Embracing Reckless

by Melanie Shawn

My mom had never been that. Sandy, as much as she loved me, had never had her shit together enough to be that. And Stuart? Well, while things looked very promising on that front, he was still an open question mark in many ways.

  Nope. In the “cherish me and take care of me” department, there had only ever been Clay. And I had so quickly gotten used to it. How could I go back?

  It was hard to knowingly walk right back into hell after someone had handed you heaven, and it made me wonder yet again why I was even doing it.

  I could only come up with the same answer I’d been giving myself all morning, even though it was ringing increasingly hollow: she’s your mother.

  The door swung open and there stood my mom, looking subdued. Her eyes were cast downward, like she couldn’t even meet my gaze.

  She fidgeted for a moment, then said simply, “Brandy.”

  “Mom.”

  She moved aside and opened the door all the way so that I could walk past her. I stopped in the entryway and stood, waiting for her to say what she’d called me here to say.

  She walked into the living room and sat down on one end of the couch. She indicated the other end and asked, “Will you sit?”

  I’d intended to give a firm statement about not needing to sit—she could just say whatever it was she had to say right then and there as I stood and waited for her, blah blah blah—but her subdued manner unsettled me. It was different than I’d ever seen from her. Usually when she was drunk, she was over the top. That could take any number of forms of expression—anger, hypersexuality, boisterousness…

  When she was sober, she was irritable. Always irritable. Sometimes even to the point of being downright hostile and vitriolic.

  What I’d never seen before was this quiet submissiveness. It unsettled me, a little bit.

  Don’t get me wrong, it was a step up from the abuse I’d had hurled at me by her in the past. But it was just so out of left field that I didn’t quite know how to take it—or, more to the point, what it indicated about what might be coming next.

  So, instead of drawing my line in the sand there in the entryway, I decided to go ahead and take a seat on the end of the sofa. I’d at least hear what she had to say.

  “First of all, I want to apologize for my behavior in The Roadhouse. It was beyond reprehensible. And I’m sorry.”

  I didn’t say anything. Not out of some sort of grand strategy or power move. I just couldn’t find the words. She’d never apologized. Not in a way that seemed sincere, at any rate. We’re treading new ground all over the place.

  So, since we were apparently forging new territory, I decided to do something I’d never done before—be completely honest. “It wasn’t so much your behavior at The Roadhouse that upset me enough to leave you there for the cops. It was the behavior that started it, sure. That’s why I was walking out. But I probably would’ve caved. I probably would’ve come back.

  “The thing that I just can’t get past is the lies. The years and years of lies about Stuart. How could you do that? How could you deny Sandy and me the experience of having a father? How could you deny him the opportunity to know his own daughters? That’s what I can’t get over. That’s why I let you sit in jail. And, honestly, that’s why I’m still in the process of deciding whether I’m ever even going to speak to you again after I walk out the door today.”

  Tears fell down her cheeks, and she made no move to wipe them away. They dripped onto her folded hands in her lap, making the skin of her intertwined fingers shiny and wet. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I know you have no reason to believe me, and even less reason to forgive me. If I were you, I doubt I’d do either. But I am sorry.”

  “That’s not a reason.”

  She nodded, then wiped her tears and took a shuddering breath. Sitting up a little straighter, she said, “You know I was raised in foster care.”

  I nodded, unsure where this might be going.

  “Well, it really left an impression on me. Not having a family of my own. It always haunted me. And then, Tammy—do you remember Aunt Tammy?”

  I simply nodded again. It would’ve been counterproductive to say, yeah, I remember her. She wasn’t really my aunt, first of all, and second, she showed up drunk and naked to my eighth grade graduation. So I kept my mouth shut.

  “Well, Tammy was in the same boat as me. Foster kids. That’s how we met, we spent some time together in a group home. And she got pregnant a couple of years before I did—”

  “She didn’t have any kids!” I blurted.

  “No, she didn’t,” my mother confirmed. “When her son was six months old, the father took her to court and got full custody. Then, they moved far away and Tammy—she had no resources to hire lawyers or chase them. She never saw her son again.

  “So, when I got pregnant, I was overcome by this terrifying fear that someone was going to take you away from me. I felt this fierce protectiveness. That you were my baby. Mine! Even before I knew there were two of you.”

  She paused, and I struggled to maintain silence. I desperately wanted to say, so, when exactly did you lose interest, then? But I held my tongue.

