it’s anger or shock, probably a little of both.

Over the years, I’d forgotten about her running her palm down my face.

Probably because they were rare moments when she was lucid and looking at me with apology for being a shitty mom who couldn’t get clean.

She did it a lot in the early years of her addiction, but by the end, before I ran away, those moments never came, no matter how much I wished for her to just see me and what she was putting me through.

And seeing her do the same thing to someone who isn’t even her real daughter…

My hands squeeze into fists so tight that I have no choice but to release the tension. I’m surprised my teeth don’t turn to dust with how hard I’m clenching them.

Un-fucking-believable.

She can’t even take care of her own son, but here she is, looking adoringly into this young woman’s eyes like she means the fucking world to her?

Thank goodness for Trent, who taught me the self-control needed for patience because had he not, I’d already have rushed the front porch. Instead, I watch as they go inside, and I ponder my next move.

And there will be a next move because one thing is for certain—it’s time Carla Sinclair pays for her sins.

A couple of hours later, the darling stepdaughter walks toward her car. There’s no sign of Carla anywhere. I refuse to think of her as my mother now that I know she’s been alive all this time. She’s simply Carla to me now.

I don’t know what possesses me to follow who I presume is Hattie, but five minutes after she leaves Carla’s, she pulls into a church parking lot.

Who the fuck spends their Friday night at church? Sunday mornings I get. You want to believe in a higher power so you can feel better about the fucked-up shit you do? By all means, go for it. But a Friday night? This woman must be innocence and purity personified. Either that or an idiot.

I scowl as I watch her leave the car and make her way into the church.

Within a minute, I pull away. She can spend her night here, but I’m not going to spend my entire Friday night in a goddamn church parking lot. Instead, I go find a hotel to check into and raid the minibar and stew over what I want to do, if anything.

I don’t bother to leave my room until Sunday morning, spending Friday night and all day Saturday tying one on and attempting to push away the memories of the past that seem determined to haunt me since I started this stupid quest.

I’ve always been willing to drink, but not generally to excess—likely a by-product of growing up with an addict for a mother. But I was desperate to get rid of the oily feeling slinking through my veins. It’s like I’m right back there as a little boy who just wants his mom to love him.

My head is pounding as I pull into the church parking lot, knowing, based on Mr. Smith’s report, that Carla, her husband, and Hattie will be in attendance.

I’m still not sure whether I want to confront Carla or not.

I chuckle, thinking that causing a scene in the middle of a church service might be the most punishing way to get back at her.

To ruin the perfect life she’s made for herself.

Expose her for what she is and reveal to all the other parishioners exactly the kind of woman who has been hiding in their midst.

But my thirst for revenge demands more.

Church has already begun, and the parking lot is nearly full. No one is leaving their cars or exiting the building. Curious to see if Carla can indeed really be inside a church and not burst into flames, I exit the rental vehicle and head inside.

The door to the sanctuary is open to the foyer, so I can hear the minister speaking as I head in. Once I’m inside, I stop at the back and look around the pews, stopping on Carla and her family. The back few pews are empty, so I slide into one that affords me the opportunity to watch them.

Of course, nothing much happens during the service, but once they’re done, I watch as the three of them stand and speak with the people around them.

Even from back here, it’s clear from Carla and her husband’s body language that Hattie is their pride and joy.

Whatever they’re talking to the people about, it must be about Hattie with the way they gesture to her as if she’s a crown jewel with their chests puffed out.

I clench my hands in my lap when Carla wraps an arm around Hattie’s shoulders and squeezes her into her side.

Then an idea comes to mind.

An idea of how I can get back at my mother for what she did.

Little, sweet Hattie might just need a little corrupting.

It’s almost too brilliant. I’m surprised the idea didn’t come to me sooner.

Ruin Hattie and then reveal to Carla that I’m the one who corrupted her innocent stepdaughter.

And she’ll only have herself to blame—if she hadn’t raised me the way she did and decided not to find me once she was sober, I wouldn’t have the capacity to ruin an innocent young woman.

But our predicament is Carla’s fault, and it’s time she knows what she did.

With a smile, I rise up from the pew and walk toward the exit.

I’ll be back, and by then, I’ll be ready and armed to do some damage.