Fortune

Skye brought her left hand to her temple. If that was true, why did her mother act so weird about it?

Her mother touched Skye’s hair, lightly stroking. “What’s wrong, honey?”

She tipped her head back and met her mother’s eyes.

“I keep trying to remember where I saw this ‘M.’ There has to be a reason I’m always drawing it. There has to be.”

“I can’t imagine, darling.” Her mother smiled, though the curving of her lips looked forced to Skye. “It’s just one of those things.”

“One of those things,” Skye repeated, then frowned and returned her gaze to the sketch pad. “That doesn’t make sense.”

“Sure it does.” Claire shrugged. “You saw the monogram somewhere and remembered it.”

“But where?” Skye balled her hands into fists, frustrated, hating the darkness of her memory and the feeling of helplessness she experienced every time she tried to remember.

Like now. Skye drew her eyebrows together, searching her memory for a recollection of anything before kindergarten, for a glimmer of where she had been born or of her father. They were linked to the “M”; she was certain of it.

But how?

She dropped her face into her hands, head pounding. Why couldn’t she remember? Why?

“Sweetheart, please…” Her mother sat on the edge of the bed and gathered her hands in hers. “It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t. Let it go.”

But it did matter. Skye knew it did. Otherwise she wouldn’t find herself drawing that letter again and again.

“I can’t,” she whispered, tears flooding her eyes. “I want to, I really do. But I just…can’t”

Her mother put her arms around her and drew her against her chest. “I’m so sorry. So very sorry.”

“It’s not your fault.” Skye rubbed her forehead against her mother’s shoulder, the pain behind her eyes intensifying. “Are you proud of me, Mom? Are you glad I’m…I’m the way I am?”

Her mother tipped her face up and looked her in the eyes. “How can you even ask, Skye? I’m more proud of you than you can imagine.”

But not of her artistic ability, Skye thought, searching her mother’s gaze. Her mother wished she didn’t like art so much, that she wasn’t so good at it. She wished her daughter would never pick up a drawing pencil again.

Why?

Skye whimpered and brought a hand to her head.

“It’s one of your headaches, isn’t it?” Claire eased Skye out of her arms and stood. “I’ll get your medicine.”

A moment later her mother returned with two white tablets and a glass of water. Skye took them, then handed the half-full glass back to her mother. Past experience had taught them both that if they caught the headache early enough, Skye could beat it. If they didn’t, the pain could become nearly unbearable.

“Thanks, Mom.”

Claire bent and kissed the top of Skye’s head. “Why don’t you lie down for a minute. I’ll finish making lunch, then come see how you’re feeling.”

Skye caught her mother’s hand. “Will you stay a minute? And rub my head?”

“Sure, sweetie. Scoot over.”

Skye did and her mother sat on the edge of the bed and began softly stroking her forehead. With each pass of her mother’s hand, Skye’s pain lessened. Each time she stopped, it returned, full force. And with it the questions that pounded at her.

“Feel a little better?” her mother asked.

“A little. Mom?”

“Yes, sweetheart?”

“My dad didn’t want me, did he?”

Her mother caught her breath. “What kind of question is that? Of course he wanted you.”

“You don’t have to lie to me. I know how it works. You probably didn’t even know who my father was.”

“That’s not true! Of course I know who—”

“Then why aren’t there any pictures of him!” Skye caught her mother’s hand, desperate, the pain blinding. “And why won’t you talk about him?” She tightened her fingers. “Please. Just tell me, Mom. I won’t cry. I’m not a baby anymore.”

For long moments her mother said nothing, just gazed at the floor, her expression troubled. Finally, she met Skye’s eyes once more. “He wanted you, Skye. I promise you that. But we can talk about this later. You need to rest—”

“No! Mom, I want to talk about it now. Please.” Skye squeezed her mother’s fingers. “If he really wanted me, where is he? What happened to him?”

“What happened to him?” her mother repeated, her voice sounding high and tight. She freed her hand, stood and took a step backward, toward the door. “I told you before. He’s dead.”

“Yes, but…how? What happened?”

“It was an accident.” Her mother reached the door. “I’ve told you that before, too.”

“What kind of accident was it? A car crash? A fire?” Skye lifted herself to an elbow and gazed pleadingly at her mother. She saw her mother’s hesitation, her wavering, and pressed her further. “Where did it happen? Was I there? Were you?”

For a moment her mother said nothing, then she cleared her throat. “It was very ugly. I don’t want to talk about it. Maybe someday.”

Her mother was lying to her, hiding something. But what? And why? A lump in her throat, Skye shifted her gaze to her sketch tablet and the curvy “M.”

Why wouldn’t her mother trust her with the truth? What could be so ugly that her mother…

“Did someone kill him?” she asked, eyes widening. “Is that it? Was he…murdered?”

Her mother made a sound, squeaky and high. She shifted her gaze, as with guilt, and Skye’s heart began to pound. “Was it the mob? Is the mob after us, too?”

“Don’t be silly.” Claire smiled stiffly. “It was an accident and nothing—”

“That’s why we’re always moving, isn’t it?” Excited, Skye sat up and pushed her hair away from her face. “Just like in the movies, we’re on the run from the mob!”

“That’s enough, Skye!” her mother’s voice rose. “I don’t want to hear any more of this ridiculous talk. Do you hear me? No more.”

Tears flooded Skye’s eyes, and she flopped back to the mattress, rolling onto her side and turning her back to her mother. “Forget it. Just go away. After all, I need my rest.”