The Sole Survivors' Club

Chapter 15

Monica stood on the front steps of the Duff residence, a drab blue two-story house with a faux-wood exterior. While she waited for someone to answer Carl’s knock, she found herself thinking of Randy, who offered no advice during the hour-long trip.

In fact, he hadn’t said much at all, and he spent most of the drive glancing nervously at Monica.

Aside from a few minutes of small talk during the beginning of the trip, the only thing Randy said before Monica and Carl got out of the car was “Good luck.”

Monica didn’t want luck. She wanted a clue of what she was supposed to say to help Steven. No, she desperately needed a clue, and when the front door of the Duff residence opened, she still didn’t have one.

Steven’s mother looked frazzled to her wit’s end. Her short blonde hair was disheveled, and many strands kinked away from her scalp at odd angles. Her fatigue was most obvious in the dark patches under her blue eyes, but it also showed in her drooping eyes and slouched posture. Her white blouse was wrinkled, as was her knee-length beige skirt.

Monica extended her hand out to the woman. “Hello, ma’am. My name is Monica Harper, and this is—”

“Are you reporters?” the woman asked. Her posture tightened and she shifted the door, prepared to slam it if the answer was yes.

“No, ma’am.” Monica fell silent.

“What do you want?”

“Ma’am, this is Carl Andrews. We’ve heard about your son, and we have both been involved in similar accidents before.”

“And?”

Monica floundered, but Carl was able to answer for her. “You might be familiar with the concept of a support group? For instance, if someone is sick from cancer—”

“I know what a support group is!” the woman snapped before embarrassment flashed across her face.

She sighed and rubbed her face to swipe stray hair away from her eyes. “I’m sorry. Let me try this again...hi, I’m Rachel.” She stepped back. “Come in, please.”

She walked down a long hallway and turned left into a den. “Greg, these people believe they can help Steven.”

Monica walked into the den and felt overwhelmed for the luxurious furnishings and decorations. There was no pattern in the antique styles of furniture, although everything was stained the same dark color.

The low-backed chair that Greg Duff sat in was upholstered in a different floral pattern than the couch, but both used the same vivid blue color. Yet neither matched the white leather divan that sat on the other side of the coffee table. The divan’s exposed wooden legs matched the same shade, but in most other ways, it stood out like a speck of black pepper on a white paper plate.

Every wood surface on the furniture gleamed as brightly as the coffee table, the rows of dark stained oak bookshelves on Monica’s right, or the writing hutch against the far wall. The furniture’s was well maintained, but the room’s design mistook order for taste.

Greg Duff was a barrel-chested, portly man whose neck disappeared when he swiveled his head around to look at Monica and Carl. At some point, his hair must have been blond, but it had all gone white. The lack of color made his face seem paler, and like his wife, he had dark bags under his bright grey eyes.

Rachel said, “This is Monica and Carl, and they say they’re part of a support group.” She sat down at the far end of a white leather divan. “They want to help Steven.”

Carl sat down on the couch and looked back and forth between the parents. “Help is a strong word. We wanted to talk to you about his problems.”