Spitting Image Read online

  SPITTING IMAGE

  HARMONY REED

  Copyright © 2022 by Sterling & Stone

  All rights reserved.

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  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  A Quick Favor…

  About the author

  Chapter One

  The song was almost over.

  “Fake Plastic Trees” by Radiohead. Everett just wanted to hear the last verse. He could circle the block one more time. Ever since he’d gotten the call, he’d been numb, his chest so frozen that he could barely breathe. His adoptive brothers, Marco and Roberto, had done nothing to soften the blow — in fact, Everett was sure they’d relished the opportunity to drop the news on him like it was nothing before hanging up.

  Mom’s dead. Funeral’s tomorrow. Show up or don’t, we don’t care.

  How was he supposed to tell Clara when he didn’t believe it himself?

  How could he explain to his son that Grandma was gone?

  He hadn’t even known she was sick.

  No way could he take Jimi to the funeral, not when his brothers had made it clear that Everett was unwelcome. He’d done everything he could to keep his son away from the bullies who were, unfortunately, his foster brothers.

  Worse, Clara would understand, but she wouldn’t understand. She expected Everett to stick to the schedule no matter what came up, even if the emergency wasn’t his fault.

  He was a grown man, dammit. He shouldn’t be scared of his ex-wife. He wasn’t, really. It just made him sick to his stomach knowing that no matter what choice he made, Clara was going to have a problem with it.

  He needed something to soften her up … an opening line that might help them start out with a little reset on some of their most recent bullshit, maybe remind her in a quiet way of what they’d once shared. What they could still share … in a new way, if she was ever willing to allow it. They had a child together, they could do better than “make the best of it.”

  Now that Mom was gone, that seemed more important than ever. But when was the last time they’d talked without fighting?

  Maybe he should start with a compliment about whatever she was wearing. Clara took a lot of her pride in her personal aesthetic, and that was something Everett had always truly appreciated about her.

  Wow! I really love that dress! Is it a Jubilee?

  Her favorite dresses came from Jubilee. Even if the one she was wearing didn’t, the reference might make her smile. Am I allowed to tell you how great you look in that dress?

  One more time around the block. He started the song again.

  The car was still quiet, and his thoughts turned even more depressing.

  Six days until his birthday. That meant his birthday week had officially started: the most special week of any year for Everett. Usually the only special week.

  But from this point on, he was going to remember it as the anniversary of the worst day of his life.

  He pulled over to check his phone.

  No messages from Marco and Roberto, asking how Mom could have deteriorated so quickly.

  His best friends, the Ds, were radio silent as well.

  And still nothing from Gavin Cash, the private investigator that he’d hired a couple weeks ago to find his biological family.

  His brothers’ lack of communication wasn’t surprising. The Ds were probably busy with their own families. But waiting to hear back from Cash was killing him.

  Enough stalling.

  One more deep breath, then Everett was out of the car and up on the porch, ringing the doorbell, still deciding exactly how to best compliment Clara’s dress.

  She answered wearing a loose blouse and slim-fitting jeans. “You’re here. Finally.”

  “You said 7ish.”

  “Is this what ish means to you?”

  “I’m super sorry—”

  “I hope you’re ‘super apologizing’ for Jimi being the last one in class to get his emergency bag and donations turned in. At this point, ‘sorry for being late’ is a given.”

  Everett looked down, but only for a moment so he could bear to look back up at her.

  “Holy shit, Clara. I totally-double forgot about that. I know I told you like eleventy-hundred times that I had it, and I really, really did. I even bought all the stuff. It’s in the stockroom at Joe’s. I can—”

  “Shove it up your ass, Everett. That’s what you can do.” Clara sighed. “You fucking exhaust me. And I know I just swore at you twice and I’m sorry for that. But I took care of it. Miss Bradshaw called me because Jimi was crying. I’m sick of—”

  “I know. I’m sorry. You’re totally right.”

  “You can’t just keep telling me I’m right without ever doing anything to change your behavior, Ev. You have an example to set for your son.”

  His throat constricted in pain, but he forced himself to speak anyway. “Something happened.”

  “What?” Clara eyed him, suspiciously. “You’re shutting down Java Joe’s?”

  “No! I’m not—” Could she not just give him a break this once, when he was obviously too broken up to think straight? “About this weekend—”

  “No way. You are not weaseling out of taking your son again—”

  “I’m not weaseling out of anything! I have to go to my mom’s funeral.”

  That surprised her. “I’m sorry for your loss, Everett, I really am. But …”

  “But?”

