“I’m not going to get into this with you again,” she replies as calmly as she can. “I’m going to go home, and I’ll call you in a few days when you’ve calmed down.”
“Don’t call ever again,” he shouts after her as she walks out of the room. “And you’re never to see Isa again.”
“Dad, stop,” I hiss. “Leave Grandma alone. She didn’t do anything wrong.”
My dad’s attention whips back to me and, by the anger in his eyes, I expect him to yell at me. But when he speaks, he’s unsettling composed. “We’re not going to talk about this ever again. No mention of it, okay?”
I shake my head. “No. I’m going to mention it. A lot. And I’m going to bug you until you tell me who my mom is.”
He ignores me, his back as stiff as a board. “I’m going to go get the doctor.”
Before I can get another word out, he leaves the room.
I grit my teeth, more furious than I’ve ever been. I make another vow to myself right then and there that the second I get home, I’m going to get my hands on my birth certificate.
OKAY, SO I might have been too confident at the hospital about how easy it was going to be to get ahold of my birth certificate. I’ve been searching the house for days and haven’t stumbled across it yet. I did find Hannah’s in a trunk in my parent’s room, so logically it seemed like mine should be in there too. But nope. Not even my social security card was in there. I even tried looking for information on the Internet, but all that came up under my name was my blog and the last entry I made on it, where I broke down and rambled on about my search for my mother.
I thought about deleting the post right after I wrote it, but since I have three followers and none of them are from around here—except for Grandma Stephy—I decided it’s okay to leave it up. Plus, it felt kind of good to talk about it aloud . . . well, aloud in a way.
To add more complication to my life, Lynn and my dad have gone into Isabella Doesn’t Exist Mode. They refuse to acknowledge when I’m in the room, when I speak, or even when I ‘accidentally’ dropped a glass cup on the floor to try to get their attention. My dad did make eye contact with me a couple of times, but mostly he just stares at me like he’s seen a ghost. The look is honestly creeping me out.
If it weren’t for Hannah, I’d seriously believe I somehow got ahold of an invisibility cape and am unintentionally wearing it. But she lets me know I still exist in the visible realm, in a very, very Hannah-like way.
“What’s up with those god awful shoes?” she asks Saturday morning as I enter the kitchen to get some breakfast. She’s wearing her pajamas with no makeup on and her hair’s a mess.
I glance down at the flip-flips on my feet. “I have to wear flats because of this.” I point to the bandage on my knee that covers the stitches.
“You look fucking stupid. Like you’re going to the beach or something, which is just dumb since we live in the mountains and it’s September. Plus, you really need a mani/pedi if you’re going to wear stuff like that,” Hannah sneers as she breaks apart a granola bar. Once it’s in half, she reads the side of the box. “So that makes it seventy-five calories,” she mutters to herself.
All the things I wish I could say to her burn at the tip of my tongue, but I bite them back, mostly because I’m not in the mood to war with her.
While she’s calorie counting, I steal a vanilla cupcake from the platter on the kitchen island and a soda from the fridge. As I’m hurrying out of the room, her eyes zero in on me.
“Ew, is that what you’re eating for breakfast?” she says, glaring at the cupcake in my hand. “You’re going to get fat if you eat like that.”
“I always eat like this.” I lick a huge glob of frosting off the top of the cupcake. “It’s so yummy.”
She practically drools as she eyeballs the delicious treat in my hand, and I find it oddly satisfying, knowing she wants to eat the cupcake, but won’t.
“Good luck keeping the weight off,” she hollers after me as I dash out of the kitchen. “Oh yeah, and Isa!”
“So close,” I mumble to myself. Then I lean back and pop my head into the kitchen. “Yeah?”
“Mom and Dad wanted me to tell you something.” She drums her manicured nails against the granite countertop. “Hmmm . . . I think it was important, but I can’t remember what it is.” A smirk curls at her lips. “Oh, I remember. They told me to tell you that they loved you, to be safe, and that if you need anything to call them.”
“They did?” I ask then a second later realize my mistake. But it’s too late. She’s already grinning like the Cheshire Cat.
“Oh, wait,” she says with a fake laugh. “That message was for me. Not you.” She stands up from the barstool with half a granola bar in her hand. “They wanted me to remind you that you’re not allowed to see Grandma Stephy, and to make sure to clean the entire house while they’re gone.” She skips out of the kitchen, intentionally bumping me into the wall as she passes by me.
I’m unsure if she’s telling the truth or not, but I’d be lying if it didn’t gut me apart. I hate that there’s a huge chance she’s not lying.
By the time I make it to my room, my eyes are watery, my chest aches with loneliness, and I’ve wolfed down most of the cupcake. I pop the tab on the soda and take a swig before setting the can down on the nightstand. Then I stare at my plain white walls that are patched up from all the tacks and nails I used to hold up my drawings and posters. Indigo has yet to make it over to paint the mural, because we haven’t really gotten a chance. I know if my parents are around when she comes over they’ll put a stop to our painting and punish me big time. If I do paint it while they’re gone, it’ll take them some time to discover what I’ve done, since they’ve gone back to never coming up to my room.
I decide to text Indigo so we can put the mural plan in motion, since my parents are on vacation for the weekend.
Me: Hey, u wanna come over and paint my wall or what?
Indigo: Sorry! Can’t today. I have a job interview.
I’m mildly bummed, but super excited for her.
Me: Where?!
Indigo: At that art gallery I told u about.
Me: Yay! I’ll keep my fingers crossed for u.
Indigo: U better. If I get this job then I can get my own place. No offense to Grandma Stephy, but I’m getting a little tired of Friday night poker at the community center. Plus, that Harry dude has been coming over a lot. I seriously can’t look either one of them in the eye when they’re together.
Me: LOL. I still can’t believe we walked in on them.
Indigo: I wish I could forget . . . the sounds . . . they still haunt my nightmares.
Me: But she seems happy with this Harry dude, right?
Indigo: She really does.
Me: Good. I want her to be happy. And fingers and toes crossed u get the job!
Indigo: Thanx! Let u know when I do. Rain check on the room painting.
Me: Yep! Might go get paint supplies today, since I don’t have anything else to do.
Other than look for my birth certificate. But I’m honestly running out of places to look. There’s only one thing I can think of to do and that’s confront my dad. But I’m not sure if he’ll even acknowledge me asking.