The Family Affair

By Lord Meika

The Family Affair follows a brother and a sister caught in a whirlwind of underground politics when they discover a series of journals their late father had cataloged before he was never seen again.

• Language: English
• Publisher: WestBow Press
• Release date: Sep 26, 2017
• ISBN: 9781512799170

Lord Meika

Lord Meika takes the leap from social commentaries and food critiquing to bring you this one-of-a-kind thriller that will keep you guessing to the end.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

M any years ago, there was a great war, and just like any war that preceded this one, it started because two groups of people disagreed on the legitimacy of certain practices. The war wreaked havoc on everything we knew. The opposition was suppressed, and in turn exiled for their treasonous acts.

The five Commanding Officers took up positions of leadership among the tribes that remained in the wake of the war. The head officer oversaw many souls, as well as presided over the other four leaders, namely the high elder and elders.

In the subsequent years, the Elders became increasingly secluded and the remnants slowly began dying. As war was a taboo topic, after a few generations it was ambiguous as to what the exiles did to cause a war. Some people, in quiet, would even question if a war was justifiable.

With the elders being the only people who knew the actual reasons why the war began, paired with their tendencies to stay hidden from the public, people began forgetting about the topic entirely. They forgot the war and the associated myths.

Stories of supernatural powers, of dragons, and even the result of the rebels’ rebellion all started becoming speculation, becoming just that, a myth, a forgotten truth, a lost part of our history.

Lost? Less lost and more so forgotten. History is written from the eyes of the victorious, it is re-written when the adamant become passive. This is the story, this is how I learned it, and this is the way it occurred.

CHAPTER 1

R aining, again. It’s always raining. Well, I guess always is too definitive. It rains a lot. That’s better. The rain was refreshing. I just wish it would stop every once in a while.

She moved her hand to mine. It was a soft hand, small, with short nails. She liked them shorter because it was one less thing to worry about. The scent of the freshly applied lotion lingered in the air. I guess it wasn’t an unusual argument. Her grip tightened a bit as we turned through an intersection. No traffic. It was quiet, as if the world mourned with me. Mourning was the wrong word. Grieved? No, relieved? That would fit better.

How are you doing?

Empty words. Did she try to repress? Did she choose to ignore the suffering, the pain, the anguish?

I’m doing fine. Careful. The car dipped as it hit a divot in the road and popped back up to a smooth ride.

I bought the car a short while beforehand. It was ‘the cutting edge of luxury sedans’, it was The smoothest ride you’d ever feel and at a price you can’t resist. He wasn’t kidding.

It sure was smooth, borderline wonderful I’d almost say. I had been in love with Lincolns for as long as I could remember. It was as if the car understood me, more so than my family.

I joked to co-workers about the car understanding me. Rufus always laughs at my jokes, but for the life of me I’d say he’s faking it. His laughs always seem too fake, so forced. Speaking of, I still need to get back to him about those tickets I’m sure he’ll…

Decide not to stop at Mom’s?

She had a knack for doing that. She would patronizingly ask a rhetorical question, only to allow self-realization to kick in and make you feel idiotic.

I slowed and turned the blinker on to signal for a U-turn. I wasn’t even paying attention and drove right past the house. I turned and looked at her for a moment and then corrected my location. Finally, I put the car into park without a word.

She let out a fake smile and grabbed her umbrella, opening it outside the car. Not me. I just stood in the rain for a bit, looking into the sky. Watching the rain as it fell directly onto my face, I closed my eyes.

Only a moment passed, though it seemed like an eternity. My sister grabbed my arm, shielding us both with the umbrella as we crossed the street and headed up the old porch to a blue house.

It stood solemnly. Dark blue, the color of the sky as the sun sets when the moon is full. I’m sure there is a name for the color. They have a color for everything these days. White shutters on the face of the house, three sets actually, two on the upper floor and one on the main floor, just to the right of the porch. The porch was black, and a two-person swing hung from the awning. It swayed in the light wind, creaking the same way that things seem to creak in horror films.

As we stepped inside the front door, the memories hit me like a lion hits an unsuspecting gazelle. Everything was the same. It was as if nothing had happened. Part of me expected a grumpy old man to waddle down the stairs groaning about who knows what to any poor sap who happened upon his path. I guess I wouldn’t know what to do if he had.

