by C. C. Hunter
“Dinner is on me!” Mrs. Parker says as Hayden and I are about to leave.
“I can pay for myself,” I say.
“No,” she says. “You won’t take payment for driving him to therapy sessions or helping him with his schoolwork. This is the least I can do.”
“Just say thank you,” Hayden says to me and takes the money his mom is holding out. From his tone, he appears eager to get out of the house. As if he has something to tell me.
“Go somewhere nice,” she says.
I grin. “Thank you, Mrs. Parker.”
“You are welcome. And by the way, just in case my son doesn’t say it, you look amazing tonight.”
I look down at the blue blouse and new jeans. “Thank you.”
“I was going to tell her,” Hayden says, “but you pretty much ruined it for me.”
We laugh. As the door closes behind us, Hayden pulls out his phone.
“Right before you got here, I found another article. It states they have several suspects in the case. One of them has a record. I think it’s the guy you saw. You nailed it, Riley.”
I take his phone, reading as I head to my car.
“This way,” Hayden says. “You’re driving my car.”
“You got it already?” I ask.
“Yeah. Mom got off early today and picked it up.” He grins. “It’s in the garage.”
“Don’t you want to be the first to drive it?”
“No. I’d rather it be you.”
I lift up and kiss him. Then we walk into the garage. Before I get in, I stop and finish the article. “I wonder who the other suspects are.”
“I don’t know,” he says.
I nip at my lip. “I kind of feel bad for thinking Coach Ericson did it.”
“Hey, he may not be a murderer, but I’m pretty sure the creepy vibe you get from him is right on.”
We head out to an Indian restaurant. I tell him how great his car runs. Over three different kinds of hummus, lamb, and fried redfish, we laugh and eat, and while I can’t say it, I know I’m in love with him.
As we’re waiting for the bill, I tell him my plans. “I’m going to see my mom tomorrow.”
He sets his water down. “You spoke with her?”
“No, I texted her, and she replied that she’d be waiting for me. I’m going to go to her art gallery.”
“Why isn’t she coming here?”
“I suggested it,” I say. “I thought I could use the drive up there to work up my courage.”
He nods. “I figure this is a no, but if you need company—”
“Thanks, but I need to do this alone.”
He puts his hand on mine. “I’m proud of you.”
I turn my water glass in my other hand. “Wait and see how I deal with it first.”
“It doesn’t matter how you deal with it. It’s the fact that you’re doing it that matters.”
“I hope so,” I say.
After we pile back in the car, I say, “You know, Kelsey asked if we could go over to Dex’s and visit. You want to do that?”
“Yeah,” he says. “I’ve spoken to him every day, but I’d like to see him.”
I call Kelsey and give the heads-up about coming over. Dex asks us to bring him a shake.
Five minutes later, I park at Whataburger. As we get close to the door, it opens. I step back, and when I see who just walked out, I stop. Hayden looks up, and his expression hardens.
Jacob drops his hand from Brandy’s waist. The air becomes thick with tension.
“Anything you want to tell me?” Hayden’s tone is short but shy of being completely pissed off.
Jacob’s gaze shoots to me. “You told him?”
I’m searching for the right thing to say when Hayden jumps in. “She didn’t tell me anything until I told her I suspected you two were going behind my back. You think I didn’t notice how you acted when Brandy came up to the hospital?”
It isn’t the whole truth, but almost.
“I wasn’t dating you when we first hooked up,” Brandy jumps in.
Jacob drops his chin. When he looks up, there’s an apology in his eyes. “Look, it was the weekend before you told me you liked her. I had an argument with Jamie. Brandy and her parents came over to the lake house, then our parents left to go out and have a drink. I’d brought some beer, and Brandy and I… It just happened. Then that Monday you told me you were asking her out. I felt like shit. Then Jamie and I got back together. I told Brandy it was a mistake and that she should go out with you.”
Hayden looks at Brandy. “Why didn’t you just say no?”
“I should have.”
