SCOUT Page 4

  Her eyes shone with a cold purpose, chilling me to the bone.

  Chapter 6

  Morning rush at The Bean Counter1.

  I opened up shop at 6am, and two hours later came the deluge. Seniors, driving their moms’ SUVs, stopped by for a skinny latte with hazelnut, and office workers opted for a triple jolt of caffeine with a dose of sugary pastry to banish the hangover. As the nine o’clock deadline approached, the crowd became desperate. They double-parked and snatched the coffee out of my hands.

  Moyheddin and I worked like a machine. Grinding the beans, slamming the powder into the filter, steaming the milk, adding the syrup. We no longer put the lid on for you. A time-and-motion study found that it took, on average, 1.54 seconds to select and fit a plastic lid. It was deemed unproductive, so that nicety of drink preparation is now left to our ‘friends’.

  I hope you like being called a ‘friend’. That is something to do with The Bean Counter’s philosophy. You’re not a customer to us, you’re more valuable. You’re a ‘friend’ we greet every day, which is why we ask for your name to write on your recyclable cup. You’re a person, not a ‘double-shot cappuccino with lite-almond to go’.

  You won’t be fooled by the bonhomie. Not when you can cross over to North Avenue and find yet another Bean Counter, with staff dressed exactly like me, who will greet you in exactly the same way. Or indeed when you go to Chicago and find a Bean Counter on every corner, and each smiling barista will hand the drink over with the same blessing –

  “May Your Drink Go With You!”

  - as if we were offering a dose of Eastern mysticism and the chance of reincarnation rather than an over-priced diffusion of toasted beans in hot water with added lactose.

  Moyheddin is my best friend. He’s a twenty-two-year-old Saudi Arabian, and we know each other’s secrets. He told me that he had a wife at home, but that she discovered him in bed with the boy who delivered bread. It was an awkward situation, though not unknown in Arabic countries. When Moyheddin told the story, he shook his head in self-reproach.

  “If only I had granted Soraya a child, then she would not have made such a fuss. But two years of marriage, and still I had not done the ‘thing’ with her. I couldn’t bring myself to do it. She was pretty, Scout, I have to tell you that. Without her headscarf, if she walked into The Bean Counter she would turn every man into a puddle of lust. She even ordered frillies from Victoria’s Secret, but it did nothing for me. I couldn’t perform. And then she found me with Idris.”

  Soraya raised the roof, threatening to report Moyheddin to the religious police, or mutaween, who took their work so seriously they would make the Gestapo look like hall monitors. He managed to calm down Soraya long enough to secure a student visa and flee to the United States. What happened to the bakery boy he didn’t say.

  *

  “You seen my lighter?” he asked, patting himself down.

  “It’s in your jacket, hanging by the bathroom door. Left pocket.”

  Moyheddin had come to rely on my uncanny ability to put my hand on the thing that people had had just a moment before but could no longer find. He was the only person I’d told about my debacle at the Rolling Hills Golf City.

  We’d taken a break, in that lull between breakfast and the arrival of the Moms’ Brigade, with their military-grade strollers and ninja toddlers. Though the morning had a late-autumn bite, we sat on the back step in our short-sleeved uniforms, whilst Moyheddin rolled a cigarette. You can tell what time of the month it is by how generous he is with his tobacco. That day the roll-your-own was as thin as a witch’s finger, which told me that his rent was due.

  He had to suck hard to taste the red-hot thatch.

  This was our ten minutes together, and I could tell that Moyheddin had been dying to speak to me all morning.

  “I’ve just been working it out,” he said, amidst a puff of smoke.

  “Yeah?”

  “Property prices are going up.”

  “They are?”

  “Read it in the Sun Argus. First time in years. Now’s the time to sell.”

  “Thank you, Moyheddin. I’ll just check my portfolio and get back to you on that one.”

  “I am serious, habibti. You are sitting on a gold mine.”

  “My ass?”

