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Cavernous: Cavernous Trilogy, Book 1

By Monica Mynk

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The old grandfather clock chimes nine thirty, its echo searing the last of my frayed nerves.

I follow a trail of wax to a chipped piece of Mom’s Fiestaware, two feet from the porch swing. Though it’s July, flickers in windows across the street make it feel like Halloween, and set my teeth chattering. The whistling wind overtakes my guiding flame, bringing an unseasonable chill, and causing the shutters to knock as though they, too, can sense my dread.

Where is Mom? Dad’s earlier words still haunt me. She’d never be late without calling.

A passing car illuminates silhouettes of trees, whose limbs tangle and snap in their frenzied dance. The car doesn’t slow, but it spotlights my older sister Amber sitting on the swing with the boy I’ve loved for two years.

She’s wrapped in his muscular arms and caressing his silky brown hair, with her tongue somewhere down the middle of his throat. Ick. And apparently not worried at all about Mom.

Wish she’d hurry up and go to Eastern for the semester. At least I didn’t have to watch them when she was at college.

Ethan yawns and stretches, working himself free from her grasp. One side of his shirt’s untucked and wrinkled, and he stuffs it back into his jeans. “I should leave. Gotta work an eight-to-four tomorrow.” He plants a lingering kiss on her then pats my shoulder. “Bye, Callie. Hope your mom gets home soon.”

“Bye.” My skin tingles where he touched me.

I bite my quivering lip as lightning brightens the whole block, revealing the rural Kentucky skyline. Debris from our last storm swirls over sidewalks and skitters across the blacktop. Ethan hurries down the concrete steps to his black Mustang amidst pelting rain, and disappears into the shadows.
Amber’s perfect lips, swollen from his kisses, contort in a wistful pout.

“He’s so good to me.”

“He’s too good for you.” The now-roaring wind masks my words, and I shiver with the bitter cold it brings, an odd end to such a warm summer day.
I’m too young for Ethan, of course. That’s what Mom said. Quit moping. He’s nineteen, I’m seventeen, and I’m not allowed to date anyone who’s not in high school. And, I can’t go out with anyone who can drive which means I can’t date at all. Never mind Amber’s twenty and she didn’t have to follow these crazy rules.

I slam the screen door. Must be nice to do whatever you want. Although, I’d really love to hear mom’s nagging right now. Where is she?

In the living room, I fluff already-plump pillows and dust the polished coffee table. Amber let wax spill all over the kitchen counter, so I scrape it with a butter knife. She also knocked over a rack of Mom’s crocheting magazines. Squinting in the candlelight, I alphabetize them the way Mom likes.

The power blinks on at the same time an enormous crack of thunder sends me jumping. Amber rushes inside as the electricity fades again. “The storm’s getting bad, Callie. And I’m hungry.”

Mom’s been missing four hours. Priorities, Amber. Blowing hard, I puff my cheeks and count to ten. “Yeah, me too.” I head to the kitchen, grab a jar of peanut butter, and slather it on slices of multigrain bread. “I’m worried. Maybe we should call Dad again.”

Flickering candlelight crawls across her face, creating a landscape of shadowy slopes. “Maybe.” She takes a sandwich and downs it in four large bites.

I try his cell. Whatever keeps Dad from answering must be important. Mom wasn’t in an accident. At least I hope not. He’d tell us. Besides, wouldn’t the police have called?

Another hour passes. The power returns, but wind still jostles the windows. Amber cowers on the couch, watching the radar on our old-school, boxy TV. A hint of her tawny hair peeks from under a blanket, and she resembles a Middle Eastern princess with her striking green eyes and perfect skin. She yawns, long and drawn-out like a cat.

I touch my own face, running my fingers over acne, and catching them in my drab brown locks. “You should go to bed. I’ll wake you if there’s any news.”

“I think I will.” She stretches again and drops the blanket to reveal the low-cut tank top she wore under her jacket. Of course, said jacket spent most of the evening draped over the kitchen chair since Dad wasn’t home. She’s going to end up pregnant before my eighteenth birthday. By the boy I love.