We’re standing in the middle of a parking lot, but silence falls around us. “I’m sorry.” Jacob runs his hand over his head all the way back and squeezes his neck. “Look, you and I have been friends for over ten years. I don’t want…”
I ease a little closer to Hayden and brush the back of my hand against his.
He glances at me, then at Jacob. “I think Brandy and I both knew we weren’t right for each other, but it was still wrong of you.”
“I know,” Jacob said. “And I’m sorry, but I don’t want to lose our friendship.”
Hayden doesn’t say anything right away. Seconds tick by, then: “It…it might take some time.”
They nod at each other. Brandy offers me a look that says thank you. “We’ll see you later,” Jacob says, and they leave.
I smile at Hayden. “You did good.”
“I’m still kind of pissed,” he says.
“I know,” I say. “They made a mistake. It doesn’t mean they don’t deserve to be forgiven.”
As we walk up to the counter, I wonder if I’ll be able to remember my words of wisdom when I see Mom tomorrow.
Saturday at ten a.m., I sit in my car and stare at the front of the gallery. My hair’s wet at the base of my neck. My hands are slick with nerves, and I dry them on my jeans. Reaching for the keys in my ignition, I’m not sure if it’s to pull them out or to start my car and drive as far and as fast as I can.
Then I remember what Hayden told me this morning when I stopped by for a pep talk. “This isn’t a test, Riley. Your mom and dad are the ones who screwed up. They should be the ones nervous, not you. Whatever you feel is justified. However you react is justified.”
I breathe in deep, pull the keys out, and exit my Mustang. Then I stop and stare at the car. It dawns on me that I own it because I saw a picture of my mom standing beside one. Just like that, I realize something. All my life, I’ve tried to stay close to her by all the little choices I’ve made. What I drive. The colors I wear. The style of clothes I choose. Keeping my hair long like she did. Even by eating marshmallow treats because she used to make them for me. Because, damn it, they tasted like love.
Do I even know who I am, without her memories? Would I be who I am if I’d known she hadn’t died?
I walk to the entrance. A sign that reads “closed” hangs on the door, but I give it a push and it opens.
My gaze goes right to her. She’s standing behind the counter. Her hair is a bit darker, her face a little older, but in her I see me. When she moves from behind the counter, I’m aware of her height, her gait, her weight, the way her long hair shifts over her shoulders as she walks, the way it brushes against her cheek.
Do I recognize her, or am I recognizing myself?
It hits me then: Dad has seen the woman who broke his heart every day. He’s had to look at her when he looked at me. I have to swallow, once, twice, to keep the onslaught of tears at bay. Inside me I’m yelling at her, You left me. You left me. You left me.
“Let’s lock the door,” she says, “so we won’t be disturbed.”
She turns the lock, then faces me. Our eyes meet. She takes one step closer, almost as if to hug me. I take one step back.
She reaches up and twists her hair. “I’m so glad you came.”
Unable to speak, I nod. Then, over her shoulder, I see it. The picture. The one of the por
ch, with flip-flops and a cat in a rocking chair. The one I painted and butchered with scissors.
My gaze shifts from that painting to the one hanging next to it. The air is suddenly too thick to breathe. All of the paintings, each and every one, tell a story. A story of us. There’s one of our feet together with painted toenails. I have that photograph at home. I even sketched it.
There’s another of us on a beach. I don’t have that photograph, but I lived it. I’m pulled into a memory I didn’t know I had.
I’m there, on that shore, on my knees. She’s beside me, and the ocean is behind us. I can hear the waves. Smell the fish, taste the salty air. The sand is gritty on my skin. She’s holding a seashell to my ear.
Forget trying not to cry. The tears fall hot on my cheeks. I swipe them off, hating how they make me feel weak.
She looks at me, then moves her gaze to the paintings. “I thought you might like to see them. I painted one every year for your birthday.”
“You should have come to see me instead.” I don’t know where I found my voice. Under the questions I have locked inside me? Under the resentments, the abandonment?
