Cynda and the City Doctor: 50 Loving States, Missouri (QUARANTALES Book 1) Read online

  Cynda and the City Doctor

  50 Loving States, Missouri

  Theodora Taylor

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Epilogue

  Also by Theodora Taylor

  About the Author

  This is dedicated to all of my fellow St. Louis natives who moved away and never stopped missing our super special version of Chinese food.

  Once upon a time

  (three years ago to be exact)

  Dr. Prince was dazzled

  by an unexpected princess.

  He fell for her hard.

  But she departed without warning.

  Leaving behind only

  one glittery Dansko slipper

  Chapter One

  “Mabel’s dead. She’s going to die!”

  “Mabel’s fine. She’s not going to die,” I assure my stepsister, Erin, as I crawl into the fireplace. Then I mutter under my breath, “Not unless I kill her.”

  “What did you say?” E demands, her voice an indignant screech.

  “Here, Mabel, Mabel,” I croon up the chimney instead of answering. “Please come down so that E can go to school.”

  I shine my phone into the dark fireplace, hoping the sound of my voice will get the kitten to come down. But she doesn’t so much as mew.

  Please don’t be dead, I silently beg. If this animal went up into the chimney to die, I’m never getting E out the door.

  “She’s dead!” E wails. “She’s dead or she would have come down by now.”

  I sigh. “Why don’t you go get all your things ready for school so that you don’t miss the bus?”

  “Who can think of school busses at a time like this?” E demands, her voice on the verge of tears. “Does Mabel’s life mean nothing to you?”

  Okay, I am incredibly proud of E for getting into the Carnegie Mellon School of Drama early decision. It’s a super competitive program and I respect her dedication to becoming a high-caliber actress.

  But mornings like this make me really wish she could tone down the dramatics.

  “Mabel’s life means a lot to me,” I answer. “But considering this is the third time she’s gotten stuck up the chimney, I’m not sure her life means a lot to her. Now could you please make sure you have your backpack so that I don’t have to drive you to school?”

  “Cynda! Cynda! Where’s my tuba? I can’t find my tuba! And I know I left it by the door!”

  I don’t have to scoot out of the fireplace to figure out that this voice belongs to my stepbrother, Aaron.

  Yes, seriously. His name is Aaron. He and Erin are twins. My stepmother, Rachel, was married to the drummer of an R&B cover band, and not my practical father when she had them. And she’d thought it would be cute to name both twins after their father.

  It wasn’t. Rachel and her first husband divorced after signing their kids up for a lifetime of confused second takes whenever they introduce themselves. And now everyone who knows them just refers to them as A and E to avoid confusion.

  But as bad as I feel for A about his full name, I don’t believe his claim for a second. I know for dang sure that kid is not responsible enough to leave his instrument by the door.

  “Where was the last place you used it?” I ask him before calling up to Mabel. “Here, kitty, kitty. I’m going to need you to come down because everybody’s got to get to school and work.”

  “The last time I had it was in the garage,” A answers. “But it’s not in there.”

  I can see the bottom half of his cargo-pants covered legs walking back and forth in front of the fireplace. He paces like a chubby tiger whenever he gets agitated.

  “Did you check just to make sure, A?”

  I should have known better.

  The legs abruptly stop pacing. “I told you it wasn’t in the garage! I put it by the door. Why don’t you ever believe me?” Puberty isn’t quite done with him yet, so his voice cracks with all sorts of shrieky indignation.

  “Your stupid nerd horn doesn’t matter, A! Mabel’s dead!” E yells at him.

  Apparently, E looked at our disaster of a morning and thought to herself, you know what this situation needs? A sibling fight. Inside the fireplace, I sigh and scrub a hand over my face even though all the coronavirus experts have been advising people against touching their faces for months now.

  “My horn’s not stupid. You’re stupid!” A immediately shoots back. Good thing he plans on becoming an engineer. If that’s the best comeback he can muster, any job requiring debater skills is not in his future.

  “At least I’m not heartless,” E replies. “Don’t you care anything about the innocent kitten we promised to nurture in our home?”

  “Mabel please come down, I can’t take much more of this,” I beg up the chimney.

  “Yeah, that’s why you’re the stupid one,” A answers, his voice triumphant. “Mabel’s in my room, hanging out with Dipper.”

  “What?!” E and I say at the same time.

  “E, tell me…tell me Mabel was not in A’s room this whole time!” I growl, scrambling out of the fireplace.

  “Let me just check,” E answers, her pretty light brown face crinkling with a grimace. Funny, her voice doesn’t sound nearly as self-righteous as it did before.

  I start picking up our two-story brick colonial’s living room while I wait. The floral patterned furniture I grew up with is still in use. But I don’t keep my childhood home nearly as tidy as my mother did when she was alive. Though to be fair, I spent most of my free time rehearsing for beauty pageants when I was a teen.

