by Tia Souders
“That was awesome!” His big, brown eyes shined as he chuckled and added, “I love how you just ditched them on the stage.”
I laughed. “You’re my number one fan. Of course you think everything I do is amazing.”
Tad glanced at Laird and raised a brow. “Dude, Derek looked like he wanted to kill you.”
Laird shrugged, and I gestured toward the door. “Come on. A little less talk, a little more walking.”
We left the building, my hand enveloped in Laird’s while Tad walked in front of us, chattering on about the performance. Laird glanced at me and grinned. “Does he ever shut up?”
“No. He just keeps going and going and going…”
We all laughed, and Tad glanced back at us and shook his head. “Let’s get Waffle House. I’m hungry.”
“You’re always hungry. I don’t even know where you put so much food.” Then I smiled. “But pecan Belgians do sound good.”
We reached Laird’s Jeep and Tad jumped in, but before I could slide into the passenger seat, Laird cut me off. Closing the gap between us, he placed both hands beside me on the car. “So, what made you do that? What changed your mind?”
“You, in part.” I glanced down at my hands. “I realized I didn’t need them. I have you and Tad. And I needed to prove some things to myself. Maybe to everyone.” Laird nodded and glanced down at my lips while I spoke. “I’ve been escaping into music for so long I don’t know how to do anything else. Without it, I don’t know who I am. You helped me play again, but you also made me realize I’m more than a song or a guitar.” I swallowed over the lump in my throat, giving myself to courage to say everything I needed to. “You made me feel alive again, in a way I haven’t in a long time. Maybe ever. You made me feel worth more than what I can do on a guitar.”
He moved closer, pressing his body into mine, and brushed his lips along my jaw, teasing until he found my mouth. Tilting my head, I sunk into the kiss. My hands moved through his hair, gripping his roots and pulling him closer. A soft moan escaped his lips, fueling us until an insistent rapping on the window behind my head made him pull away.
Behind the glass, Tad’s muffled voice called out, “Dude! Get a room. Are we gonna go eat or what?”
I fought the urge to turn around and smack him through the tinted glass. Instead, I sighed and looked to the sky. Laird chuckled and pecked my lips lightly with his, then opened the passenger door behind me. “Better not keep him waiting, or he’ll wither away to nothing.”
I rolled my eyes and got in while Laird moved to the driver’s seat. Once he started the car, he turned to me and asked, “So what are you going to do now?”
“That’s easy,” I said, smiling. “Crush my Juilliard audition.”
20
The week went by quickly. School was a brand new experience. I lived with the freedom of no longer worrying about having to face my friends or keep up with the pretense of wanting to go with them to New York after graduation. No more pretending. People who had never spoken to me before suddenly showed an interest in getting to know me. It was as if the fissure between my friends and I allowed others the freedom to approach me. Or maybe something in me changed. Maybe a wall, the one Laird had spoken of, the one I hadn’t realized I’d built up, came tumbling down the night of my performance.
I walked the halls with a feeling of weightlessness. Even when I confronted Mr. Neely for the first time following my botched interview, I remained unnerved, which I think relieved him. I’m sure he was almost as disturbed as I was by my mother’s behavior. He had no idea about her addiction. My mother’s alcoholism wasn’t exactly something I liked to broadcast. His tone was soft when he spoke to me. We ran through a couple audition pieces and discussed other ways to get enough financing. If I made it into Juilliard, it seemed he, Tad, and Laird were determined to make sure I found a way to pay for it.
Speaking of Laird, almost all my free time since Friday’s performance had been spent with him. I met his parents, who were every bit as sweet and normal as my parents were dysfunctional. The word “girlfriend” never sounded so good. I never knew relationships could be like this, and I found myself wondering on and off through the passing days whether my father and mother ever shared anything similar. Despite my memories from before the accident, to imagine them as ever having been happy had become harder to believe.