Droplets hit my wrist as Vi shook off her umbrella, sliding it in the slot at the bottom of the coat rack just inside the closet. I stood motionless. Part of me was stuck wishing I could just turn now and run away forever. Part of me wanted to break down and cry. I looked down the long hallway and remembered running, countless summer days, running down the hall into the kitchen to find Mom simply baking, or cooking, or sewing. Really, doing anything. Seeing her could fix any problem. Any pain in your life could be fixed by a kiss from a mom, more importantly, my mom.

The pictures lined the hall all perfectly level. The old man used to say that a crooked picture was like a crooked foundation. I never did understand what he meant by that, but then again, he said a lot of things that didn’t seem to make any sense. To my side sat the baby grand piano. Its cover sat perfectly on top of it as if it were brand new. It probably hadn’t been touched in months, maybe even years.

I looked over in time to notice Vi pushing her hair up off of her sweater, straightening her outfit. I sighed slightly, here I stood fully clad in my coat and everything. Reality snapped back.

I turned as I slid my coat off reaching for a hanger to put it away. Vi used to joke that I looked like Humphrey Bogart in that coat. It was a long trench coat, but that was the only similarity. In how many movies did he even wear long jackets? Did he even wear any? Irrelevant. I reached out to hang the coat as Mom walked out of the dining room. A tear welled in her eye as she reached for my sister. She was smiling. She always smiled. Even when she cried she was smiling, as if she knew something no one else knew. There was nothing that could make her frown.

She let go of my sister and shuffled toward me. She was wearing a pink knit sweater over a blue blouse with a pair of white lounge pants and pink knit slippers. She grabbed me. As her face lay on my shoulder, I could feel her tears wetting my sweater. It was a designer sweater. She’d better not bleed anything onto my shoulder. The sweater was blue with black lining the center fold. It had a zipper that zipped up to the chin, almost the way a turtleneck type of sweater would. It was currently zipped to the center of my chest.

She smelled of pomegranate…and cinnamon. Maybe it was some scent she was wearing. Maybe it was just something lingering from the baking she was undoubtedly doing.

How have you been holding up, Mum?

She slowly pulled away, still holding my upper arm, rubbing it with her thumb.

Oh, well, it sure is quieter around here, both of you all grown up and big.

What was it about people that made them feel obligated to remind everyone there was a point in their life where they were not as big as they are now?

Mmmm, what’s that smell, Mom? Vi wanted to change the subject.

The last thing she wanted was to dwell on the sadness that lingered in the room like a thick cloud. She hooked her arm under Mom’s and led her down the hall back to the kitchen, flipping the switch as she walked.

The light was piercing. It shined off of Violet’s heels. They were black, yet shiny. She was wearing a long sweater, wool, maybe. She wore a black belt around her stomach. It had a fancy buckle on it, a custom buckle fashioned after Odin’s Horn. She wore black nylons that matched her dark hair. Normally it waved down her back and over her shoulders, but today she had it up. It was pushed up into a ponytail with a segment that came down on the right side of her face, casting a light shadow over her eye. She was the spitting image of my mother, during her younger years. My mother was now becoming frail. She wouldn’t let anyone know it. She had too much pride to let anyone know age was beginning to wear her down. Maybe it was just the staying in. Maybe it was being alone. Needless to say, if I could tell there had been a noticeable change then surely Vi had been able to also.

I looked back at the stairs still thinking I’d see some old man, almost hoping I guess. I turned and headed up the stairs, not sure what I’d find. I sure didn’t know for what I was looking.

It had been years since I’d been in this old house. It was as if I were in a thriller. I didn’t know what was waiting upstairs, if anything. Would things be the same as I remembered them? What if everything were different? What if… Honey? Why don’t you come into the kitchen dear?

I stood one step away from the top. It looks as if my adventure will have to wait. I turned down the stairs and walked toward the kitchen. My self-control disappearing like water poured onto the sands of the Mojave, mid-day. The kitchen was littered with desserts and goodies.