  “No, stupid. I am not suggesting that you become a streetwalker. You haven’t the boobies, if you don’t mind me saying. I’m talking about your house – it’s worth a fortune.”

  “It’s also where I live, so how’s that going to benefit me?”

  “Listen - if this Navajo-tracking stuff doesn’t work out, you are going to have to go to college and become a student like me.”

  “You’re not a student, Moyheddin. You grind coffee.”

  “True. But I will be a student again, one day. I will resume my studies, but this time in New York. We can do it together.”

  “Ha!” I laughed, wondering what else he had put into the rolling paper apart from American Spirit.

  “You want to be a doctor, yes?” he asked.

  “A neuroscientist. That’s a little different.”

  “But it’s medicine?”

  I nodded.

  “Medicine earns big bucks,” he told me. “What you do is this – you sell your house, lease it back, and when you’re working at Mount Sinai you buy it back. In the meantime, the money you get from the sale will pay your way through school.”

  “Well, you’ve certainly got a point there, Moy.”

  “It is more than a point, habibti. This makes good business sense. I was studying accountancy, so I should know. It’s foolproof; and all along your mom will be taken care of.”

  That was the problem. I had a child at home, only this child was the size of an adult and, in an ironic twist on the natural order of things, was growing more dependent with the passing years.

  You wonder why I had no close friends? Then think again. Most of my friends drifted off when I could no longer sleep over, or visit camp, and Mom became a troublesome interloper on teenage chat.

  Those who remained, the Science Club geeks, had split for college that fall. Not having a phone, I’d lost touch with their Facebooked lives.

  Ten minutes of friendly communion is all I got, three times a day on the back stoop of The Bean Counter.

  Later that night I went through Moyheddin’s math, which was good as long as the property prices didn’t crash. It was an elegant solution, I will give him that. Assuming, of course, that I got into medical school, and assuming that – somehow – I snagged a well-paid job at the end of it.

  Both of us dreamt of the city. It needn’t be New York – Chicago is closer – but the Big Apple was a romantic totem to us both. For Moyheddin, it was the bright lights that attracted him. I think, secretly, he hoped to bump into Taylor Lautner at one of the nightclubs.

  And me? Forget science, forget the cutting edge study of the brain, for me the city represented just one thing:

  Freedom.

  Chapter 7

  There was a brown Honda waiting by the house. As I fitted my key in the door, a man and a woman stepped out to join me.

  “Lauren Mann?” the woman asked.

  She had an ID card on a lanyard around her neck. Her name was Maggie, and like her colleague, John, she was a social worker, employed by the county health department.

  “We tried calling,” she said.

  “Yeah?” I shrugged, trying to act nonchalant. “Mom had an argument with the phone company.”

  It was a bit more than an argument, actually. She had taken to phoning world leaders late at night. The lateness of the hour did not bother those important statesmen because Eileen never got further than the switchboard (except once when she was put through to the King of Malaysia).

  What the phone company objected to was the cost. It wasn’t cheaper to phone in the midd
le of the night if it was midday in Kuala Lumpur. They cut off the line, and as far as I know there is still a court order with Eileen’s name on it. I have taken to throwing away any mail that looks official, which is unfortunate as otherwise I would have been warned that social workers were going to visit.

  “We’ve come for a home assessment,” explained John. His crumpled clothes and wire glasses were calculated to convey an easy-going impression.

  “I’m no longer at school,” I said. “I graduated a year early, and now I work full-time. You can check with my boss.”

  “It’s not you we’re bothered about, Lauren, it’s your mom. Is Eileen at home?”

  I could hardly deny it, as from inside I could hear Cutting Crew’s ‘I Just Died In Your Arms Tonight’.

  “We knocked on the door,” explained Maggie, “but got no reply. To tell the truth, we’ve got some concerns.”

  “She’s a big music fan – likes to play it loud,” I said, opening the door, closing my eyes and not daring to imagine what horror was about to confront us.

  We were hit with the smell of baking.