“Monster.” I stalk back into the living room, my head filling with sinister thoughts I’d never act on—shoving her off steps, and tripping her as she crosses my path.

Thunder crackles as if in answer, and I glance at the sky with a sheepish grin. I get it. Thinking it in my heart’s as bad as doing it. Forgiveness and compassion... easier said than done.

I turn off the TV and flop down on the couch so hard it unsettles the cushions.

A piece of white plastic catches my eye, poking out from the depths of the couch. I reach for it, knocking it farther under Amber’s seat. “Get up a second.”

She dives under the blanket.

“Amber. Get up.” I scoop below the cushion and lift, uprooting her slender frame.

Loose change and junk food crumbs litter the burlap covering, as well as a tube of Mom’s favorite lipstick and a gas station receipt. Her purse must have spilled, and she was in such a hurry she didn’t notice. I grasp a plastic driver’s license, photo side down.

As I raise the edge, my heart skips a beat. West Virginia, not Kentucky. I turn it over, revealing Mom’s face underneath a dark wig, distorted by heavy makeup.

Thunder rumbles in the distance while I study Mom’s fake ID. It appears legit, with a barcode and organ donor signature on the back. The plastic’s even scratched a bit. How long has she kept this secret?

I examine it under our CFL lamp, in case light makes a difference. Not even a slight one. But it’s dated a year ago.

When Dad comes home at nine, I show him the license, keeping Amber’s shenanigans quiet. He careens forward, missing the chair and landing in the floor.

I extend my hand and help him into the seat, wincing as he grips my fingers tighter than he should. He sits still for a moment, and then releases me, swinging his arm in a wide arc across the table. The license flies to the floor. “Why, Callie? Why would your mom do this to us?”

“Wish I knew.” Kneeling, I pick it up and set it back on the table, unable to keep the quiver from my voice. “Sorry, Dad.”

Squeezing his chin with one hand and holding his neck with the other, Dad inspects the ID for about thirty minutes. Then he scoots away from the table, bends over double, and rests his elbows on his knees.

I’ve seen him cry one other time, at Grandma’s funeral, and it was nothing like this—a total breakdown in heart-wrenching sobs. Returning to the armchair, I let out wails of my own.

After a few minutes, he excuses himself to the room he shares with Mom, which I’d think would be the last place he’d want to be. His scuffles thud through the wall. He’s probably searching everything she owns for any sign she’s been hiding another identity. With nothing else to do, I crawl into my bed and cry myself to sleep.

Around eight the next morning, the phone rings.

Dad staggers out of his room, glances at the caller ID, and starts the coffee. “Is Amber awake?”

“I tried a few minutes ago, but she didn’t budge.”

“I’m going to run by work.” He grabs his bulging leather satchel. Papers stick out in all directions. “I’ve requested a leave of absence, and I’m getting my courses in order.”

“Okay, we’ll be fine here. You want breakfast?”

“Nah.”

I follow him to the porch.

Dad nods to a woman next door who drags two resistant little girls to a minivan. Four houses down, an older man in a fluffy blue robe walks out to get the paper. Doors slam, men in suits hustle, and car engines rev. Against the skyline, tractors putter across the fields, the part-time farmers returning to their subdivided homes after a few hours of morning labor.

Typical day on Sycamore Street.

Dad mutters to himself as he stands between the car and the door. He watches me until I go back in to the kitchen then falls into the seat.

Filling a bowl with cereal, I blink away more tears. Is Mom having an affair? I scan the ID picture once more. Detailed eye makeup and red lipstick take years from her already stunning face. Darker hair highlights her creamy skin, and the slight curl of her lips gives her a sultry air. An affair is a definite possibility.

Three knocks rattle the front door, and I drag myself into the entry to answer. Mrs. Whitman and company stand on the porch with a box full of baked goods and plastic containers of food. “Morning, Callie. We’ve been praying.”

