The fact that today was a Saturday certainly made things a bit livelier. The cheer in the eyes of people as they casually trotted by, jogged or chatted to friends annoyed Maeve. The decision she made, resolving to dodge work today and avoid the especially brutal atmosphere at Frank's Fried Friends on the weekend, was her only comfort when faced with the abundant cheer.
Maeve passed by the ever-extravagant Eunice Equity Gym. A young man in a vest, shorts and trainers smiled at her. Maeve scowled so deeply at him that he reeled and almost stumbled on the stairs.
Few sights managed to garner her attention from then, and even less cat calls or genuine, respectful attempts at having a conversation with her. Maeve hardly heard.
A few times, she got the feeling that she was being watched – different from the lecherous ogles she was used to. She hoped to heck that the two assholes from yesterday weren't following her.
Just to win a raging battle against her paranoia, Maeve took a sharp turn into the Verdant Jungle Memorial Park and all its early, fresh energy. She used its dense sights to try and lose the imaginary pairs of eyes pressing against her back. It was stupid – she knew – but she felt better afterwards.
The feeling of comfort didn't last long, unfortunately. A familiar, neat little street appeared in Maeve's eyes, and her vision immediately honed in on the house she dreaded most of all.
There was nothing in particular that truly set it apart from the other homes. The simple blue paint job – which was new to Maeve – on the Single-Family home was its sole accolade against the others.
The Mitchelle's house.
Maeve sighed. She was never a Mitchelle. There could be no sense of belonging here.
She took her time walking up the street to face the house. The two cars in the driveway had already announced that someone was home, much to Maeve's displeasure.
She took a deep breath and began towards the porch. The pathway towards it was sandwiched between two, freshly mowed squares of lawn still moist with dew. The neat look of them would have made one think that decent people lived here, but as the saying went: beauty is only skin deep.
Maeve hardly glanced at the two apple trees on either end of the house. They carried really bad memories, as did the two large flower pots on the porch from which poppies and orchids grew. Maeve felt sick looking at the flower pots. She had watered the flowers they nurtured for sixteen years and never out of the kindness of her heart. One grim time, she had done it with something thicker than water.
With a gnash of her teeth and the balling of her fist, Maeve gave the door a few hard knocks.
As soon as she did, her heart began racing, and before she knew it, a familiar, hardly feminine (in Maeve's opinion) loathsome face had opened the door, appraised Maeve, and donned a deep, ugly scowl. It was HER.
A grating screech blasted from the woman's mouth and Maeve boiled, wishing she could give her a good right one across the face.
Maeve blinked and the woman's figure vanished. The door was still shut. It was all in her head.
The true trial had yet to begin.
Maeve seethed.
She knocked again, and this time, she halted her mind's attempts at drifting.
She heard footsteps approaching. She stiffened. There it was.
Maeve tensed when the door creaked open, and she sucked in a deep breath. Her face was becoming warm. She braced.
"MAEVE!" a jubilant voice cried out, and before Maeve knew it, something had slung itself around her waist.
Confusion hit Maeve hard, but when she saw the wide face grinning at her from below, she melted.
"Jimmy…" Maeve said softly, crouched down and gave the little boy a proper hug.
The simple gesture seemed to give her life. The young, energetic body pressed against hers had so much positive pressure that her heart relaxed.
Maeve pulled away and gave the little boy a good look.
Baby fat still thickened his cheeks, and pale red freckles ran across his nose, somehow making his sugar grey eyes pop. Maeve ruffled the boy's messy black hair.
"You little ghoul, you've gained weight," she said to him with a grin.
The boy pouted, appraised her and then hung his head.
"You too," he said. Maeve laughed. She was sort of glad the boy noticed. She valued his opinions, after all. She always did.
Jimmy looked up, a sullen look on his face.
"Where have you been?" he said with all the sorrow in the world, and Maeve suddenly remembered where she was, and what she was here for.
It didn't help that at that moment, a voice called from inside the house; a familiar, haunting voice.
"Jim, who is it? Jim, honey?"
Hurried steps bounded from a hidden hall and then a tall, gangly woman popped into view. Her impassive face swiftly changed when her grey eyes met the doorway.