  “But that doesn’t change the fact that you agreed to take Jimi this weekend.”

  Was she deaf? What could she have planned for this weekend that was more important than his mother’s funeral? Was he not allowed a single day to honor her memory?

  “I’m not planning a trip to Vegas, Clara. It’s my mother’s funeral.”

  “You’re always doing this to us.”

  “I’m not doing anything to you. I have no control over when my mother dies.”

  “You’re right, Everett. Rationally, of course I get it. And maybe I wouldn’t be ready to claw your fucking eyeballs out right now if you hadn’t done this to me, and more importantly to Jimi, a hundred times before.”

  “The restaurant has been busy,” he lied.

  “It’s not a restaurant, and it’s only busy if busy is a synonym for bullshit.”

  “You’re not being fair.”

  “I have gigs all weekend — which is how I earn a living to support our child, something that wouldn’t be as urgent if you were keeping up with your child support.”

  Everett stif
led his anger that she’d brought up the issue of money yet again. “I can take Jimi next weekend if you can switch—”

  “I committed to these dates months ago, because I’m an adult who makes plans and follows through with them.”

  “If I had known my mother was going to die—”

  “It’s not the money that kills me, it’s what you’re doing to Jimi. You told him that you guys would do something ‘extra-special,’ which I remember hoping meant more than going through the drive-through at Popeye’s for a chicken sandwich.”

  Was it his fault that Jimi loved Popeye’s more than the elevated version that Everett had created for him? The boy had inherited Clara’s palate. “I get it.”

  “I’m not sure you do.”

  “I always get it, Clara.”

  “So then … you just don’t care? You just always expect me to pick up the slack because your café is more important than my music career?”

  “That’s not what’s happening here. My mom died, Clara. There’s going to be a funeral.”

  “I think you said that.”

  “I wouldn’t keep mentioning it if I felt like I was being heard.”

  “Don’t get snippy with me, Everett.”

  “I barely raised my voice. You’re the one who—”

  “Great. The Blame Game. You’re always looking for someone else to hold accountable, and you always have an excuse about how it’s the universe’s fault that you can’t live up to your responsibilities. Instead of just doing the hard work of doing the hard work, you’re always looking for a new person to fix your problems for you.”

  “That’s not fair. You know I’ve been working on all of those things, Clara. You can’t just expect me to change overnight.”

  “I don’t expect you to change overnight.”

  “My mother died.”

  “I’m really sorry about that. But your son is alive, and he needs you to stop making excuses for why you can’t be his father right now.”

  This was why their marriage had disintegrated. Because Clara couldn’t stand it when his emotional needs took precedent over hers. She expected him to man up and move forward, no matter what happened. He was contractually obligated to be the strong one, because he was the husband, and she resented it when she had to be the supportive one for a couple of minutes.

  The ice around his frozen heart grew thicker.

  “You have every right to be angry,” he forced himself to say. “Can I please come in and say goodnight to him?”

  “He’s in bed.”

  “Does that mean no?”

  “You asked what time would be good for you to ‘drop in.’ I said ‘seven.’ I get a ‘see you sevenish’ back, then you show up here shortly after eight. Which happens to be our son’s bedtime.”

  “I know what happened,” Everett said.

  “You think I didn’t hear you driving around the block, blasting Radiohead, stalling until you knew Jimi would be asleep?”

  “I was finishing a phone call,” Everett lied, not quite brave enough to pretend that his imaginary call had to do with his mom’s funeral, but hoping she’d assume it anyway. “Well, tell him I stopped by and that I’ll see him soon.”

  “So, tell him, ‘Daddy came by after your bedtime to tell us that he couldn’t honor his commitment for this weekend?’ Something like that?”

  “Good night, Clara.” Everett turned with a dramatic sigh.

  “Good night, Everett.”

  He heard the door close behind him.

  He got in his Aspire and pulled out his phone, not even caring if Clara was still watching.

  Still nothing from his brothers.

  What a couple of assholes. Their mother had died, and they were still ghosting him.

  He deliberated on which of the Ds to call first, determined that it was Derek’s turn, then said “Call Derek” as he started the car.

  “Yo. Ev. Whatup?”

  “Just leaving Clara’s.” Everett pulled into the street.

  “You tell that little man I said hi?”

  “He was already in bed. Clara was trying to punish me.”

  No response from Derek.

  “So, are you sure you guys won’t come to the funeral?” Everett asked.

  “How many times are we gonna talk about this?”

  “At least once more.”

  “We weren’t invited to the funeral,” Derek said. “And therefore, it isn’t appropriate for us to go.”