  “Hi, Scout!” shouted Eileen. “I’m making cookies!”

  Mom appeared from the kitchen, fully dressed for the first time in months, her hair was brushed and set, and her make-up, though heavy, was accurately applied.

  Oh Mom, Mom, you darling, I thought. It was as if she knew the social workers were outside.

  I snatched a look at Maggie’s and John’s faces as Eileen returned to the kitchen and brought out a tray of cookies. Both of them had eyebrows raised in surprise. I must have had a similar expression on my face, because Mom had long since given up cooking for me.

  I expected the cookies to be charred husks, but some remnant of Eileen’s kitchen skills had guided her hand because the cookies looked fine.

  “They’re still doughy – just as you like ‘em,” she said, reaching for a slice. This is where I made my move. Eileen had a habit of breaking things just as she finished them. The frustration could drive her into a tantrum that would not cease until she fell asleep.

  So I took the cookies and steered her to her chair. Since ‘Woody’ Forrester’s surprise visit, I had tidied up the house and swept cobwebs from the corners. Normally there would be a sprawl of magazines on the table which Eileen would leaf through as if searching for a hidden truth. Haphazardly piled on top would be used plates and discarded clothing. Horrified by what Mike had seen, I had cleared all of it away.

  I could hardly believe my luck. Eileen’s meds must’ve kicked in, because she even managed a smile as the two strangers sat on the sofa.

  “How are you feeling, Eileen?” asked John.

  “Just dandy,” she said, as if we were at a church coffee morning.

  That’s why she takes the medication. It’s not to prevent her brain cells committing hara-kiri – nothing can do that – but it’s an antipsychotic. Stops her getting paranoid, or delusional, which in turn makes her angry. She was so mellow that it made me wonder whether she had helped herself to an extra dose.

  “And how are you getting on financially?”

  “We’re fine,” I replied, jumping in. “There’s a veteran’s pension from my dad. I deal with the books.”

  “But your mom still signs?”

  “Of course.”

  “We need to check that.”

  Oh shit. I had been forging Mom’s signature for as long as I could remember. She couldn’t even hold a pen.

  “Eileen?” asked Maggie, leaning forward to dominate Mom’s eyeline.

  I noticed that Maggie had not touched the cookies. I don’t blame her. In her line of work, it was probably best not to accept food, as folk don’t often take kindly to having their private lives explored.

  “Eileen?” she asked again. “Can you write something for me?”

  “Of course I can,” shot back Eileen. “What of it?”

  Way to go, Mom!

  Maggie held out a ballpoint pen.

  “Would you write something for us now? Just your name, perhaps?”

  Maggie clicked the ballpoint and stretched across the coffee table. Eileen looked down on it as if she were being handed a poisoned chalice.

  “Is this a test?” she asked.

  “Of sorts,” replied Maggie.

  “Well, I’m not doing a test. Not in my own house. I’ve had enough of tests.”

  “Please, Mrs Mann. It’s just a simple test.”

  But Mom had drifted off. If she was thinking of anything at all, there might be the ghost of a memory of the tests that had confirmed her diagnosis. There was the painful lumbar puncture to tap her cerebrospinal fluid, and the PET scan in a cold room with a huge magnet like a sci-fi time machine. The results of those tests brought a new word to our lives – ‘frontotemporal’ - and in those days she was still able to comprehend what it meant.

  Eileen sunk into her high-backed chair, her gaze averted from the pen. No more tests for her. She wanted no more bad news.

  “She’s tired,” I said.

  “I’m sure she is,” said Maggie. “But we need to know that she’s not being coerced.”

  “Who the hell would be coercing her?” I asked. “Not me! I spend my life looking after her. Where were you when I was in Middle Grade and she first got sick? We didn’t get a ‘home assessment’ then!”

  “Your mother was picked up two days ago by the police - in her nightdress. That’s why we’re here.”

  “I take good care of her!”

  “I’m sure you do.”

