If the Shoe Fits

Copyright © 2018 by H. M. Irwing

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Prologue

“Cindy!”

“Cindy Marshall!”

“You get on up here and make your bed this instant!”

I cringed and groaned out loud.

I raise my eyes from where they were glued to a page of indescribably hot collection of written words, to where my mum hung precariously out my room window, frowning down on the garden below, searching for me. I was partially concealed between a shrub of blooming forest pansy and an equally loaded sapphire dragon tree. But then, springtime was like that in the Melbourne city suburbs. This part of Australia was lush, with green foliage and shrouded heavy with colorful blossoms, especially at this point in the year. I took a deep breath of the exotic mix of fragrant scents from the flowers that surrounded me and allowed its intoxicating aroma to fill my nostrils and settle the deep worry within my soul.

Distractions—always and vital—were what I lived by. Be it distractions from a forbidden erotica or sought from nature itself, I sought anything to alleviate uneasiness I carried with me always and seemingly forever—a fear for the inevitable.

I closed my eyes at that ever-persistent spiral of fear and determinedly turned my back on it. I tugged my lips wide in a ruthless smile.

Grin and bear.

It had been my motto for living for too long now. But it was the only way I knew how to live at all.

Closing the book I held, with a snap that almost bit off the edge of my nose, I set aside the erotica I had been immersed in with utmost regret. Visions of what I had been reading sped through my mind. There was no doubt about it; that book belonged in the sealed dungeons of books banned for the innocent. My nose tickled with an oncoming sneeze. I bit on the inner side of my flushed cheeks in effort to contain it then reached out an idle finger to shift back my glasses along the slim lines of my nose. It was a common occurrence to have it drop down the slippery slide to dangle precariously at the bridge of my nose.

I glanced around surreptitiously before tossing the book I borrowed from my best friend, Martha—who stole it off her elder sister, Cynthia—into its tin coffin before I lowered it back into the ground. I pushed the earth back over it and patted it back down some.

I was, perhaps, going a little overboard with my methods of concealment, but my trusty buried treasure trunk had served well enough in the past. Ever since Sinbad road the waves on a pirate ship, way before Captain Jack Sparrow ruled the Caribbean waters, I had my very own trunk of buried treasures. Trinkets from my dad had filled that first box. Sparingly at first, and then, it built up to became more, as he moved out on us and in with his personal secretary. His visits had been often at first, with arms loaded, bearing gifts. But those visits declined with time, and the trinkets, with it, dwindled down to obscurity. Then, one fine day, that trunk and its belongings was trashed, and the hole that contained it, buried closed with fresh dirt before the dire needs of adolescent years had me digging it out afresh and laying in a new tin of buried treasure. Only this time, it held a treasure trove of forbidden delights.

Standing up, I brushed the dirt off the seat of my pants with several well-aimed pats and then smacked my hands together before dusting it off my knee-length shorts. I glanced down at my jutting nipples and lifted the hem of my t-shirt to fan myself. There was no hiding it. I was hot for the forbidden. I shivered with hidden excitement—the secret thrill of reading a forbidden book. And Brother’s Girl was just that. Forbidden.

“Cindy!”

Mum had drawn her head back in but still yelled out at me even louder. I cringed again then and glanced about myself, wondering if anyone noticed, and this time, I spotted the bad boy next door looking up from behind the hood of his car. He dropped me a slow wink that was absolutely delicious and sent a wave of heat spiraling through me that rivalled Rafe’s on Anna. I groaned again and battered down all thoughts of the erotic book.

This time, I resolutely pattered away, heading for the ancient sandstone-walled mansion that was my home. It was ridiculously huge—draughty, damp, and outdated—but it was the home of generations of Marshalls. And no one, in all those generations of Marshalls, had thought it expedient to dispose of this monstrosity or, at the very least, renovate it.

I scrambled up the stone steps that sprang out majestically almost right from the entrance and then, a moment later, plugged my head into my room, feeling instantly guilty from the sight that met my eyes.

Mum suffered from cancer. Not just your average ‘die the next moment’ type of cancer, nor the kind that healed with treatment and simply went away, never to bother its bearer again. Nope, Mum’s cancer was the hard-enduring kind. The one that gave its bearer numerous false hopes, only to have them dashed away, time and again, year after year. Skin cancer had been the initial diagnosis, but operations and chemo had not helped—not for long anyway. Her prognosis had been not-long-to-live for too many times to count, but she was strong willed and had pulled through each time, battling on with more chemo and yet more suffering, each and every time. I knew she lived in constant pain, yet here I was, causing her more grief.

I ran to her, falling at her feet and resting my head in her lap.

She sat on my bed, looking tired and weak.

“I’m sorry, Mummy. I keep saying I will be good, and then, I go off and do it again, making you angry at me. I am a sore trial to you. I know,” I mumbled helplessly into her warm lap.

Mum ran her bony fingers through my thick, black hair. “You’re nothing but my darling, Cindy. You will always be my darling. But for now, love, if you will make your bed, …” said mum tiredly before she trailed off pointedly.

I beamed up a happy smile at her and then rushed about doing just that, fluffing the pillows and folding the sheets. I set it all to rights and even patted the bed down when I was done.

“Mummy?” I turned to look at her, but she had already curled up with her blankets on the recliner by the window. I had moved that recliner into my room and onto just that spot for her. She spent a lot of time here in my room. She said she didn’t feel quite so alone here, and knowing I would soon be back right here after school made her happy.

I moved to tuck her in, adding another of the blankets I’d just folded to the heap already on her. She was too frail to have enough body warmth of her own.

I left her there sleeping and collected my bag for school. Stopping at the kitchen for a bite to eat, I prepared Mum’s lunch and set it aside for her then hurried out the door.

School was a long walk away, and I had to get started sooner rather than later. I stopped by the garden, digging out the book I had been reading. Guilt over the forbidden indulgence was eating at my insides. But then, guilt rode high in me on any kind of enjoyment at all. Pleasure? Not while knowing my mum remained in constant pain. I glanced down at its dark gleamingly apt cover, knowing my pleasure in it was now gone. I thrust it into my satchel, unable to bring myself to even look at it any more. Where previously, it held that spark of excitement and thrill of the unexpected now reflected only guilt. I would return it to Martha. It really wasn’t a book for a sixteen-year-old anyway.

I returned the now empty tin back into its hole and slung my bag over a shoulder. Then off I went, striking out on my daily walk to school, waving at Mr. Soemes, the elderly neighbor who was always tinkering in his garden, and resolutely avoiding looking in the direction where the bad boy neighbor, Luke Daniels, still tinkered with his car. Thanks to my dad, that was one distraction I had no trouble steering clear of.

The day panned out at school much as expected with the same old routine unfolding out in mundane constancy.

But then, I got home, … and everything changed.

Mum was dead.