Anyone on a diet would probably die. It was a sweet’s heaven. She was pulling a pan of snicker doodles out of the oven as I walked in…that must have been the cinnamon. Was it the Amish bread? Two loaves of the bread sat next to what looked like a loaf of pumpkin bread and another the banana nut variety. The tri-stack pie holder was holding a pistachio, an Oreo cream, and a Dutch Apple pie. She had two rectangular containers that looked as if they held cookies, probably some sugar cookies, and who knows what else in the other. A pan of white chocolate raspberry cheesecake sat next to a perfectly frosted carrot cake. The counter was spotless except for a single bread knife and a butter knife. No cupboards were open and no ingredients remained scattered. I’ll never know how she keeps the kitchen so clean.

Where is that pomegranate scent coming from though? I looked over to the side to see Vi indulging in a slice of cheesecake atop the wet bar. As a child, I often told people there was nothing my mom couldn’t do or make. This scene only reassured the promises I made to my friends, time and time again, as I grew up.

Mom, I can’t place it, where is the pomegranate smell coming from?

She smiled. It looked like a trademark smile, the same one that she gave anytime someone asked for one of her recipes. When people used to ask her how she made this or that, she would always smile and say, That’s a secret. She was so good at what she did I couldn’t blame her for being secretive. It was clearly where my tendency to be secretive originated. She softened almost immediately; however, as if she realized it was me and not one of her quilting mates.

If you must know, I’ll tell you, but first we’ll play a game.

I may not be five anymore, but my mother’s games were the most enticing, perhaps due to years of conditioning. The games themselves weren’t entirely wonderful, but her rewards were always so great, usually desserts or snacks, that made it worth attempting any game she had.

Deal.

The child inside of me seemed to be spurred on in a way it hadn’t been for years, probably not since I last saw her. A mothers’ ability to awaken any lost memory.

Looks like I must come up with a riddle, but not just any riddle, you must find the item the riddle describes. Are these terms satisfactory?

My curiosity was piqued at this point. It was no longer about figuring out from where the pomegranate came, it was about winning. I nodded my head as a slight grin crept across the right side of my lips.

Oooh, I want to play.

Vi always tried to ruin my fun and steal my glory. Not today. Let her join, she’ll lose. After stuffing the last of the cheese cake into her mouth, she put her fork down on a now empty plate and walked over to where we were standing.

Mom had just put the tray down on the stove. The cookies were now all on a piece of wax paper sitting on the counter. She took off her mitt and leaned against the stove crossing her arms. A smirk lit her face.

"Here is my riddle:

Many a men and many a women

Tie the knot due to a system,

They call upon friends and foes

And order up, many-a doughs,

One in particular uses a utensil

And without it all comes to a stand-still

Find this tool, but do not panic

I’ll give you a hint, it’s in the attic."

The familiarity with races leads to the anticipation before the start. The moment before the gun goes off, or the beep sounds, all is silent, just quiet.

The silence came and went. Call it a sixth sense. Call it ‘tw-intuition’. Call it whatever you’d like, but clearly Vi knew exactly what I was thinking. What is the quickest way to the attic? Neither of us had actually ever been up there.

Back to the moment we both took off running for the stairs. We realized being on the main floor clearly wouldn’t lead to the attic, second floor would be our best bet.

I rounded through the dining room as Vi took to the straight hall, luckily for me she bumped the table that held a vase of flowers. In her confusion, she tried to stop the flowers from falling over which bought me time. I sped past her and hurried up the stairs, taking two at a time. I got to the top and scanned down the hall looking at the ceiling for an opening.

Nothing. The hall boasted two rooms on the right and one on the left. Our rooms were on the right. By now they were no doubt full of boxes or whatever Mom felt obliged to put in them. I’d look into that later. I passed the bathroom on the left and followed down the hall. It took a sharp left turn leading to the master bedroom. I stopped dead in my tracks. There was no avoiding it now. A tear fell from my right eye.

Is Dad coming, Mom? It was a rhetorical question, the epitome of Einstein’s definition of insanity. It was the same question, yet I hoped for a different outcome. It wasn’t going to be different, he was always gone. Even though he was gone, it didn’t necessarily mean he was far. He was working, always working. He never told me what he did. He said when I was older he would fill me in.

