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  Truth

  Book Two in the Taboo Series

  Brittany Chapman

  Copyright © 2020 by Brittany Chapman

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the creator, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Dedication

  To Lorrin, my Sun- Thank you for always combating my darkness

  and never abandoning me when I wane.

  Contents

  Book Two in the Taboo Series

  Dedication

  Contents

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1- Into The Garden

  Chapter 2- Orchid

  Chapter 3- Willow

  Chapter 4- Thorns

  Chapter 5- Petals

  Chapter 6- Tendrils

  Chapter 7- Climb

  Chapter 8- Goldenrod

  Chapter 9- Trellis

  Chapter 10- Dew

  Chapter 11- Drought

  Chapter 12- Lily

  Chapter 13- Chrysanthemum

  Chapter 14- Hemlock

  Chapter 15- Wildflowers

  Chapter 16- Iris

  Chapter 17- Magnolia

  Chapter 18- Blossom

  Chapter 19- Weeds

  Chapter 20- Hyacinth

  Chapter 21- Thinning

  Chapter 22- Prune

  Chapter 23- Tulips

  Chapter 24- Moss

  Chapter 25- Roses

  Chapter 26- Diseased

  Chapter 27- Trailing

  Chapter 28- Violets

  Chapter 29- Sow

  Chapter 30- Bud

  Chapter 31- Honeysuckle

  Chapter 32- Carnation

  Chapter 33- Daffodil

  Chapter 34- Peony

  Chapter 35- Baby’s Breath

  Chapter 36- Seeds

  Chapter 37- Poinsettia

  Chapter 38- Forget-me-not

  Chapter 39- Sweet Pea

  Chapter 40- Bouquet

  Chapter 41- Wilted

  Chapter 42- Ivy

  Chapter 43- Hydrangea

  Chapter 44- Glory

  Acknowledgments

  I would like to thank Lorrin Cupp for her edits as well as her assistance with the cover of this novel. I am also grateful to Haley Roja, Rebecca Nagle, Lisa Gray Wilson, Amanda Giovanelli, Heather Risch, Jan Tupper, Sarah Hundley, Meagan Benton, Samm Giorlando, Danielle Wood, Emily Zick, Fabiola Velasquez, Sami Masica, MaryFran Randall, Bridget O’Connell, Annette Williams, Darlene Buckley, Taya Guenther, Cyne-Burh Mallory, Sarah Coker Lincoln, Wendie Pandolfi, Imani Freeman, Brittany Adelman, Jenna Brianne Jones, Kari Luebke, Katelynn Serritelli, Amy Marie Elmer, Marisa Joanne, Jessica MacMillan, Erin McDonald, Erin Taggart, KaSandra Kayle Yelton, Reona Renee Griffin, Betsyann Wsk, Onya Tanis, Cheyenne Maxson, Doris Wagner, Stephanie N. Hubble, Tori Robb, Kirsten Ace, Lyssa Morris, Lauren Mackinaw, Becky Lahoud, Isabel Martinez, Amanda Brooke Gargani, Sarah Babin, Brittany Waldron, Shalene Nelson, Morgan Bartrum, Kelsey Clark, Lissa Tejeda, Lourdes Bonilla, Kolonie Melchor, Nancy Love, and all of the NTMC crew. Your support and encouragement have kept me motivated.

  Chapter 1- Into the Garden

  I failed at so much throughout my existence. I failed at being humble and modest. I failed in school and social skills. I failed at being normal. I failed the people I loved, regardless of how much I did or didn't try.

  My life was an ironically well-lit scene from a terrible play. The sun shone into my home as if the mansion was a castle set for a princess, but I was an incomparable imposter. No matter the amount I tried, I could never succeed in gaining acceptance from Mother or protection from Father.

  I never expected anything. I tried hard to never take advantage of anyone or become entitled. One look at my grand home and everyone seemed to accept the idea that my life was perfect, and I must be too.

  No one ever realized I needed more than superficial, monetarily valuable things. I knew many people would kill to have the things I did, and many people in the world have died over less.

  I, therefore, learned at a young age to never seem unappreciative of the valuables I did not earn and never ask for more, regardless if it could be bought or not. I always assumed I didn't deserve it anyway, or it would have been readily available from my first memory.

  When I think back to my first memory, I try to push it away or delve deeper to retrieve something happier than the dark closet. Mother’s face contorted in rage as she kicked me back down before slamming the door, hearing the click of the lock, and crying in the dark.

  I never could remember what I did to deserve the punishment. It happened often throughout my childhood. I could rarely separate the ages or reasons, but I do remember the first time. I didn't know what was happening, or why, and where my mommy went. The closet seemed to shrink as I grew.

  I guess that's why I always kept my bedroom as dark as possible. It grew to be comforting. If I was in the closet I couldn't be hit or screamed at. No one could see me cover my ears and cry into my lap.

  ✷✴✷

  I ran my fingers through my reddish-blonde hair to make sure it was tamed for Mother. I may have outgrown the closet, but when the servants turned away her hand would come down like a whip.

