by Messer Stone
Feeling restless and claustrophobic, I lace up my running shoes. I still haven’t heard back from the three most recent jobs I applied to. My GED isn’t exactly a resume booster. And I try not to blame that on my father, I really do. He was hurt, and hurting, and we all did our best.
He’s given up on you. He’s not trying. He’s a coward. Thoughts like that have been invading my headspace more and more lately and it’s getting harder to ignore them.
I don’t bother to tell him I’m leaving for a run. I doubt he’d even hear me if I did.
I decide I’ll run to Holtsville Square Park and back— a solid four miles. Back when I had the time to run regularly, I could’ve done it in my sleep. Now, I’m not so sure.
At first, I thought losing my mother was the worst thing to come out of the accident. At the time, it felt like the end of the world. My mom was the kind of mom who made everything happen.
She knew which kid was supposed to be at which extracurricular on what day at what time. She made the dentist appointments and ordered school pictures. She made the perfect spaghetti sauce and homemade birthday cakes. She made everything good.
When she died, I waited for planes to fall out of the sky. For trains to run off the tracks. I waited for skyscrapers to collapse, for bridges to tumble. She held the whole world together. Everything had to fall apart once she’d come and gone.
But the world kept turning, and that in itself provided the greatest healing. I still miss her. God, do I miss her. Living without her feels like trying to fly with one wing. But it gets better. Every day, it gets better.
But, as it turns out, losing my mother wasn’t the worst thing to come out of the accident. Having my father, without really having him, is a very special kind of torment. This is the man who built me doll houses and tree houses, who walked me into school when I was scared of bullies. My father used to mean safety. He used to mean comfort and consistency.
Now, looking at him feels cruel. Like I’m drowning in the ocean and he’s the lifeline I’m not allowed to grab on to.
When I get to the park, I pointedly avoid the trail where my father taught me how to ride a bike. I don’t think about the picnic we had here, just him and me, after that first time a boy I liked made me cry.
I arrive back at the house just as Elena’s little blue Mazda pulls in the driveway. Since I sold my Honda accord and dad’s work truck, Elena’s car is the only form of non-public transportation we have consistent access to. After getting out, Elena goes to the back to get Sophie out of her booster seat.
Dressed in her brand new black leotard, Sophie is grinning as she flings herself into my arms.
“Ew!” She giggles as she pats my cheeks. “You’re all sweaty Mercy Me!”
A little knife slices across my heart at the nickname my dad patented when I was younger than Sophie. “I know. I was running.”
Her corn-flower blue eyes go wide. “From what?”
I bark out a laugh. “I wasn’t running from anything, silly girl. I was exercising.”
“Oh.” She wrinkles her nose before wriggling out of my arms and bolting up the front walk.
“How’d she do in dance class?” I ask Elena as we follow Sophie into the house.
“Fine.” She has a funny look on her face. Like she wants to laugh, but knows she shouldn’t. “She was the belle of the ball.”
“Who? Sophie? You’re kidding,” I say in mock disbelief.
When we walk in the kitchen, Sophie is doing a dance all her own around the kitchen island. I don’t have to look in the living room to know my dad isn’t there anymore.
“Where’s Jason?” Sophie asks as she passes me on her latest circuit around the island.
“Jason’s at hockey,” I tell her. “Matt Warner and his mom are giving him a ride home.”
“Oh.”
“Hey, Soph?” Elena tugs on her tiny ballerina bun. “Why don’t you go upstairs and get ready for your bath?”
Sophie’s lower lip protrudes. “No! I don’t want to take off my ballerina suit yet,” she says, wrapping her arms protectively around her leotard.
“Sophie Anne,” I warn, shooting her a warning look. “Did you forget our rule about backtalk? Or do you just not want any desert ton—”
I don’t even get the chance to finish the sentence. A metaphorical cloud of cartoon dust lingers in Sophie’s wake as she shoots up the stairs like a bat out of hell. “I’m going!”