I was ten! immediately I felt a bit relieved after yelling. But at what? I don’t know. At him? At his secrecy? The fact I was yelling just brought welcomed relief. That is, until my sister laid her hand on my shoulder. When did she get here? How long was she standing behind me? It didn’t matter now, now I was crying.

Not moving. Standing still looking straight ahead at their door. No sound, just tears barreling down my cheeks. My fists were both clenched at this point. She moved the rest of the way toward me and hugged me from behind, resting her head on the back of my shoulder.

No words. Either she knew what I was feeling, or she just knew I needed someone right then. I took my sleeve and wiped my face. The same as I did so many times as a child.

So many times, spent waiting for him. Hoping he would show. So many times, I waited, thanks to him. I turned around and walked back into my old room, I’ll look in here. I fought to keep my voice from cracking. I left the door open. Slamming it now would just make her think I was angry.

She already knew I was angry.

I could hear her footsteps now. I figured she was going to her room to look. Odd really, neither of us ever saw an opening to the attic. The first place we look is our own rooms? The places we were most accustomed to? She was probably doing it in lieu of my recent outbreak.

It doesn’t look like anything changed. My room was almost identical to the way it had been, albeit dustier, but the same. I stood for a moment, slowly surveying the room. It wasn’t particularly large, but it was big enough for me. Mine and Vi’s rooms sat adjacent to each other and were perfect mirrored images, except for the contents of course. In my room, my old bed sat against the right wall, a queen sized with dark blue bed sheets, a blue comforter, and blue pillowcases. There were pictures on my dresser which was pressed against the far wall, a window over the dresser. There wasn’t much else in the room, I took most of my belongings when I moved out.

All of the picture frames laid face down with a thin layer of dust coating their backs. I picked up the center one and held it for a moment. It was a picture of my father when he was younger. He was in the military. The Navy. He looked refined. He always did. He always kept in pretty good shape. You could say he aged well. Right up until I never saw him again.

I laid the picture back down. I couldn’t look at it any more right now. The walls were dark blue, a vivid representation of my high school years. I walked toward the door, giving one last look at the room and its few contents, before slowly closing the door.

I walked past Vi’s room. I was going to face my demons. I needed to. So, I headed into the master bedroom. As I passed Vi’s room, I saw her laying on her bed playing with a pink stuffed bunny. It matched her room, the entire room. Looks like both of our competitive natures had been pushed aside. They had become second to our childish natures.

I walked into my parent’s suite. It’s just another room. It’s just another room. I started thinking to myself before I began scanning the ceiling. No creases, no imperfections. Not that mother would be sealing the ceiling. That was her least favorite thing to do. I foolishly walked into the bathroom via their access. You can never be too sure. I leaned out and entered their walk-in closet. Vi and I had hidden here on numerous occasions. It was so big and we were so small, the perfect combination.

I walked in and flicked on the light. There hung a cord from the ceiling. I couldn’t do anything but stand there and shake my head. Duh. I thought to myself.

How many times had I played in here? Yet I completely repressed the memory of their being a cord in here. Who cares at this point? Only one thing left to do.

Pull it.

CHAPTER 2

I t put up a bit of a struggle, but I didn’t want to rip the cord. It wasn’t budging. I slowly began to tug harder and harder until it eventually popped down. Dust and dirt fell right onto my head. Great. I brushed it out of my hair and off of my face. Looking at my shoulders, I sighed and took off my sweater. It was a mess. I turned and tossed it from the closet onto the king-sized bed and then continued pulling the ladder down.

I looked up into the ominous attic and just as I moved to take my first step a strip of lightning cracked across the sky. It startled me enough to grab onto the ladder as if I feared falling. My feet were both on the ground and I was hugging the ladder. Luckily, I released just in time. Vi hurried into the bedroom, no doubt because of the storm as well, and slowed once she saw me, trying to pretend she hadn’t been startled, just like I was, slowly approaching me in the closet.

Oh, what do you know? She smiled and began walking toward me. I knew what she was going to do. She wanted to go up first. To be honest, the scardy-cat half of me was begging to let her, but the macho-man half couldn’t let a girl go up first, especially if fear was my reason behind letting her.