  I stood from the bed to take my morning medication and straightened my summer dress.

  Dread shivered down my neck as I descended the stairs. The scent of coffee usually helped relax my muscles, but they remained painfully tight. I was usually able to anticipate Mother’s foul moods, but this morning felt different. I didn't know how to prepare for the unknown.

  “Good morning darling,” Father kissed me on my forehead before sitting in his usual seat across the table from me.

  Mother waited comfortably at the head of the table. She gave me a small, tight-lipped smile as I sat. Breakfast was brought out as soon as her napkin was placed in her lap.

  “How are you feeling this morning, Ruth?” Mother asked.

  I could tell by her tone she was trying to feign something maternal, but her own pale blue eyes assessed me as they would a dissected frog- cold, curious, and unfeeling.

  Her mother had been bipolar as well. We never did talk much about her, other than the newly released information. Because of my grandmother, an old cane in the attic was my Mother’s childhood enemy. She died in a terrible accident when my mother was a young teen.

  “I'm fine,” I said as gently as I could manage. My artificial smile seemed to appease her.

  Father looked between us as though worried there would be an explosion of argument. His dark green eyes brightened as we relaxed.

  I ate my breakfast while quietly speculating the differences I saw in them. Father’s bright red hair had strands of white and a thinning patch in the middle. It was a persevering mess, no matter how much Mother tried to comb, style, or threaten to shave it altogether. His middle was starting to strain against his shirt buttons, making threats of their own.

  Mother’s onyx hair was always in a severe bun or tight braid. Her sharp features and thin figure made her look like a scorned ballet teacher recently out of her prime and torn from her stage. She was much younger than Father, but her face appeared more aged from her constant expressions of aggression.

  I was pulled out of my contemplation by a servant rushing towards us wit
h our phone on a platter. I noticed him before either Mother or Father heard the slam of the swinging doors leading into the kitchen. I didn’t think they could do that.

  Mother turned and glared reproachfully. Father stared, bewildered as if he too had never thought such a startling sound could come from either our obedient help or the doors.

  The grim-faced waiter stood beside Mother for a moment before muttering incoherently and finally forming the words, “your brother.”

  Mother scowled and snatched the receiver. “William?”

  Her face fell as she listened. She lost her perpetually perfect composure, hanging her head and running her hand over her hair.

  “When?” she asked.

  She looked at Father, who stared at her with sad understanding. He reached across the table and held her free hand.

  My eyes glued to the small contact. I tried to recall a time when I had seen either of them comfort one another.

  “I will call you back in a while, let me talk to Earnest so we can come to an agreement,” she said referring to Father.

  There was a short pause before Mother put the receiver back and the waiter retreated, leaving us in privacy.

  “Elizabeth, is it your father?” She nodded with closed eyes.

  I stared between them, realizing how little I knew of my own relatives. I had never met my mother’s father, or her half-brother William. They were both as mysterious to me as her mother.

  Mother and William spoke over the phone often. I always knew when it was her brother on the line by the way her tone would change. Her voice would go soft and higher in pitch. Even her grammar and enunciation would slip.

  When they went too long without contact Mother would get sullen. She would lash out for no reason. The smallest infraction would char her already rash demeanor in an instant.

  One slight incident left a scar. Whenever I saw Mother in one of her foul moods, I automatically reached for it as if reminding myself to be perfect or suffer the consequences.

  I was around nine at the time. That particular day she was critiquing everything- my dress even though she had picked it for me in the morning, a scuff on my shoe. My head was too high and I looked pompous or it was too low and I should have decorum.

  All day she yelled and slapped my legs as she made me sit on the edge of a stool for an entire afternoon with a book on my head and my ankles crossed. The whole day was printed in picture-perfect quality in my mind.

  The worst part came with dinner. Father wasn't at the table. He had an instinct for hiding on Mother’s most vicious days.

  I held back tears, my back so straight it hurt, ankles crossed, and a napkin in my lap. I picked up the correct fork and ate as daintily as I was supposed to.

  Halfway through the meal, my fork squeaked on the plate. The sound was barely audible, but Mother reared her own fork back and stabbed me in the hand.

  I watched Mother as the news from her brother settled. Most people would be broken when one of their parents passed away, but Mother had composed herself well. I even saw a hint of happiness starting to spread like fire across her face.

  She left the table suddenly with few words of pardoning to prepare for an impromptu trip.

  I followed her up the stairs, curious. I saw in the way she moved she was trying to hide her enthusiasm.

  “How long will you be gone?” I asked from the door as she filled a third suitcase with clothes.

  “A week should do, I think.”

  “Are you happy about something?” I tried to hide the judgment in my voice.

  Father came from behind me and guided me to the loveseat. He sat beside me and took my hands. Mother didn't seem to notice Father's presence.

  “Baby,” Father started.

  He seemed unsure and looked in Mother’s direction as if to ask for help. She gestured impatiently for him to continue. He cleared his throat and focused on my face.

  “We made plans not long ago for your mother’s brother to come live with us in the event of their father’s death so he wouldn't be in Louisiana alone.”

