Hilltop House

Maeve, Fourteen

Maeve didn't like being away from her daughter when Cora was probably unwell. The girl had been fine the day before, seemed happy enough to sit around and watch television; finding her in her closet at about two in the morning had startled Maeve, though. All she could figure, even now, was that Cora had been drinking with Brian and the other young people and had come home and passed out in the closet. All of it was very unlike her, though. As far as Maeve knew, her daughter didn't drink. The woman had never even had to pester Cora about alcohol; the girl had been remarkably level-headed about partying too much at her age.

But old people expected care every day; their needs didn't go on holiday. Taking Thanksgiving had already irritated her employer, so Maeve knew she couldn't ask off the Friday after as well.

She herself had something of a headache following a bit too much wine and lack of sleep, but it'd been worth it. Maeve had had the most normal night she'd experienced in years. Listening to all the gossip and conversations of the others, she'd almost forgotten her own problems.

Almost. Until John had expressed some kind of interest, and then she'd remembered her life was a wreck.

Maeve had spent much of the morning lurking in the Saint David's Hall, taking care of linens and trying to switch tasks with others so she wouldn't have to venture out beyond her safe set of rooms. Ever since Martha Heyward had freaked her out, she'd been trying to avoid running into the old woman. It hadn't been too difficult; Martha was on a different meal and activity schedule than the men and women in Maeve's hall, so the potential for seeing the strange woman was low. Still, their sole encounter had been disturbing enough for Maeve that she was intent on making sure they wouldn't have a chance run-in anytime soon.

Deep cleaning rooms was relaxing, Maeve thought, wiping the windowsill. She'd take care of the blinds, next. Sister Mary Rose, the old nun who'd inhabited the room, had died two days before, and her room needed readying for the next old man or woman. The eldercare home was a factory of sorts, cycling people through the doors, and anyone that came knew their arrival was a death sentence, knew the only way out was on a stretcher, and before their beds were cold someone else was hobbling or wheeling in. In with the old, out with the older.

"Sometimes people have to die so others of us can actually live," he'd told her. It was how he'd justified it. "It was the only way for us to be together."

And he'd run his gravedigging fingers through her hair, ignored her trembling, and taken her home.

Several weeks before it'd happened, when seeing him had been adventurous and new, Maeve and Alyssa had sat up at night in Alyssa's bedroom and giggled and gossiped like the teenaged girls they were, raving over photos of themselves and some of their classmates, digging through the magazines Nettie willingly purchased for Alyssa but which Maeve's own mother would've been horrified to find her reading. They'd talked about boys they'd crushed on and girls they disliked and Alyssa had gone on and on about how lucky Maeve was to have found Paul, who was so amazing and attractive and mature. Maeve had only been able to blush and smile and shy away from her friend's prying and even so, Alyssa had known. "You'd better use protection!" she'd practically screamed at Maeve, whether from concern or from shock neither really knew. And Maeve, who'd innocently assumed Alyssa had meant to protect her heart, had been dragged downstairs to Nettie, who'd happily given both girls a too-detailed lesson on condoms and STD's and pregnancy. Maeve had gone forward armed with what she believed would be useful information, but Paul had only perceived her advice as interfering and demeaning, and he'd easily convinced her not to listen to anyone but him.

It'd been so new and so exciting, at that point, and he'd told her he loved her, said "Love means never needing to worry about protection. I'm your protection, now."