Don’t even think about it. I get first dibs.

I was already climbing the ladder as I was telling her. She followed right behind me. There was one window on the wall where the two sides of the roof met. It shed a little bit of light, otherwise it was dark, very dark.

Look for a switch or a pull string or something.

I didn’t have to be able to see her face. I knew she was glaring at me. It was a glare she perfected over the years, a why should I have to glare, and boy was she good at it.

I slowly rose. I was still hunched over mostly. I didn’t know exactly how tall the ceiling was and I wasn’t going to risk slamming my head into something. Sliding my hand gently up the wall, trying to be careful, I didn’t want to get a splinter. I felt a cool metal box. Sure enough there was a switch on it. Light. It was a bright bulb, that or maybe it just seemed that way since the room was so dark. Either way, everything was now visible. Painfully so.

Boxes on boxes on boxes. Lots of boxes, typical. There was some old sports equipment in one corner, a golf bag filled with Taylor Made equipment did he even golf?

So, what are we looking for again? I had totally forgotten about the riddle whilst looking for the secret entrance.

How should I know? I wasn’t even listening to the riddle. Typical Vi, trying to butt her way into anything without even knowing what she was butting in on. My curiosity of what lay up here seemed to be greater than anything we may have been sent up here to find. I started opening boxes, shuffling through their contents and pushing them aside when they didn’t seem to have anything overly interesting. Box after box was searched then pushed. Finding only old clothes, old toys, old books, old, old, old—there seemed to be a common theme with their contents.

After a while, I turned toward one box that wasn’t exceptionally big. I grabbed and opened it. Fit snuggly to the edges of the box was a leather-bound book. I turned the box and seven more just like it slid out. I shambled to hold all eight leather-bound books. There was something different about these books than the other books in the attic. They looked worn but still neat. I grabbed one and quickly flipped the pages. Full.

Journal 2 Day 1:

I can’t seem to place it, is it the water, is it the fruit maybe it’s the atmosphere the general feel of this place is invigorating the Vartans seem to be friendly overall it’s been over a year since the only dispute we’ve had and I don’t think that will resurface anyways it’s my little angel’s birthday today she is turning ‘treyol’ from what I gather that’s about nineteen back home I don’t know what to get her but I’ll think of something maybe I’ll bring her something from America. She everyone always seem to love them.

I ran my hands over the page, I recognized the writing. It was his. This doesn’t make any sense. Who were the Vartans? Was he cheating on Mom? It would explain why he was gone so much if he had another family.

What’s that? Vi walked over to me and grabbed the box and noticed the pile of books on the floor. These sure are nice. She ran her hands over the journal’s surface and placed it back in the box.

I dropped the one I was reading into the box and slid it toward the ladder. I was contemplating taking them with me.

I honestly can’t remember what it is we’re looking for up here.

I looked over at Vi and she shrugged. I had no desire to continue looking. The books were now on my mind. It’s all I could think of. I walked over to the ladder and grabbed the box slowly beginning my descent. Don’t forget to turn off the light when you’re done up here.

She turned with a confused look on her face.

Wait you’re just going? What about the riddle?

I didn’t care anymore, not even enough to answer her question. I walked into the hall and down the stairs.

As I rounded the landing, I set the box down by the closet that housed our coats. I grabbed the book that sat on the top and moved toward the kitchen. Mom was rolling out a pastry of some sort, probably a pie crust. It looked like there was enough to lace the remaining strips across the top. Maybe another apple pie. Irrelevant. I walked up to her.

Do you recognize this? I held the book up with a bit of frustration. She wiped her hands on her apron before reaching for the book.

It looks like your fathers. He always kept it with him. She turned it and examined it from all sides. If I remember correctly, it was a slightly different color. She handed it back to me and turned back to her pastries. Seemingly disinterested.

Well there IS an entire box of them. The words exited my mouth properly conveying the bite in my voice.

Anyone who knew me knew I didn’t really like the old man, not that I knew him enough to not like him. It was more the fact he was never home. I hated that. I hated him.

"The mother in me wants to ask what’s wrong, but I