The day after my interview, where Mom had gotten drunk off cough syrup and mouthwash, a stone-faced mother and father greeted me. Not more than thirty minutes later, a representative from Sunnyside Rehabilitation Center arrived at our door. She gave me a warm hug and said the most emotional goodbye she could manage, which wasn’t much, but my father walked her out the door as she clung to him. She cried and they kissed, and the tone he used when speaking to her made me wonder even more about what once was. She left on a sunny March morning with nothing but a suitcase, a promise to get well again, and the silver locket. And I wondered how badly one must hurt with an anvil around their neck.
* * *
Tad picked the slice of pepperoni off his pizza and dangled it in the air above his mouth. “So, when’s your flight leave?” he asked, before popping it into his mouth and chewing.
“Tomorrow night at seven o’clock. I’ll have to be at the airport early though.”
I sat across from him in Georgiano’s, the tiny pizza shop just off the William & Mary campus, in one of the red, vinyl booths. A checkered cloth covered the table along with the remainders of a large pepperoni pie scenting the air. While I worked on my second piece, Tad had already eaten half the pizza.
After school, I had picked Tad up. We visited Laird for a couple hours between his classes before stopping to get a bite to eat. This time tomorrow, I’d be on a plane headed for my Juilliard audition on Saturday, and even though I would have the entire summer to spend time with him, I felt the days slipping away. With any luck, I’d be all the way in New York soon and unable to see him any time I wanted.
“Are you nervous?” he asked, taking a large bite.
“Where do you put it all?” I reached across the table and pinched his skinny arm.
“Ouch!”
My lips curled. “I’m a little nervous, but I’m sure I’ll be full of nerves on Saturday.”
“You’ll do great.”
“What makes you so sure?”
He nudged his glasses up higher on his nose, a habit I barely noticed anymore. “Look how awesome you did last Friday, and that was with nearly three hundred people listening.”
“It was different though. It was so… spur of the moment, and it was just something I felt compelled to do. I was running on anger and adrenaline. This is a planned performance for a select panel. They will be looking for me to mess up. Dissecting my flaws. And the pieces I played the other week are no Bach Fugue.”
Tad shrugged. “Maybe, but I think some of the people in the audience at The Clover were looking for you to screw up too.”
I nodded. “Maybe you’re right.”
“I wish you were driving.”
“Why?”
A spark of hope flashed in Tad’s eyes. “So I could go with you.”
I slumped in my seat. “I wish you could. But even if June said it was okay, I can’t take you, not without your mother’s consent.”
“She’d never say yes. She’s been different lately, controlling. I think it’s because she senses that June…” He paused, his face reddening. “It doesn’t matter why, but as long as June said it was okay, she would never know.”
I wiped my hands on a paper napkin while eyeing him. “I know, and I’d love to have you there. Let me think about it.”
“Yes!” He pumped a fist in the air.
I rolled my eyes and got up to pay for the pizza. When we arrived home, at Tad’s request, I went with him to June’s. He wanted to show me the latest piece he mastered on his Gibson. Lately, he had been practicing some beginner classics.
He unlocked the front door and pushed it open, yelling for J
une from the doorway in his usual way. As to be expected, there was no answer. These days, June often kept to her room most of the day, sleeping the majority of the afternoon and evening away.
“I need to go get my guitar, so I’ll let her know we’re here real quick.” He disappeared down the hallway to the back of the house toward June’s bedroom.
I stepped into the living room and sunk down into one of the floral sofas. The room smelled of potpourri and furniture polish. Every surface gleamed as if it had just been scrubbed. I marveled at how June still managed to keep the house spotless while so feeble. I scanned the wall across from me, the one with the oil painting of a little cottage surrounded by wildflowers, then the antique grandfather clock. It was seven. This time tomorrow, I would be airborne, on my way to New York. I smiled.
A crashing echoed from the back of the house. I stood up, about to holler at him to stop messing around, when his frantic voice called out.
“Sam! Sam!”