I lean forward on the island, propped up on my elbow, rubbing my forehead with the heel of my hand. Between the trip in and out of Manhattan, ninety-million loads of laundry, job applications and dealing with my father, this day seems to have no end.
“So I have to tell you something, but I want to preface it by saying that it’s not as bad as it seems.”
I open one eye and point it at Elena. “What?”
She sets her knockoff Longchamp tote down on the island before hopping up on the stool. “So, when I went to get Sophie from school and take her to dance, her teacher pulled me aside. Remember how it was her week to bring a book for the teacher to read in class?”
“Yeah. The Giving Tree. We picked it out last night.”
“That’s uh… not what she showed up with.” Elena reaches into her purse, pulls out a magazine and hands it to me.
It’s an issue of Cosmopolitan— leant to me by Bethany from the agency. I thought I left it sitting on my nightstand. The words “Keep him coming— back for more!” are emblazoned across the glittering cover.
My mouth falls open. “Oh. My. God.”
“Remember, it’s not as bad as it seems,” Elena interjects. “Sophie’s teacher took care of it. She let Sophie pick out a book from the classroom. Kids do stuff like this sometimes. It’s not a big deal.”
“Not a big deal?” I screech before leaning forward to bury my face in my arms. “She was supposed to take the Giving Tree.”
Elena hesitates. “Well technically…. this is about giving. Of a sort.”
“Get out of my house.”
“Can’t. You’d miss me too much.”
As I listen to her walk upstairs, I realize I’ve forgotten to plan something for dinner. Maybe I could throw together some—
My phone rings and I extract it from the zip pocket from my running tights. “Hello?”
“Hi is this Mercy Chase?”
“Yes. Who is this?”
“Hi, Mercy. This is Paula Barnes from St. Andrew’s. Jason’s homeroom teacher.”
I stand straight up. “Oh, yes, of course. How are you?”
“I’m fine, dear, just fine. I’m calling because Jason’s been having some trouble with following the dress code. Today’s the fourth day in a row he showed up without a tie.”
Motherfucker. “Are you sure? Because I walk him to the bus every morning and I always make sure he’s—”
“I’m sure, dear. He probably just takes it off before he gets here.”
Deep breaths, Mercy. Deep breaths.
“I’m sorry, Mercy. I don’t want to have to write him up. Especially considering all that your family’s been going through. But if he keeps this up, I won’t have a choice.”
“I understand Mrs. Barnes. It won’t happen again.”
A few minutes later Elena carries a wet-haired Sophie downstairs on her back before heading off to the library. Sophie and I have a quick chat about taking things from my room without asking, no matter how pretty and shiny the cover is.
Then, I set her up in the living room with cartoons on tv and sliced apples so I can take a quick shower and try to figure out what to about dinner and Jason.
At ten minutes passed five, he trundles into the kitchen with his mountain of gear. His mop of red hair is sweaty and messy and his cheeks are ruddy and flushed. The smile on his face is so sweetly joyful that I almost forget that I’m pissed at him. Almost.
He drops his stuff in the mud room before passing me on his way to the stairs.
“Hey,” he says with a nod.
<
br /> “Slow your roll, Mark Messier.” I say, grabbing him by his shirt collar and pulling him back. “We need to have a chat.”
The smile drops from his face. “Why?”
“Your homeroom teacher called me. Said today’s the fourth day you showed up without a tie.” With a jolt, I realize that standing face to face, Jason is almost as tall as me. When the hell did that happen? I push the thought aside. “Care to explain yourself?”
He rolls his eyes and throws his arms up. “It’s just a stupid tie. Who cares if I wear one or not?”
“I do. And since I’m the one who feeds you, you have to care too.”
“But—”
“It’s the rule, Jason. St. Andrew's has always been strict about the dress code. You’ve known for years that the older kids have to wear ties. Why are you just now making a big deal out of it?”
His face is bright red. “Because…”
“Because what? Spit it out.”
Finally, he blurts an answer. “I don’t know how to tie a stupid tie, okay?”
