Read Online No One Needs to Know by Kevin O'Brien - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Kevin O'Brien
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She squinted at the clock at her bedside: 2:51 A.M .
After that phone call at ten, there hadn’t been another. Maybe her threat had made some impact. At least that was what Laurie had told herself while frosting the third cake. She’d finished emptying out her desk, and started nodding off during the Jennifer Aniston movie. She’d woken up in time for the gag reel along with the end credits, which looked like the best part of the movie. She’d peeled herself off the sofa and crawled into bed shortly after midnight—with Brian’s baseball bat by her side.
Now propped up on one elbow, Laurie pushed her hair away from her face and stared at the baby monitor on her nightstand. Please, don’t start coughing. It wasn’t unusual for Joey to let out a little cry in his sleep now and then. Most nights, she’d just ignore it. But now, each little noise from his room was cause for alarm. And she wasn’t just worried about his cough either.
She listened and waited. She didn’t want to go in there if he was about to nod off again. She would give him sixty more seconds—and if there wasn’t another peep out of him, she’d switch off the light and go back to sleep.
On the nightstand was a small photo of her and her mom. Laurie had found it earlier tonight in an envelope in the desk’s bottom drawer. She’d propped the snapshot against the baby monitor on her nightstand. It was one of those photo-booth snapshots. She had no idea what had happened to the other three pictures from the strip. Maybe they weren’t very good shots of her mother, so she’d gotten rid of them. Then again, Teri Serrano hardly ever took a bad picture in her younger days. In this photo, she was movie-star gorgeous—with exotic eyes and shimmery, shoulder-length black hair. In the photograph, she was laughing. Crammed inside the booth with her was Laurie’s skinny, serious, eleven-year-old self.
“You’re no fun at all,” her mother was forever telling her.
Her mom didn’t leave her much choice. One of them had to take on some responsibility. From an early age, Laurie got up, dressed, fed herself, and then went off to school—all while her mother slept. Laurie did the housework and prepared the meals. Teri was a lousy cook. She would have lived on Chardonnay, cupcakes, Bugles, and microwave burritos—if her young daughter hadn’t intervened.
Life with Teri was anything but dull. Her mom was always moving them—usually to get away from either a lousy boyfriend or trouble at work. Laurie would just get used to a place, and her mother would suddenly up and move them again. She often chose their next destination by opening a Rand McNally map of the U.S., closing her eyes, and going wherever her finger landed. Then Laurie would help her mother load up the old Ford Celebrity, and they’d head to the next city.
She didn’t make any close friends. There didn’t seem much point in trying. So cooking became her companion. In the kitchen, Laurie had control. She could be creative, and it was the one thing she did that her mother appreciated. Teri never noticed that Laurie had done the laundry or cleaned the apartment, but she really enjoyed a good meal. Whenever one of her boyfriends treated her to dinner at a classy restaurant, Teri would charm her way into the kitchen and get the recipe from the chef. Then she’d give it to Laurie to duplicate.
Laurie could still see her sitting in front of the TV with the dinner plate on her lap. “Oh, sweetie, this is even better than what I had in that hoity-toity restaurant,” her mother would say, gobbling up Laurie’s rendition of the latest borrowed recipe.
Every new place they moved into, Laurie checked the kitchen first, and then she took a look at her bedroom—if she got one. Often she shared a bedroom with her mom, which became awkward whenever Teri had a man over. Many a night, Laurie cooked an elaborate dinner for her mom and the latest boyfriend—and then at bedtime, she was relegated
After that phone call at ten, there hadn’t been another. Maybe her threat had made some impact. At least that was what Laurie had told herself while frosting the third cake. She’d finished emptying out her desk, and started nodding off during the Jennifer Aniston movie. She’d woken up in time for the gag reel along with the end credits, which looked like the best part of the movie. She’d peeled herself off the sofa and crawled into bed shortly after midnight—with Brian’s baseball bat by her side.
Now propped up on one elbow, Laurie pushed her hair away from her face and stared at the baby monitor on her nightstand. Please, don’t start coughing. It wasn’t unusual for Joey to let out a little cry in his sleep now and then. Most nights, she’d just ignore it. But now, each little noise from his room was cause for alarm. And she wasn’t just worried about his cough either.
She listened and waited. She didn’t want to go in there if he was about to nod off again. She would give him sixty more seconds—and if there wasn’t another peep out of him, she’d switch off the light and go back to sleep.
On the nightstand was a small photo of her and her mom. Laurie had found it earlier tonight in an envelope in the desk’s bottom drawer. She’d propped the snapshot against the baby monitor on her nightstand. It was one of those photo-booth snapshots. She had no idea what had happened to the other three pictures from the strip. Maybe they weren’t very good shots of her mother, so she’d gotten rid of them. Then again, Teri Serrano hardly ever took a bad picture in her younger days. In this photo, she was movie-star gorgeous—with exotic eyes and shimmery, shoulder-length black hair. In the photograph, she was laughing. Crammed inside the booth with her was Laurie’s skinny, serious, eleven-year-old self.
“You’re no fun at all,” her mother was forever telling her.
Her mom didn’t leave her much choice. One of them had to take on some responsibility. From an early age, Laurie got up, dressed, fed herself, and then went off to school—all while her mother slept. Laurie did the housework and prepared the meals. Teri was a lousy cook. She would have lived on Chardonnay, cupcakes, Bugles, and microwave burritos—if her young daughter hadn’t intervened.
Life with Teri was anything but dull. Her mom was always moving them—usually to get away from either a lousy boyfriend or trouble at work. Laurie would just get used to a place, and her mother would suddenly up and move them again. She often chose their next destination by opening a Rand McNally map of the U.S., closing her eyes, and going wherever her finger landed. Then Laurie would help her mother load up the old Ford Celebrity, and they’d head to the next city.
She didn’t make any close friends. There didn’t seem much point in trying. So cooking became her companion. In the kitchen, Laurie had control. She could be creative, and it was the one thing she did that her mother appreciated. Teri never noticed that Laurie had done the laundry or cleaned the apartment, but she really enjoyed a good meal. Whenever one of her boyfriends treated her to dinner at a classy restaurant, Teri would charm her way into the kitchen and get the recipe from the chef. Then she’d give it to Laurie to duplicate.
Laurie could still see her sitting in front of the TV with the dinner plate on her lap. “Oh, sweetie, this is even better than what I had in that hoity-toity restaurant,” her mother would say, gobbling up Laurie’s rendition of the latest borrowed recipe.
Every new place they moved into, Laurie checked the kitchen first, and then she took a look at her bedroom—if she got one. Often she shared a bedroom with her mom, which became awkward whenever Teri had a man over. Many a night, Laurie cooked an elaborate dinner for her mom and the latest boyfriend—and then at bedtime, she was relegated
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