His shrill voice echoed off the walls of the hallway. I bolted to the back of the house, following the sound of his voice into June’s bedroom to find her body sprawled awkwardly on the floor. He hovered over her. Blood spatters covered the creamy carpet by her face, linked to a trail leading to her nightstand.
My heart skipped a beat, and I staggered for a moment, unable to stop the swirling floor as I took in the sight of the blood. “She must’ve hit her head,” I murmured.
Despite the slight rise and fall of her chest, I bent, lowering two of my fingers to her neck to check for a pulse. It was weak, but there. I tried to keep my voice calm when I said, “She must’ve passed out.”
Tad shook his head. A tear rolled down his cheek and into his mouth as he spoke. “No. The blood came from her mouth.”
Desperately trying to focus, I examined her face and noticed the blood stained only her chin. “We need to call an ambulance.” I fished my phone out of my pocket and punched in the numbers with shaky fingers, trying to ignore how I had done the same thing countless times before for my mother.
“911, what’s your emergency?” an overly calm voice asked.
“My neighbor’s fallen. I don’t know what happened, but she’s bleeding and unconscious. She’s at 1560 Freedom Road.”
“Okay, someone’s on their way. Remain calm. Do you know if she’s breathing? Does she have a pulse?”
“Yes. Yes.”
I glanced to Tad. His body shook. Tears streamed down his face through choked sobs until he was forced to remove his glasses and wipe them away.
“Please, hurry.” I hung up and turned to Tad. “It’s gonna be okay, Tad. The ambulance will come, they’ll check her out, and everything will be fine.” I laid one hand on his back, trying to steady his shaking.
“No. This is it.”
“What are you talking about?”
He glanced over at me. His normally bright eyes were red and rimmed with pain. Everything about him was slumped in defeat. “She’s dying.”
I stared, unblinking, unsure of whether I heard him right. “No.”
“She has cancer.”
“What?”
He shook his head. Leaning over June, he wrapped his arms around her still body and pressed his face to her chest. “She’s dying, and she’s all I’ve got.”
My thoughts turned to his mother, the woman who allowed him to spend most nights at his grandmother’s house because it was better than having to take care of him herself. Who was devoid of any concern for his safety and well-being. Who usually knew nothing about her son’s whereabouts, and when she did, she didn’t care. If June died, he’d have a hole in his life no one could fill.
In the distance, the wail of sirens blared, but nothing compared to the sound of my pulse beating in my ears, mingling with the heart-wrenching hiccup of Tad’s sobs. In a single moment, the boy who tried so often to be older than his age was reduced to a child.
* * *
Tad raised his head and rubbed his face. “It sounds like they’re here.” He glanced about the room. “She told me if this happened to grab her paperwork for the hospital. It has a living will and other important stuff…” He trailed off, his gaze focusing on a manila envelope on the large oak bookshelf.
“Is that it?”
He nodded. I rose to my feet and walked over to retrieve it. Slipping the envelope off the shelf, I started to turn before something caught my eye. The corner of a file folder, wedged between two books, stuck out. On the concealed tab, I made out what I thought may be the letter “S.” A chill moved over my skin as I stared at it.
For a moment, the world stood still as I slid the folder out of hiding, revealing the careful print: “Samantha Becker.” It was the file folder I saw months ago when helping June. The one she denied had my name on it.
A quick knock came from the front door, followed by the cacophony of footsteps down the hall. In the background, Tad called my name, but I couldn’t move to look at him. There was something inside the file, and my fingertips burned to reveal the contents.
Flipping the front open, I stared at the paperwork inside. A headline popped out on the white paper amongst all the other words. The bold print seared my eyes. My breath hitched and for a moment I wondered whether I, too, would pass out. The room spun from my control. The bedpost from the foot of June’s bed moved into my line of vision, and I gripped it like a lifeline while my eyes remained locked on the document before me.
21
“Give me my coffee, you jerk!” My fist slammed into the hundred-year-old coffee dispenser with a series of sharp thwacks.
“It tastes like battery acid, anyway.”