I jump back as though I’ve been slapped. “What?”
He shrugs. “Dad used to help me. But now… “ He sniffs and looks at the ground as though he’s ashamed. “It’s hard. I don’t know how.”
Oh, God. Am I dying? I think I might be dying. My chest hurts and it’s hard to breathe.
Jason looks so embarrassed and all I can think about is him going to school day after day feeling self-conscious. How did I not notice he needed help? I would've learned how to tie a tie for him. How can he possibly depend on me if I don't notice things like this?
“Can I go upstairs now?” he asks without looking at me.
I still can’t speak so I nod instead. After I hear his bedroom door close, I poke my head into the living room.
“Hey Soph?”
She tears her eyes away from the screen.
“I’m gonna go outside for a few minutes okay?” My voice is shaky. “I’ll be right out front if you need anything.”
As soon as she nods and turns back to the tv, I make a run for the front door. I heave it open and lurch through, only to yelp in surprise when I come into contact with a hard body.
“Mercy?”
I look up into golden eyes and the dam breaks. My chest cracks open with a wave of violent sobs. I can’t form a coherent sentence long enough to ask him what he’s doing here or how he knows where I live. All I can do is cling to Parker’s shirt as I try to ride it out. His arms come around me like a vise, his words a soothing hum in my ear.
“Mercy, it’s alright. Please don’t cry. Tell me what’s wrong. Are you hurt?”
With a hiccup and a shake of my head I gesture at the porch swing. I let him lead me to it and we sit down, me tightly tucked into his side.
“Talk to me,” he says softly.
That’s all it takes. In a single deranged moment of hysterics, I tell him everything. About the accident, my father’s withdrawal.
“I’m not cut out for this,” I sob, wiping at my nose with my sleeve. “ I’m— they— I don’t know what to do. I-I’m c-corrupting Sophie’s k-kindergarten c-class with m-my sexy mag-agazines and Jason can’t tie his ties and I didn’t know he didn’t know how and I yelled at him for it and I forgot to think about dinner and I—”
“Woah, woah, slow down.”
I shake my head. “I’m not cut out for this. I don’t know what to do.”
“Mercy, baby. Take a deep breath. C’mon.” He makes me breathe in and out and after a few minutes, it helps. The whole world seems to go a bit quiet as we sit there together and once calm descends, the embarrassment floods in with it. I can’t believe I just had a full blow nervous breakdown in front of Parker Callahan. Can this day possibly get any worse?
“Parker, I—”
“When I was nine, my mom turned me blue.”
The statement is so unexpected, I snort out a laugh. “What?”
“She was making costumes for my school’s Revolutionary War play. The continentals wore blue, right? So mom decides to use this special kind of dye on the wool coats. It was supposed to make the color more vibrant, or something. I don’t know. Anyway, she missed the part in the instructions about letting the dyed fabric dry for 24 hours. So when I tried on one of the prototypes, it turned my skin blue. The more we tried to rub it off, the worse it got. It was everywhere. My chest, my arms, my legs. Even parts of my face. It was awful and it didn’t come out for two weeks.”
By the time he’s finished telling the story, I’m borderline hysterical with laughter. My tears are forgotten.
“You know what I remember from that?” He asks, once my laughter subsides. “It’s not the fact that my Mom turned me blue. It’s that she helped make seventy-five costumes for a fourth grade play.”
Tenderly, he brushes my hair out of my face. “Ten, twenty years from now, Jason and Sophie will look back on this time and remember that you were the person that kept their world spinning. They won’t care about any of the stumbles you had along the way.”
It’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me and for a moment I don’t know what to do. In the end, I simply wrap myself around him and tuck my face into his neck. I’m not sure when we reached this level of familiarity, but I don’t care.
“Thank you,” I croak into his ear.
His arms tighten around me. “Any time.”
We sit like that for a minute or so until suddenly, Parker gets to his feet and pulls me up with him. “Let’s get a move on then.”
I wipe my nose with the cuff of my sleeve. “Where are we going?”