She ducks her chin, then her eyes, exactly like mine, light blue with dark blue rings around them, fill with tears. “You’re right. I mean, I did try the last four years. But I know it’s not enough.”
Now she’s the one batting a few tears off her cheeks. “I screwed up,” she says. “And I can’t even begin to tell you how sorry I am. But I’m hoping, praying that it’s not too late to be a part of your life.”
She inhales sharply. The scent of turpentine fills the space, and the silence finally becomes uncomfortable.
“I made some tea,” she says. “I thought we could sit in my office.” She motions the way. I follow. The office is big. A small kitchenette is in the corner, along with a desk and some chairs around it.
I sit, and she grabs glasses of ice from the small fridge. A pitcher of tea waits on the counter, and she fills them. She places the two glasses on the side of the desk. Looking as nervous as I am, she pulls one of the chairs over to face me, then sits down. I can’t help but notice we sit the same. Ours shoulders a little curved, our hands locked in our laps.
She doesn’t start talking. Finally I force myself to start. “Why? How could you just leave?”
She wrings her hands. “I… Nothing I’m going to say is an excuse. But they are the reasons. I wasn’t in a good place, Riley. I was…” She hesitates. “My sister told me that you suffer from the same affliction that my family does.”
“Spirits,” I say. Oddly, I almost take offense to the affliction word.
“She told me you can see them. I can’t. But I hear them.” She rubs her hands. “I’ve always heard them, but at the time, the city was digging up some property. There was an old graveyard, and it must have set some of the spirits free, because I started hearing them.”
“Is that a good enough reason?” I ask, my tone thin.
“Like I said, I know it’s not an excuse. I just couldn’t deal with that and everything else. Your father’s and my marriage was shaky. I’d been depressed. I thought if I could just get away for a while, find myself, then I’d get better. I was going to come back. Be your mom again.”
She reaches for her tea with a shaky hand and takes a sip. “But he kept calling and calling. I couldn’t handle it.”
“He loved you. He wanted you to come back.”
“I know.” She nods. “He did love me.”
Her words startle me.
“And at one time, I loved him. But with the voices and then…” She hesitates.
“Then what?”
She sets the tea back on the desk and doesn’t answer.
“Don’t keep anything from me. I came to get answers, not to have you pick and choose what to say.”
She nods. “With the voices and his drinking, it got hard.”
“I thought he’d stopped drinking then,” I say.
“He did, but… There was one relapse, and then…” She studies me. “Is he drinking now?” She sits up straighter. “When I called four years ago, he told me he’d stopped. That he hadn’t touched it.”
“He had,” I say.
“Had?” she asks as if reading me. Reading me too well. “Oh, Riley. That’s terrible. For him. For you.”
Her words hang in the silence for several seconds. I instantly feel the cold. Shane’s cold. I can’t deal with you now.
Determined to ignore her, I continue, “You knew he told me you were dead?”
Mom nods. “He told me when I called him on your thirteenth birthday. He said I couldn’t just walk back into your life.”
“And you just said okay? You didn’t try to see me?” I swallow. “Did I mean so little to you that I wasn’t worth fighting for?”
“You meant the world to me. But I was struggling. I didn’t have the money to hire an attorney. I felt so guilty for walking away from you that I told myself it was too late. That you’d always hate me.”
“I kind of do,” I say honestly.
She flinches but then rebounds. “I know, and I deserve it. But I don’t think it’s too late. We can get to know each other again. I want to hear everything about you. I want to be a part of your life.” Her voice lowers, then shakes. “I want to hold you again.”
Her eyes grow bright with tears. “I used to hold you, and we’d dance around. Your dad, too. We’d put on music and jump around the living room. You’d laugh and laugh. We were so happy. You loved me. I know you did.”
“Then what happened? How did our family go from that to…you being depressed and leaving? I don’t understand. You said you loved him once. What happened to change that?”
She gets that look on her face again, as if there’s something she’s hiding. Secrets.