The comb in her hand ceased the little game it had been playing with her long, fiery red hair. She stood rooted on the spot, staring with what might have been shocked fury at Maeve. The green-eyed girl returned the look. She forgot to look fierce, unafraid.
"Jim. Go to your room," the tall woman said in a voice that made both Jim and Maeve shiver, the latter ever so slightly.
The boy did not question his mother. He hesitated for what was barely three seconds, glanced at Maeve sadly, and rushed off and out of sight.
The tall woman then suddenly strode her way to the doorway; Maeve sucked in a long, cold breath as she did. A large, rough hand seized her wrist and pulled her inside. The fiery-haired woman then poked her head out the door, looked left, right, withdrew and closed it.
She gripped Maeve's forearm so tight it hurt, and pulled her towards the lounge, past large picture frames of two large twin boys and their larger father. Maeve felt the independence, the moxy, and the powerful sense of self she had imagined and affirmed herself to be for three months elude her. She didn't utter a word.
"Gerald! Gerald! You wouldn't believe this! Guess who's back, standing on the porch like some goddamn prize!" the tall woman said before fixing Maeve with a malevolent look. "Were you trying to get the neighbours talking? Have you any idea the kind of perfect story we made up for your disappearance? You're supposed to be buried in the backyard."
Maeve felt the fury rise up, but it sat comfortably in her lungs. She felt her breath grow heavy and hot. Her eyes failed to stare back into her foster mother's eyes.
A great thumping came from the stairs ascending from the right end of the lounge. A large, broad man who fit the profile of a stereotypical lumberjack came down and immediately gazed upon Maeve.
Gerald gave a bark-like laugh and placed his large hand on his wide chest. He had black hair done in a buzz cut and a thick beard that was anything but unkempt.
"Maeve," he said, gave the girl a passing sweep, as though her image was about as interesting as smoke, and turned to his wife. "Don't act all surprised now, Millie. I told you she'd be back. The world found her just as revolting as our attic."
Millie, the redhead, snorted and whipped away Maeve's arm. She (Maeve) managed a venomous look as she steadied herself, but the tall woman returned her own of equal potency.
"See this little bitch? She's glaring. Glaring!" Millie cried and drew away to stand with her husband. The two looked monstrous as a pair. "Is that why you came back? To glare? Or is it that your little 'job' isn't as sustaining as you thought it'd be?"
"No!" Maeve cried, speaking for the first time before Millie and Gerald. "No."
Gerald scoffed. His wife sneered.
"What then? Came back for your little collection of useless sporting accolades? Clothes? Sheets? Sorry, honey, we burned everything," Millie said with a cold grin.
Maeve's heart sank, but she remained as composed as she could be.
"No, that's not what I—"
"Then what the fuck are you doing back in my house?" Gerald boomed and his broad figure cast a shadow on Maeve, his hazel eyes staring down at her. "Did you forget what you said to us before you stormed off last time? Did all that fucking lip get swallowed up by the real world outside, ey? Remember what you said?"
Maeve's breathing hastened. All of a sudden, her brain prepared one of her worst memories in this house. She recalled Gerald slapping her so hard when she was twelve that she had lost consciousness. That was the only time the man had hit her, but it served as a haunting enough scar even now.
Maeve's lips parted, but no words came out.
"Well?" Gerald asked sharply.
"I… I said I'd rather… I'd rather drown in a pool of piss than come back here," Maeve said meekly.
Gerald scoffed and he suddenly looked like a taunting devil.
"Well? Was that pool too shallow or what? I remember you giving us a few nice finger gestures too. What happened to those?"
Maeve couldn't see Millie's face, but the chortle she released said all that needed to be said about how much she was enjoying this. Oh, how the tall redhead wished the twins hadn't gone to Uncle John's for the weekend. They would have loved to see what the lost calendar brought in today.
Maeve drew back from her foster father's shadow. It was growing colder by the second.
She looked at him, her eyes shaking. She couldn't continue to lose ground.
"I… I want to know about my parents," she said with an uneven voice, and decided to go above and beyond, scarcely believing her nerve. "I know they were werewolves!"