“To the store. I’m going to cook dinner and you…” He taps the tip of my nose with his finger. “…Are going to tell me more about these sexy magazines..”
CHAPTER 11
Mercy
“Wait—” I say as Parker tries to pull me down the front steps.
He turns to look back at, quirking one of his golden brows. “What?”
“I can’t just leave.”
“Why not?”
I give him a pointed look. “Um, because Sophie thinks Tide Pods are edible and Jason’s probably the one who made her think so.”
His mouth twitches but he doesn’t quite smile. “Can’t your Dad keep an eye on them?”
“No.” I open my mouth, close it again. Unsure how to truly explain the depth of Dad’s current condition. Luckily, I don’t have to.”
“Let’s take them with us then.”
I look up at him and for some reason that’s the first time I notice how he’s dressed. He’s wearing the same silver tie from earlier and the same white oxford shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He’s not wearing a suit jacket , though, and for some reason that’s just as erotic as seeing him naked.
I think of the kiss we shared earlier today. I’ve spent the day breaking it down second by second, committing every single detail to my memory. I can still feel the silk of his hair between my fingers, can still taste the sweetness of his full lips.
My eyes fall to his neck where his shirt collar is loosened. A bit of his golden skin is exposed there and I have the strongest urge to taste it with my tongue.
“Mercy?” He waves a hand in front of my face. “Anybody home?”
In a daze, I bring my eyes back to his. “What?”
“The kids. We’ll bring them with us to the store.”
I consider that for a moment, pursing my lips. “How would we say we know each other?”
“Through work.”+9
I narrow my eyes at him. “That’s not funny.”
“It’s not meant to be funny.” He rocks a bit on his feet and sticks his hands in his pockets. “It’s meant to be the truth. But we’ll talk more about that later. For now, just tell them I’m a friend.”
Dubious, I consider that for a moment. “I don’t know…”
Taking me off guard, he slips his hand around to the nape of my neck, tilting my face upwards. His eyes remind me of a slow burning fire as they dip down
to my mouth before coming back up to meet my gaze. “Trust me.”
* * * *
“Um… um… um…” Sophie grabs on to the end of the shopping cart and bounces up and down while Parker waits patiently to steer them through the produce section. “Bubbles… no, wait. Cupcakes. Yeah, cupcakes!”
Parker nods and gives her an approving smile. “That’s my answer too.”
Sophie beams and bounces some more. “Gimme another one!”
On the drive to the store, Parker introduced Sophie to the Would You Rather game and it’s quickly become her new favorite thing. She’s just answered his most recent question regarding which super power she’d rather possess: the ability to blow bubbles with her nose or the ability to turn any food into cupcakes with pink frosting.
“In a minute. First, I need your help. We have a lot of ingredients we need to track down.”
Sophie’s face immediately turns adorably solemn as she focuses on her new mission. Parker is crouched down on her level, showing her some pictures of different fruits and vegetables on his phone.
He glances back at me and Jason. “You guys stay here and watch the cart. We’ll be right back.”
I watch, dumbstruck, as he lets my five year old sister lead him around the produce section by the hand as they complete their little impromptu scavenger hunt. Sophie’s dark brown pony tail is bobbing along behind her as she rushes around, giggling in delight when Parker lifts her up to grab something from a high shelf. An overwhelming tidal wave of feeling hits me dead in the gut and for a minute, I think I might swoon on the spot.
Hello, ovaries. Please don’t implode on me.
“So is he your new boyfriend or something?”
I turn my attention back to Jason, who’s now leaning against the shopping cart, broodily watching Parker and Sophie through the ruddy locks of hair hanging in his eyes. I resist the urge to remind him that he needs a haircut.
“No. No, he’s just a friend.”
He rolls his eyes. “If you say so.”
I decide avoiding the topic all together is probably the best course of action here. Explaining the nuances of my complicated quasi- friendship with Parker to my eleven-almost-twelve year old brother, in the middle of the neighborhood market, is not a challenge I’m feeling equal to.