  Why had I not been told sooner? Did my opinion mean so little?

  I worried the man was going to be a male version of Mother. Father had never hit me and I wondered if I could even withstand the fist of a man.

  I reminded myself that our home was large enough to avoid anyone. I could hide in my garden for the next couple of years if I had to.

  Father continued, “You and I are going to stay here while Elizabeth goes to the funeral. When she returns her brother is coming with her.”

  Why so soon? Instead of asking I simply nodded in obedience.

  We sat in silence as Father and I watched Mother become almost crazed in her delight. The more I thought about my half uncle’s arrival the more anxiety I felt.

  I was convinced he was going to be horrible. I would try to run away from Mother’s scrutiny in fear but slam into her clone on the stairs.

  I began to fall into a silent kind of despair. I would lose the war before it even started. Mother would have her ally.

  I looked at Father, who watched Mother with amusement and a slight bit of devotion. I realized at that moment that I had always been outnumbered.

  Chapter 2- Orchid

  The week passed painfully quick in Mother's absence. I spent my days as I usually did- reading, swimming, and talking to the flowers in my garden.

  It was freeing to do the things I loved simply to enjoy the time instead of wanting to hide and escape. There was no need to glance over my shoulder or keep my ears pricked, listening for an attack.

  I tried to swallow my guilt as the days swept away and I wished Mother would never return.

  I sat in the warm sunshine on the edge of the large, flowing fountain in the heart of my garden. I was waiting sullenly, trying to pull myself together by talking to my beloved white roses, when I heard the distant horn of a car pulling into the drive.

  Begrudgingly I stood and smoothed my yellow dress down over my hips. I headed toward the pool and through the door into the dining room. It was much quicker to go through the house rather than walk around the huge wings on the sides of my home in order to wait out front on the large porch.

  When most people see our house the first thing that they notice is our plantation style columns, and the house had been on one at a time but had quickly expanded to be more.

  I squeezed between the servants and stood between Father and Hannah, the maid that took care of mine and Mother's suites. I heard excited whispers all around me, some wondering if the younger brother of Elizabeth would be as well mannered, some of the women wondering what he looked like, but most were asking each other of the wellbeing of Mother after having recently buried her father.

  The pale-blue Cadillac convertible appearing over the hill, with the sun beaming off of its shiny chrome, startled everyone.

  Behind the wheel was Mother. Her long, straight black hair blew freely in the wind as she smiled grinned. The large round white sunglasses on her face looked like something she must have taken from my closet.

  She stopped the car in front of the house and casually tossed the keys to a manservant. He was in such shock that they hit him in his chest and fell to the ground.

  We watched Mother and her uncharacteristic behavior so closely that none of us saw the man who climbed out of the passenger seat.

  He stood staring in his faded blue jeans and a black t-shirt. His hair was the same black as Mother’s, but it was curly in a way that most girls would sacrifice everything to have. It spiraled in thick, soft locks down to his ears and neck. His white complexion, so much like my mother’s, made his eyes almost glow. They were warm, yet impossibly dark.

  I realized he wasn’t simply staring at our huge house in awe, but at me. I narrowed my eyes to return his stare. It was no more than a fraction of a second that our eyes met but I could feel every nerve ending in my body turn to fire.

  Our gaze broke when we realized that the help had all hurried off the porch
to take his suitcases from the trunk or shake his hand in introduction. It was as though the prodigal son himself had come home.

  My heart squeezed in a pain I didn’t know if I could stand through. I reached and grabbed onto Father, trying to catch my balance.

  “You alright, baby?” he asked, concern in his face.

  I swallowed hard and fixed my face into a serene mask and nodded. He put a large arm around my shoulders and watched the commotion.

  I kept my gaze on our new addition, watching him sneak glances at me over the heads of the swarming maids.

  I tried to soothe myself and bury the fear constricting my lungs. I couldn’t stop worrying about when he would lash out and show me how he was more like Mother than in looks.

  I knew by the way he kept glancing at me that he was looking for the opportunity to push me down and hurt me. Mother had plenty of time to express how much I deserved his wrath as well as her own.

  I looked at Father to see him watching the scene below with warmth. My eyes pleaded with him, my mind screamed at him to help me.

  I had tried too many times before to express my need for him when it came to Mother. He would never save me.

  Mother rushed forward, her hair flying around her shoulders. She snatched Father’s hand and one of my own before yanking us down the steps to her brother.

  “William,” my father bellowed and wrapped his arms around the man in a tight squeeze. William slapped his back and they hugged like long lost brothers.

  “Ruth, I would like to introduce you to my baby brother.” Mother’s voice and bright expression held a maternal glow I had never seen.

  I nodded politely at him and forced a smile, not knowing what to say. I had never felt shy before. It was annoying and uncomfortable.

  He did the same but looked to be searching for something to say to me. I gulped, waiting for the verbal assault to begin.

  “Hannah will show you to your room. You can get settled in if you'd like,” Mother gestured to our short, frizzy-haired maid. Hannah slipped through the family ring to linger next to William.