  Whereas A and E seem to be in a never ending contest over who can leave more stuff laying around. Today’s winner is A. I pick up empty junk food packages and Mountain Dew cans, along with a recent AP Biology test he didn’t do so hot on.

  Sure enough, by the time I come back from depositing the trash in the kitchen trashcan where it belongs, E’s emerging from her brother’s room. And who’s that curled up in her arms? That would be Mabel the smaller of the two gray tabbies she and A had named after their favorite boy-girl twins from the TV show, Gravity Falls.

  We adopted the kittens last December, back when I thought for sure that A would be going to the University of Missouri-Rolla for Engineering and E would be enrolling in the Performing Arts program at Washington University in St. Louis. I’d wanted them to have pets to come back home to every weekend and for all their breaks.

  But never underestimate the co-dependent power of twins. They both managed to exceed my expectations by earning scholarships for one of the few schools in the nation that had both an exceptional engineering program and a well-respected school of drama.

  However, Pittsburgh was far away and the twins could barely take care of themselves. So I’d decided to move there with them, which would mean finding a nursing job in Pittsburgh and securing an apartment for the three of us that’s okay with multiple pets.

  I’d seen a few listings near CMU, but they weren’t cheap,
especially compared to Guadalajara, Missouri where we currently lived. No matter how I crunched the numbers, it looked like I’d have to sell the house to make this Pittsburgh plan work.

  I’d been cool with that before. Especially since I knew that Dad’s dying wish was to bring up his stepkids as well as he and my mom had raised me. But right now, all those sacrifices I’ve been planning to make to advance their dreams taste like bitter food in my mouth.

  “Mabel was in A’s room the entire time?” I ask E. “You didn’t even check there first?”

  “I thought I saw her run up into the fireplace!” E insists. Her eyes fill with tears. “Please don’t be mad at me, Cynda”

  I want to be mad. God, I want to be. Especially since I know crying on demand is on E’s list of questionable talents, along with applying fake lashes in under 30 seconds flat and convincing boys to dump their girlfriends for the chance to hook up with her.

  But then I remind myself of all the reasons she’s so desperate for attention from boys, why she hides her natural beauty under a shell of perfect shellacked makeup, and why she has such easy access to her pain.

  We’re all still reeling from Dad’s sudden death three years ago. And their mom is who knows where right now—though if I were taking bets, it would probably be in St. Louis, spending this month’s life insurance payout at the casino riverboats. She’d walked out a couple of months after my dad’s funeral, and only swanned in for random visits which she never announced.

  For all intents and purposes, it’s just the twins and me. Which is fine. Now that we’ve all lost my dad, I’m determined to love and provide for them just as true blue as he would have if he’d lived.

  “Guys we’ve got to remember. We’re all in this together, and we have to help each other. So right now please go find your stuff so that we can get out the door.”

  “But…” they both start to protest in twin unison.

  I lift both hands, already knowing what they’ll say. I’ve only been their main caretaker for three years, but I swear sometimes it feels like a lifetime. I assign them duties before they can start whining about how they can’t do this or that.

  “You two get your backpacks while I go check in the garage for A’s horn.”

  “It’s not in the garage!” A yells after me, his round light brown face turning red with indignation.

  “Guess what! Your horn’s in the garage!” I call back over my shoulder less than a minute later. You know, after I find his case open on top of my hood and the tuba sitting bell side down on the concrete. The former marching band member still lurking inside of me, shudders at the sight.

  “Sorry,” A has the good grace to mumble when he comes slinking out to the garage.

  But unfortunately his apology isn’t enough to get us to the school bus in time.

  It drives away, even though I’m pretty sure Mr. Greiner saw us running to catch it. He’s the same driver who drove the bus when I was a student at Guac High. Guac High is what the locals call Guadalajara Senior High School. It doesn’t make much sense if you’re not a small town Missouri resident who’s only ever seen Mexico on a map, but due to our Spanish-language name, we’re weirdly obsessed with guacamole. We call ourselves Guacs not Guadalajarians, which is short for Guacamoles. And yeah sure guacamole can’t be pluralized, but none of us care. We also tack Guac to the front of all of our institutions, and our high school mascot is an avocado.

  Unfortunately, Mr. Greiner doesn’t have nearly the same sense of humor as the rest of the town. And it doesn’t matter how many parents complain, he never waits for the kids who aren’t standing right there when he pulls up to the curb.

  The twins and I end up coughing on fumes as he speeds away.

  “Sorry,” they both say this time.

  I sigh and pull my sweater a little tighter around my scrubs. “C’mon, I’ll drive you.”

  When we get back to the house, I notice that the flag on the mailbox is down. So we’ve had letters sitting in there since last night. It’s A’s chore to bring in the mail. But he forgets more often than he remembers. I grab the pile of letters on our way to the garage and shake it at him.

