Hush

Hush
By Janice Lang
Digital ISBNs
EPUB 978-0-2286-1245-2
Kindle 978-0-2286-1246-9
WEB/PDF 978-0-2286-1247-6
Print ISBNs
BWL Print 978-0-2286-1248-3
Amazon Print 978-0-2286-1251-3
LSI Ingram 978-0-2286-1249-0
B&N Print 978-0-2286-1250-6
Copyright 2019 by Janice Lang
Cover Art Michelle Lee
All rights reserved. Withoutlimiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of thispublication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into aretrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means(electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise)without the prior written permission of both the copyright ownerand the publisher of this book


Chapter One
Pulling over to the side of theroad, I turn off the engine and grab my phone from the seat. Withmy heart racing as fast as my mind, I quickly redial her. Theautomated message comes on immediately.
I feel the panic rising. I placethe phone in the cubby and look at my watch. It’s 10:45pm. The lastferry leaves in fifteen minutes. I’m too far away from theterminal, but I’ve got to try.
Tall trees reach high up to thesmall strip of night sky. My foot is heavy on the pedal, the truckfighting to stay on the winding road.


Chapter Two
The soft chatter of people Ibarely know reduces to white noise as I make my way in thedirection of the red mahogany casket. I take a seat at the front,next to Mom, and I put a hand on hers. Denny is sitting on herother side, concentrating on his phone. He briefly looks up at me,showing his indifference, and then resumes texting.
“You look nice, Ma.”
She forces a grin while keepingher eyes forward. She’s pale and looks lost. Her cream skirt andmatching blazer hang loosely from her body. The last two weeks inhospital have taken a toll on her already spindly frame. Besidesthe bandage on her forehead, the only other reminder of whathappened is a small black brace on her right knee.
A lady wearing a flowered dressand a cardigan walks across the stage and sits at the organ. Whenshe starts to play, the chatter in the room dissipates. Mrs.Rumble, who is sitting on the bench behind us, taps my shoulder andoffers her condolences.
The next hour of the pastor’ssermon is painful, not because I feel sad, but because of the guiltI have for not feeling anything at all. My father was a son of abitch and I was his greatest regret. As I was a child full ofpromise in the beginning, he would bounce me on his knee and helpme with my homework. In his mind, I would be a doctor or a lawyer,not a salmon hatchery worker and definitely not a lesbian. Hence mybanishment at twenty-two to our summer cottage on Gabriola—far awayfrom the West Vancouver palace I grew up in, and far away from hisdisappointed eyes.
When the service ends, thepastor and Denny walk down the aisle to the exit then wait to thankpeople for coming. What a crock of shit. Most of these people hatedmy father. The only respect they had for him was fear-based. He wasa shrewd businessman and if you weren’t for him, you were againsthim. Undoubtedly, there are a few people in this room that were onthe wrong end of his wrath.
I help Mom to the limo where agroup of white-gloved women are waiting to talk to her. Unlike myfather, my mom is genuinely adored.
I walk across the street to thebeach, light a smoke and call Annie.
“How’s it going?”
“As predicted. There’s a roomfull of rich, overly perfumed blue hairs congregating in one spotfor the sole purpose of status verification. Somehow, they feelhigher up on the social scale because they knew the powerful Mr.Banks. They are all vampires. It makes me sick.”
“That good, huh?”
“Yep. It’s a clusterfuck,” Isay, taking a long puff of my smoke.
“Did I just hear you take adrag?”
“Um…nope. No smoking here.”
“Okay, liar. I’ll let it go thistime.”
“Thanks. Where are you?”
“On Quadra still. My parentswant me to help them get some peat moss before I head back toGabriola.”
Her calm, soft voice grounds me.We talk for a few more minutes, I tell her I love her and then walkback to the long line of cars in front of the church.
The grounds to our family’shouse remind me of when my parents had their annual spring-flings.There are cars from the main entrance all the way to the gate. Ipark on the road. I don’t want to be blocked in and stuck herelonger than necessary.
I make my way past the throngsof bullshit mourners to the front room. Mom is sitting in her chairwith a half a dozen other women crowding around her. Young menwearing white shirts and black pants carry trays of hors d’oeuvres.Bottles of overpriced wine sit on small tables in each room. If youdidn’t know someone had just died, this would look like every otherparty my parents held here. As I wait for an opportunity to grab mymother’s attention, I walk down the hall to the washroom.
I lock the door behind me. Askids, my brother and I were never allowed to use this bathroom. Myparents were too afraid we’d get fingerprints on thestainless-steel taps or leave scuff marks on the glossy wood floor.Everything had its place, and everything had to have order. What ascrewed perspective. No wonder we were so messed up. Then again, Iwasn’t the only kid in elementary school with a psychiatrist. Inthis neighborhood, old money and dated family ideals financed a lotof psychotherapists’ posh lifestyles. The children were always thecasualties. As the offspring of such an elite group of socialvampires, we had two choices: conform and follow suit, or sufferthe consequences of obtaining your own identity.
I never had a choice. I wasdamaged goods. My parents weren’t about to change their views andopen their minds to an unconventional lifestyle such as mine. Everypossible measure at ‘fixing me’ was exhausted. In the end, I wasdeemed unfixable.
After drying my hands on theinitialed hand towels, I finger brush my hair in the mirror andstraighten my suit then walk back out into the hall. Almostimmediately someone calls my name. It’s my Aunty Glenda, the onlyrelative I ever really jived with. My mother’s younger sister haswavy grey hair,