Keira was past caring about the shock on her mother’s face or the way the threatening scowl, the flared nostrils and thin set of her mouth warned that she’d soon lash out, strike. “Orleans Parish prison,” her mother finally said, extracting her wrist from Keira’s tight hold. “He’s been arrested for accessory to murder. He was there when those boys were killed and won’t be getting out anytime soon.” The tears came so hard now that Keira could feel a knot working in the back of her throat and still her mother continued, voice impassive, uncaring. “His mother agreed that telling Kona anything about the baby would be a bad idea right now. He’s just lost his twin brother because of his own irresponsibility and by the time he’s out, the procedure will be over. No need to rub salt in wounds.”
The woman smiled, a pleased, contented expression that told Keira this baby, the loss and the irrevocably broken lives could be pushed under the rug, brushed aside as though none of it really mattered. Taking a breath, steeling herself for the argument she knew would come, Keira lifted the sheet from her lap and dried her face. Then, mimicking her mother’s unaffected tone, she smiled. “There isn’t going to be any procedure.”
“What?”
“I’m not having an abortion. How in God’s name did you ever get my consent?” She narrowed her eyes at her mother, knowing instantly that there had been more under-the-rug brushing. “You waited until I was out of it, didn’t you? You had Steven hush things over and then what? Told Dr. Mitchell that I’d consent? My God, mother, how low would you go to get your way?”
“I’d do whatever it takes, Keira. I’d do anything to make sure you don’t throw your life away like I did.” Keira’s mother sounded weak, pathetic, but behind the low whisper of her words lay the ever-present threat, the grasp of reason, purpose that only made sense to her mother. “Why do you think I’m so hard on you? I push you because I want you to make smart choices.”
The sad thing was, the woman honestly believed that. Keira’s body hurt. Her tears had clogged up her sinuses, had her breathing through her mouth and she wanted her mother to leave. She wanted her to know that the only thing that mattered to her now was this child, its safety and the hope she believed it would bring to their lives.
“No, Mother, you push me so I do what you want me to do. And when I don’t, when I show the smallest bit of free will, you smack me around until I fall in line.”
Her mother shook her head, frown heavy. “If I’ve been harsh, it’s because I want you to realize your potential. I want you to use your limited attributes.”
And there was the crux of so many of the issues Keira ever had with her mother. She blinked at the woman, measured the set of her impassive expression, the cold shift of her eyes and Keira was left helpless, struck dumb by the cruelty her mother held in every blink of her eye and unrestrained expression. Keira would always be nothing more to this woman than a visual shell, nothing of substance; women were to her nothing but pretty pictures fashioned by instance and urging.
“My limited attributes? You mean my face? My body?”
Her mother leaned forward, touched Keira’s chin, fingers soft and surprisingly kind against bruised skin. “We’ve worked so hard to make sure you grew into that face. How many times have I told you…”
The slap came sharp, loud; Keira’s palm against her mother’s hand and the woman jerked back, shocked, surprised that her daughter had lashed out. “Limited attributes?” Keira said again, her voice loud. “My face, my body, what I look like? Not what’s in my heart? Not if I’m kind or good or generous? Not my mind, God, no you don’t care if I’m smart. You just want me to smile and agree with whatever asshole you find suitable enough for me, right?” Her mother sat up straighter, glaring at Keira as though she didn’t recognize her. “You don’t care that I live and breathe and exist for music. You don’t care if I’m the Valedictorian a hundred times over or if I know Chaucer or Shakespeare or the stories a thousand years old that have changed what I feel, what I believe in. Those aren’t attributes to you, Mother.
“You only care that I’m pretty and all I’ve ever, ever wanted for you to say to me is that I was pretty smart, pretty talented, pretty kind, anything, Mother, anything than just plain pretty. But you can’t do that. You don’t know how. You live inside your little box where everything is white and traditional and frozen in a time that died a long time ago.” Tears streaming over her cheeks, Keira wiped them away, annoyed. “You don’t struggle, you don’t need, you don’t want and all you care about is that I become a carbon copy of you. But I won’t be. I can’t be. There is too much of my father in me and he taught me something you could never beat out of me; he taught me to love blindly. He taught me that there is magic in music, that every single important purpose in life is about finding that magic and holding it inside you. And I took that magic and embraced it and it led me to a boy who is nothing like you; who is loud and large and beautiful. I love him. I love him more than breath and I will not walk away from him and there is no way in hell I will kill his baby.”