I’ve had it with secrets. “What is it? I deserve to know.”
Her eyes meet mine. I see her throat bob when she swallows. She looks down, then up. “You were three and a half. I got pregnant.” She blinks. “Money was so tight. Between the doctor bills and vitamins. Things got stressful. We were late paying bills. I was four months pregnant. They cut the power off. I’d called him at work. I was hot, I was angry. When he came home that night, I could smell it on his breath.”
She reaches up and touches her tea glass, then runs her finger down the condensation. “He wasn’t drunk, but he’d had a few drinks. I lost it. I didn’t want to go back to that.” Her voice shakes. “You were asleep. We were on the back porch, arguing. I stepped back and didn’t realize I was so close to the edge.”
My eyes sting. “You lost the baby?”
She nods. “I was so upset. Not thinking straight. I blamed him. And I know that was wrong.” She shifts in the chair. “It wasn’t his fault, Riley. Things got so hard. I told him later that I didn’t mean it about it being his fault, yet he needed me to convince him of that.” She shakes her head. “I didn’t have it inside me to do it. I was still angry at life. The voices. Even angry at my own father.”
She reaches over and takes my hand. Her touch hurts, and I pull away. All I can think about is Dad blaming himself for the death of his second child.
“But that’s in the past, Riley.”
But it isn’t. Not for Dad. “You took the savings from him?”
She drops her head as if ashamed. “I know. I did send him a check when you were thirteen, but he didn’t cash it.” She lifts her eyes. “I made mistakes. Your dad made mistakes. But you and me—I’m still your mother. I want to be a part of your life.”
She brushes the hair off her cheek. “I’ve been asked to join a bigger gallery that hosts four other painters in San Marcos. It’s a great career opportunity for me. I’m going to rent an apartment next week. I want to make it a two bedroom. There’s a great college there. I have some savings now, and I could pay for your school. We could get to know each other.”
She hasn’t seen me in thirteen years and she thinks I’ll just move in with her. I want to laugh.
No, I still want to cry. “I have to go.” It’s abrupt. It’s cold. But I can’t do it anymore.
She jumps up. “Please, Riley. At least come for the summer. Forgive me. Let me in your life.”
I look at her. The woman who gave birth to me. The woman I remember loving me. The woman I want to love me, but my heart says go. My heart says no.
“Will I see you again?” Desperation sounds in her voice and echoes inside of me as she follows me into the main room of the gallery.
I stop, turn around, and, with a big knot in my chest, I tell her the truth. “I don’t know.” I unlock the door, but right before I walk out, I remember another reason I needed to talk to her. I turn around. “How did you get him to stop drinking the first time?”
“I told him he had to choose. Me or the bottle. He knew I meant it.”
I leave her. When I get into my Mustang, I can’t help but look back. She’s standing at the glass door, staring out. This feels like an end to a very sad movie.
I drive off. Keep driving. I hear and rehear everything she said. Part of me questions if coming wasn’t a mistake. Another part says I had to do this, and I’m glad I did. Then I remember her answer to my last question. I told him he had to choose.
Ten minutes into the ride, the temperature in the car goes cold.
I glance up in the rearview mirror and see Shane in the back seat. Her gaze finds mine in the reflection. In her silver eyes is anger, pain, but somewhere in her lost gaze is understanding. “I’m sorry,” she says. She doesn’t say anything else, and neither do I.
I drive straight to the funeral home. Ms. Duarte comes out of her office when I walk in. “He’s in his office.” And something about her tone tells me I need to brace myself.
I don’t knock. I just walk in. Dad’s sitting at his desk. An open bottle and a half-filled glass of vodka sits in front of him.
He flinches when he sees me, as if his drinking is still a secret. Or maybe he’s just not drunk enough to lose shame.
I walk over and drop down in the chair across from his desk.
He blinks, and I see nothing but pain in his eyes. While I can tell he’s already had a few drinks, he’s on this side of being drunk.