  “Sorry,” he says for the third time in the same morning.

  I’m about to chastise him about this ongoing issue again but I stop when I see the letter on top of the pile. It’s the only one that’s not a bill. And the address is handwritten…to me. From an R. Smith from Pinewood, South Dakota.

  Smith. That’s my mother’s maiden name, but also pretty common. And South Dakota? Who do I know in South Dakota?

  Maybe it’s one of the other Queen America contestants. Though, I barely remember saying more than a few words to Princess South Dakota five years ago when I competed in the national pageant. Or maybe it’s one of the nurses I used to work with at Raines Jewish before I moved back home to Guadalajara?

  Or maybe it’s a certain exchange fellow whose name also began with R? The one who’d once admitted that he had twelve names, not the usual three. He had claimed it was a long boring story and he would prefer if I just called him Rhys.

  A memory of him hits me without warning. Us tearing each other’s clothes off in the on-call room. Too desperate to make it all the way to the bed. Him pushing down my scrubs and taking me right against the door….

  “I thought you said we were going to be late!”

  I glance up to see A at the back door of my Honda Civic, waiting for me to unlock the car.

  And even though it’s only in the very low forties temperature wise, it feels like my body’s burning up with fever for reasons that have nothing to do with the virus currently sweeping the nation. God, what is wrong with me? It’s been three years already. Why can’t I just forget him?

  I shake my head at A and stick the mail pile into my purse.

  “See this is why I have to move with you guys to Pittsburgh,” I say to A. “How were you planning on surviving on your own at college when you can’t even remember to bring in the mail?”

  He shrugs and I sigh.

  My friends Billie and Gina hadn’t been so sure about my decision to move to Pittsburgh with the twins, but mornings like this prove my decision to go with them is totally right. A and E need me, and I’m going to do whatever it takes to be there for them.

  It’s just too bad nobody’s answered any of the rental ads for the back house I’ve put up all over town. Dad left the house to me not my stepmother—thank goodness, but it’s one of the nicer ones in our mostly agricultural and working-class town. That means it’s going to take a while to sell, especially right now during a nationwide pandemic. So I’ll definitely need the extra income renting out the back house could bring in for our move.

  E lets out an aggrieved huff in the passenger seat. “There’s only three stoplights on the way to Guac High, but I swear we’re hitting every one.”

  A, who’s scrolling on his phone in the back seat says, “They’re saying the governor’s about to give a press conference about the coronavirus. Do you think he’s going to tell everybody they have to close the schools?”

  “That’s the rumor,” I answer. “But you never know.”

  Many school districts and most of the colleges in Missouri had already closed, but Guadalajara was one of the districts still holding out.

  “If they do, I hope they re-open in time for the spring musical,” E says, wringing her hands in the front seat.

  I pull up in front of the red brick and stone building where a couple of hundred high schoolers are gathered waiting for the first bell. “We’ll see, honey.”

  “Good-bye, dear Cynda. Love you!” E says. She gracefully slides through the passenger side door while her brother clambers out of the back seat.

  “Love you too,” I call after the both of them, even though A just got out like I was his chauffeur.

  They walk together towards the stone steps only to split into separate groups of their theater and nerd friends.

  It’s funny, I think. If this were a play,
they’d get cast as polar opposites. E could play the popular high school girl role easily with her long, wavy hair and creamy brown skin with makeup perfectly applied to hide her freckles. Meanwhile, A would definitely be chosen as the band nerd with his chubby waistline and 365 day affinity for cargo pants from the Sears big and husky line. Yet, they would never be cast as twins.

  But that’s what they are, and nothing says that more than the lengths they went in order to attend the same school. My heart constricts as I drive away. It had been my father’s dying wish to see them thrive, and I’m going to make sure that happens. It’s my dream to see that they are as loved and well taken care of as I was growing up with my mom and dad.

  Which means I have to rush back across town to my job in downtown Guadalajara. Our house is actually close enough to walk to main street. My dad used to walk to work every day, rain, snow, or insanely humid shine. However, the detour to the high school means not only do I have to drive to work today, but I’m going to be late.

  Just as I’m halfway to the office, the phone rings. It’s Dr. Haim. Probably wondering where I am. But I can’t pick up the call because I forgot my headphones at home and it’s against the law to talk or text while driving.

  So I let Dr. Haim’s call go to voicemail with a silent apology for being late. Again. This isn’t the first time I haven’t been able to get the twins to the bus on time.

  If it was anybody else, I’d text him at the next stop sign. But Dr. Haim tosses his personal phone into his middle desk drawer when he gets into the office every morning and only uses his landline.

  So at the next stop sign, instead of texting, my eyes wander to the letter sticking out of my purse along with a bunch of bills. The letter from R. Smith. My belly flutters and my heart twists just a little bit.