  Maggie and John smiled infuriating smiles, full of understanding and concern. It cloaked something deeper – a threat. These two people could take Eileen away from me.

  *

  I showed them Eileen’s bedroom, with the rubber sheet. We discussed the brand of adult diaper that Eileen wore at night. And I showed them the medicine cabinet, locked at all times. Each drug was neatly labelled and kept on a separate shelf. If you knew the cost, you too would take great care of those meds. They were about as valuable, ounce for ounce, as solid gold.

  I showed them the bathroom, which I had gone over with thick gloves and Clorox since Woody’s visit.

  What if he dropped by again and wanted a pee?

  I couldn’t let Mike ‘Woody’ Forrester smell the diaper bin, or see the mildewed shower curtain. With a ray of late October sunlight scattered through the mottled glass, the bathroom seemed to shine.

  Each morning this is where I peeled off Eileen’s nightclothes and showered her down. Don’t feel sorry for me. You get used to it, just as a mother gets used to yellow baby shit. The only difference being that babies grow out of diapers and get to sit on the potty like everyone else. Pretty soon, Eileen would need to wear a diaper all day.

  *

  Maggie and John spoke quietly to each other by the front door. Nodding in agreement, they turned to give their verdict.

  “You’re doing very well, Lauren,” said John, his brows no longer knitted in concern.

  Maggie smiled over to Eileen.

  “Mrs Mann, we were just saying that we think your daughter is taking good care of you.”

  An expression of horror passed across Mom’s face. I had seen that look before, and so I jumped in quick to intercept the thought behind it.

  “She says we’re doing well, Eileen,” I said, my voice as calm as possible.

  But the social workers would not let go.

  “You should be proud of your daughter,” said John, beaming as if he had somehow brought a little happiness into the world.

  “I don’t have a daughter,” snapped Eileen.

  Oh no, here it comes.

  “What kind of girl do you think I am?” demanded Eileen. “Not even married and now you’re accusing me of having a daughter. Like I’m some sort of whore!“

 
“No, Eileen, that isn’t what we meant,” said Maggie. But there was no stopping Mom. The meds must have worn off.

  “I don’t sleep around if that’s what you mean!” she shouted. “Rooting anything in trousers. That ain’t me. And I certainly don’t have a daughter!”

  “We just meant that Lauren is taking good care of you,” said John, trying on his mild-mannered act. “Your daughter - Lauren.”

  “Lauren?” shrieked Mom, laughing in his face. “That’s not Lauren – that’s Scout!

  “And Scout’s not my daughter!”

  Chapter 8

  The doorbell rang just as I was putting Eileen to bed. With a head full of meds, she was asleep as soon as she hit the pillow.

  The doorbell rang again.

  Wait a moment!

  I brushed Eileen’s hair from her face, leant down and kissed her forehead. Though she didn’t know it, she was still my mom. She would never know how much I loved her.

  The doorbell rang for a third time as I snatched it open.

  “Yes?!” I asked, irritated.

  It was Molly on the step, in police uniform.

  “We found her,” she said. “We found the Franklin girl.”

  *

  When Molly returned from our trip to Rolling Hills, the police captain called her into his office. Mrs Franklin had lodged a complaint, and he wanted to know why Molly had gone sniffing around the property.

  “I told him I had a hunch,” said Molly. “You should have seen his face, because he’s known me for a long time, and knows that I don’t believe in guesswork. ‘A hunch?’ he asked, and I thought he might throw me out of his office. But as I said, he’s known me since I was a rookie, and he’s learnt that a woman can have brains as well as breasts.”

  “Did you tell him about me?” I asked.

  “Don’t worry, Scout. I kept you out of it. I just told him that I had dropped by for a social visit with my niece – that’s you – and that something about the parents struck me as suspicious. Father was broken up about it, whilst Mom was dressed up like she was running for public office, courting the TV station and enjoying the publicity. It didn’t smell right. So we set up surveillance.”