“Morning, Mrs. Whitman. Mrs. Spencer, Mrs. Parker, Mrs. Bates.” I dole out hugs, my soft cotton tee catching on their gaudy polyester prints. Two still have hair in rollers. “Thank you so much.

Mrs. Whitman shoves past me into the kitchen and sets the box on the counter. “This should keep you guys fed for a couple of days. We’ll be by with more sometime later this week.”

“It took forever to get here. Traffic’s backed up on the freeway for miles.” Mrs. Bates wipes a dramatic arm across her forehead. “I don’t know how I’ll get to the hairdresser.”

“Speaking of hair…” Mrs. Spencer lifts one of my matted locks and wrinkles her nose. “Go take a shower. It will help you feel better.”

“I’m sure you’re right.” I force a smile. “Thanks for stopping by.”
Mrs. Whitman shuffles around the kitchen, opening cabinet doors and glancing at the pile of mail Mom left on the counter. “What’s the smell? A candle?”

“Come on, Mary,” Mrs. Parker says. “Let the poor girl rest. She’s had a rough night.”

They tug Mrs. Whitman toward the door, and she pulls away. “What kind of candle, dearie? I’d love to get one.”

I sniff, detecting leftover pizza and the faintest hint of weed. “Um… pine?”
Mrs. Spencer also takes in a deep breath. “Have you been smoking marijuana?”

“No.” Pressing my lips together, I cross my arms over my chest. “No, I don’t do drugs.”

“It’s the college girl,” Mrs. Bates says. “The sister. Leroy always said she was trouble.” She turns to me. “Is your sister still here?”

Leroy has no idea. “Amber’s asleep. I couldn’t get her to wake up this morning.” I walk over to the door and hold it open. “Thank you for the food. I’ll let you know the moment we hear.”

“Is she breathing?” Mrs. Whitman starts down the hall to the bedrooms.

Mrs. Parker links arms with her, dragging her toward the door. “Mary, we can visit later this week. Let’s go. We’ve got the women’s club meeting, and Ellen has a hair appointment.”

Mrs. Whitman harrumphs and follows the other ladies to the porch.

Outside, summertime dew covers the ground, and it smells like earthworms. I permit myself a tiny laugh as the ladies take ginger steps through the wet grass to Mrs. Whitman’s car, which is parked too close to the edge of the driveway. Hope she doesn’t hit the mailbox when she backs out.

When the church ladies are gone, I put plastic containers in the refrigerator and tuck baked goods in our breadbox. Knowing Mrs. Whitman, they’ll taste terrible. Still, my stomach rumbles, so I help myself to four slices of banana bread. The dry crumbs catch in my throat and I chase them with two full glasses of milk.

After breaking down the box and taking it to the recycle bin, I return to the armchair and concentrate on wiggling my feet. My cell rings, a number I don’t recognize. “Hello?”

“Oh, good, Callie. Michael Harding, from church. I’ve been trying to reach your dad.”

I draw in a deep breath and release it. “He’s at work. Do you have news?”

“Sorry, no. I wanted to be sure everything is okay. I heard them dispatch an emergency crew to your house on my scanner. An unresponsive woman. Do you know anything about that?”

“What?” Sagging into the cushion, I lean my head over the arm of the chair. “Everything is fine. At least I think it is. Except Mom.” My breath catches.
“Could she be outside?”

“When will your dad be home?”

Shaking my head, I pace the kitchen. “A couple of hours. What do I do?”
“We’ll check the yard. I’m on the way.”

I peek out the windows and stick my head out the back door. “I don’t see anything.”

He blows a burst of air into the phone speaker. “Is Amber home?”

“She’s still asleep.”

“Well, you might want to wake her. Be there soon.” He disconnects before I can reply.

I stare at the blank cell screen. My teeth chatter so hard, my whole body shakes. Is Mom lying in the yard? I can’t imagine answering the door. What else could go wrong?

“Why?” I speak through clenched teeth. A sob jumps out, and I lift my gaze to the ceiling. “God, why did you let this happen?”