  “It’s bullshit that you guys weren’t invited.”

  “I can’t disagree. But put it out of your head, alright, man? Take care of yourself, and come see us when it’s over. We’ll be there for you … you know that, right?”

  “Yeah,” Everett said, feeling the edges of a smile. “I know.”

  “See you when I see you. I gotta hit the rituals.”

  “I hear you.” Sort of.

  But after Everett hung up, the temporary warmth of his friend’s support faded in the chill of more ice. All Everett had ever wanted was his family’s acknowledgement. His adopted father had only barely pretended to care while he was still alive. And so far, Cash had been unsuccessful in finding his biological family. If — when — his brothers excommunicated him, he would no longer have any family at all.

  He drove the rest of the way home in silence, pondering the nature of loneliness. He didn’t hear the texts when they came in, thanks to his leaving his phone on Do Not Disturb while driving. But his heart went buoyant when he picked it up to check after finding a parking spot two blocks from his shitty apartment building and saw a message from Roberto.

  He felt a flicker of hope. But then he saw it was a link to an article: 7 Ways to Get Out of a Family Funeral (Without Feeling Guilty).

  Everett climbed the steps to his building, stomach in knots, thinking about how awful tomorrow would be.

  Chapter Two

  It was a running joke that Everett would be late to his own funeral.

  But it was even worse to be late while laying his mother to rest.

  He couldn’t even claim that an emergency had slowed him down. He’d barely slept last night, and woke up exhausted. Once dressed, he thought about cooking himself a hearty omelette, but the idea of spending more than a fleeting moment in the kitchen made him miss Mom too much.

  So Everett got into his shit-heap Aspire and drove to get himself a dozen donuts instead. A dozen, because it made no sense to buy fewer once you ran the numbers. He hadn’t meant to eat them all, but each one reminded him of her. The first time she’d made crullers for the school bake sale. The cake donuts they would make every summer and send with “the boys” when Dad got them up early to go fishing. The chocolate- and maple-glazed bars he’d helped her to frost for his brothers’ soccer tournaments.

  The final donut, a blueberry fritter, did him in. Or maybe it was the knowledge that he was never going to turn around in the kitchen and see his mother sifting flour or dusting some new confection with powdered sugar. He’d stopped at a gas station to vomit the lot of them, then spent another quarter hour dabbing the splatters from his suit with a wet paper towel.

  Now he was squeezing in for a seat as close to the front as he could get. No place for him in the family row. And Everett didn’t think that was because he was late and his brothers hadn’t saved him a seat. They would probably have kicked him out when they got there, even he’d been the first to arrive.

  The church was gorgeous, filled with flowers in shades of white and cream, but Mom would have loved more color. She dressed in a rainbow, and insisted on the same when it came to ingredients in her kitchen. The bright green of a jalapeño, or the creamier shades of avocado. Red and orange peppers. Corn yellow and bone-white flour.

  She would have appreciated how lush everything looked at her funeral. Because her family tree was full of peasants, Mom liked it when the world could see how far she had come. She would have loved the elaborate wreaths made from hundreds of roses.

  You shouldn’t have don
e all of this for me, he could imagine her saying, while enjoying every petal.

  Everett took his seat, casually looking over at the family row again. Roberto turned around this time, then tapped Marco on the shoulder. They both looked over at him, Marco tapping at his watch while Roberto shook his head.

  To hell with them; there wasn’t a chance Everett would let them bully him away from her funeral. He didn’t care what they said, or what anyone said: she was his mother, too.

  Mom had been responsible for everything good in his life.

  He wouldn’t have a restaurant if it wasn’t for her. Though Java Joe’s was closer to the start of his dream than it was to the end of it. A simple coffee shop was the most overhead Everett could afford when starting out, but Joe’s would be a real restaurant someday. The place just needed enough foot traffic to support the future expansion he had planned, along with a few other essential elements. Like a finalized menu and a kitchen staff. Plus, a kitchen.

  It was a shame that Mom would never see the place finished. She was one of the only people who had ever really believed in his dream. Clara did, back in the beginning, before she got “burned out on it.” The Ds always said they had faith in him, but Everett suspected that was only because they were his friends. His father had called Java Joe’s “an idiot’s fantasy” when it was still just a dream, and that was much nicer than most of the things his brothers had both whispered behind Everett’s back and yelled out loud while laughing at him.

  But Mom had never stopped believing. She’d made him into the chef he was today. The happiest times of his childhood were spent following her around the kitchen, learning her recipes, anticipating new flavors and discussing them in a way that neither of his other brothers ever could.