Turning, I came face-to-face with a middle-aged man, his face thick with stubble and etched with the deep lines of someone who’s had a lot to think about on little sleep.
“I’m not doubting it, but I need something.” I needed something, anything to distract myself.
In my mind’s eye, I still saw the yellowed paper—a copy of my birth certificate. The thick black letters seared into my brain. “Name of Mother,” in bold print, reading June Mitchell.
Next to me, coffee-man rattled the change in his hand, distracting me back to the present—a place I didn’t particularly want to be. He moved to the machine and added another quarter, then pushed the dispense button again. It sputtered to life, shooting coffee as dark and thick as molasses into the cup below the spout.
“Thanks.”
“Sure. The thing likes to rip you off. It always charges extra.”
“I’ll remember that.”
I sat down in one of the dark orange chairs in the waiting room. I took a sip of the hot java and grimaced. Not exactly an Americano from my favorite shop. It was strong and bitter, with the grit of grinds. But at least it was hot. I sipped it, welcoming the burn in my throat as a distraction.
Coffee-man stared at my hands, so I glanced down to see what was so interesting and discovered my coffee trembling. Placing one hand over the other on the hot paper cup, I breathed deeply. Get a hold of yourself, Sam.
I took in my surroundings, the pale gray walls led to industrial carpeting in the diminutive waiting room. A small television hung from the corner, playing reruns. In the air lingered the scent of something medicinal mixed with bleach, and across from us into the wide expanse of the hall was a nurse’s station. Several sat at their desks, dressed in scrubs, talking leisurely as if men, women, and children weren’t dying in the other rooms—a heart-wrenching thought. Somewhere among them, Tad sat with June. My real mother.
I brought my coffee cup back up to my face and inhaled, preferring the aroma of burnt coffee beans to the stale hospital air. The atmosphere brought back memories of the last time I sat so frightened and confused in a waiting room. The evening of my mother’s accident.
Mother. The word ricocheted in my brain until it lost all meaning.
“So, what are you in for?” the coffee man asked, startling me from my thoughts.
He sat across the small room, a Ti
me magazine in hand. Drooping eyes, frown lines, bed head, and a thick five o’clock shadow told me this man was concerned with much more pressing issues than maintaining his appearance.
“Um, cancer. My… neighbor,” I said, unable to bring myself to speak the words yet to be spoken.
The man nodded. “Same here. My fifteen-year-old daughter.” The muscles in his jaw flexed.
I wondered what it must be like to have your child’s life at stake and came up empty. To the man’s credit, he didn’t look completely broken. When he glanced back up at me, his sad eyes were kind and shone with the promise of hope.
“I’m sorry,” I said, unsure of what else to say and, frankly, not in the state of mind to make conversation. It wasn’t every day you found out your whole life was a lie.
The squeak of the nurse’s shoes whined on the white tile as she approached from the hallway. Grateful for the interruption, I glanced up at her.
“Miss Becker?” she asked.
“Yes, that’s me.”
“She’s ready to see you now.”
I nodded goodbye to the man and followed the nurse down a hallway to face my mother for the first time.
* * *
I stepped into the small room. The warm brown tones of the walls did little to soothe my nerves. June lay on her back in the hospital bed, propped up by a mound of pillows. Her skin matched the same grayish-white color of the rails positioned beside her. There were no tubes protruding from her nose, no monitors next to her bed showing signs of life in varying peaks of red and white, and no wires coming off her chest. Instead, the only sign of medical intervention was the IV taped to her hand.
At the foot of her bed, Tad sat like a statue, as if any movement might be June’s undoing. I waved slightly in greeting, not wanting to break the tomblike silence with my voice, but my foot caught on the small stand next to her bed, nearly tripping me and destroying the quiet. I caught myself, but not before the scraping of the chair over the floor caused June’s eyes to flutter open. I straightened and stared at her, not knowing what to say to this woman who lived next door to me my whole life. The one I used to play with as a child. The woman who was my mother all this time.