No answer. A grease spot I’ve never noticed stares back at me, and I feel icky, dirty.

I run to my room, grab clothes, and head into the bathroom to undress. Then I hesitate. What if I’m naked when the police get here?

After a few seconds of debate, I take the quickest shower in my entire life. I’m standing in the hallway with dripping hair when an ambulance screeches up the drive. The drugs. I try to wake Amber, but she rolls over and groans before closing her eyes again. Did she hide them? And if not, will they take her to jail? Will they take Dad to jail?

Footsteps pound the porch, shadows cross the window. I take a deep breath, and after staring a minute, go to the door.
When I open it, Mrs. Whitman drags a young, bald-headed paramedic up the porch stairs.

He narrows glassy eyes. “We have a report of an unresponsive woman at this residence.”

Mrs. Whitman beams at me. “I called them and told them you couldn’t rouse your sister.”

“Oh. I…” Smoothing my sopping wet shirt, I take a deep breath before raising my eyes to his. “She was drunk and high. I think she’s hung over, but she’s not unresponsive.”

The paramedic’s jaw flinches.

“We don’t keep drugs in the house. But she bought weed from the pizza guy last night.”

Dad whips into the drive behind the Whitman’s Cadillac and the ambulance, his SUV jutting into the road. He races to the porch, his thick black hair bunched up on top like he’s been pulling it. He first eyes the paramedic, next Mrs. Whitman, and then me. “What’s going on?”

Amber staggers from her room, her pupils dilated. “Whoa.” She reeks of incense.

“She’s been doing drugs.” Mrs. Whitman points a finger straight at Amber’s nose.

The paramedic sighs. “Have you?”

“Nope.” Amber sashays into the bathroom.

The lock clicks, and the veins in Dad’s neck bulge. He storms into Amber’s room and starts digging through drawers. “You are in so much trouble.”

“Get out of there,” she calls through the door. The water runs, and she comes out draped in a towel, eyes blazing. “Leave my stuff alone.”

Dad brushes past her into the hallway, holding up a bag of weed. “Care to explain?”

She clutches her towel with one hand and slaps the bag with the other. “That’s Callie’s.”

I cross my arms over my chest. “I’ve never done drugs a day in my life.”

“She’s lying.” Amber runs into her room, Dad a few steps behind. She steps over the clothes he threw in the floor, grabs an oversized t-shirt, and slips it on over her towel. Fake gasping, she snatches the weed and dumps it on the floor. “I don’t know where this came from.”

“I don’t believe you.” Dad stands in the doorjamb as she tosses clothes in a suitcase.

“I’m so leaving.” She zips the luggage and tries to get past Dad, but he steps forward and blocks her. She runs toward him, drops the bag, and pounds him with her fists. “I hate you!”

The paramedic helps restrain her, and she lets out an earth-shattering scream, which sets Mrs. Whitman pacing the hallway.

“Maybe you should wait in the kitchen.” I link arms and tug her away.
Wide-eyed, she nods and sits at the table while I return to the chaos.

Amber squirms in the paramedic’s arms. Dad runs his hand through her underwear drawer, and pulls out a handful of plastic bags with herbal residue. By this time, firefighters storm through our open front door, and one calls dispatch to report a domestic disturbance.

A few minutes later, an officer drags Amber out the front door to his cruiser, charging her with disorderly conduct. Dad trails a couple of feet behind him. Mrs. Whitman and I follow.

Mr. Whitman stands beside his car, reading a newspaper like nothing’s happening. After the emergency vehicles leave, his wife rushes to him. “Bill! It’s over. Let’s get out of here.”

She races to the passenger side of their Cadillac, slides into the seat, and slams the door. Mr. Whitman gets in, but before he can back around Dad’s SUV, Ethan pulls into the driveway.

Shaking my head, I head to the living room couch, grab the remote, and switch to CNN.

The anchorman dissolves into a photo of the US President and Vice President, which then cuts to a huge street riot. The remote slips from my fingers, and
I clutch the edge of the couch.

According to the caption, both men are dead.

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