  “So I kept it a secret. I know it was selfish. I know. It ate at me. That, plus the stress of being a young mom—of twins, no less—it’s what got me started on a glass of wine in the evening. Just to relax. And then, before long, it was two. And then it wasn’t just the evening anymore.

  “Then everything spiraled out of control. I’m an alcoholic. I know that now. I admit it. I’ve tried so hard to fool myself in the past. To just say that I had a ‘drinking problem’ but that I could control it, if I really tried. I know that’s not true. I understand I have to do things differently.”

  I leaned back against the couch cushions, competing feelings battling for dominance in my chest—anger, compassion, obligation, and flat-out complacency. All of them were playing a savage game of King of the Mountain to see which would end up on top.

  Obligation won out. I closed my eyes, resignation washing over me like a riptide carrying me away against my will.

  I was stuck. I didn’t want to be, but it wasn’t in my nature to let people down who depended on me.

  Even when, as was the case with my mother, they took advantage of it again and again.

  “What do you need?” I asked wearily. I didn’t even want to know the answer, but I couldn’t stop myself from asking the question.

  She did look up then, meeting my eyes for the first time since I’d walked in the house. When she spoke, her voice was hopeful. “I’m in the program.”

  I’d been on this rollercoaster with her enough times to know exactly what that meant. “The Program” was AA. And she’d been in and out of it so many times it was a wonder the community center didn’t install a revolving door on the room where they held the meetings.

  Still, I couldn’t bring myself to crush her budding hopes by snapping back with the sarcastic retort. So, I summoned enthusiasm that I didn’t really feel and injected it into my voice. “That’s great,” I said. “I hope you do really well.”

  “I will,” she said, her eyes glued to my face, waiting for my reaction. “I know I will. If I have your help, that is.”

  I drew back. I hadn’t intended to. It wasn’t an intentional slight. It just happened—a reflex. But I got myself under control and made sure that my voice was neutral before I said, “What do you mean by my help? What is it that you think I can do for you?”

  She smiled a little. “Just give me some support.”

  “In what form?” I heard my voice getting tight as I tried to anticipate what she might be expecting of me, and I stopped and rolled my shoulders to ease some of the tension.

  She scooted closer to me on the couch and took my hands in hers, looking directly in my eyes. I couldn’t miss the pleading note in her voice as she said, “I just need to know you believe in me, Brandy. And that you’ll be there for me. I know that this is gonna get hard. It’s going to be harder than it’s ever been before, because
I’m really serious about it this time. No slipups.

  “That night at the bar…it was rock bottom time, Bran. When I got out of jail, I couldn’t believe how far I’d sunk. I mean, I still can’t find my car. I have no idea where I left it.”

  I swallowed hard. Shit. Probably best to just let that one lie. For now.

  “So, I went straight to a meeting. And I’m committed. And I believe I can beat this. But… if you’re not on board with supporting me, I don’t know if I can do it on my own. You’re my rock, Brandy. You’re the one I can lean on. There’s a reason why I asked you to come here today and not your sister. You’re the one I need.”

  I took a deep breath. I felt like a giant weight was pressing down on my chest, crushing the life out of me. In a way, it was. It was a weight called obligation, and I simply couldn’t summon the strength to push it off me. The fallout would be too great. Too many people would get hurt.

  I forced my lips into something that I hoped resembled a smile, even though it felt more like a grimace on my face. “Of course you can count on me,” I said, no inflection in my voice whatsoever. After all, I wasn’t really speaking. I was just reading the script that had been written for me. But no matter, I would play my part. I had to. It was written on my DNA. “I’ll be here for you. Always.”

  Chapter 37

  Clay

  I slipped my arm around Brandy in the darkened theater, feeling like a high school kid again. Even though there was no real suspense about whether she wanted me to make a move or not, I still felt the thrill of excitement that comes from that not knowing. From that exploration of new territory.

  That was it, I realized. I’d hit the nail on the head. With Brandy, everything seemed new and fresh with discovery. Even something as simple as sliding my arm around her shoulders in a darkened movie theater had me shivering with anticipation.

  She leaned over and whispered in my ear, “I thought this movie was going to be cheesy as hell, but I’m actually kind of loving it,” then kissed my cheek and laid her head down on my shoulder.

  The way her silky hair slid over the skin on my neck, tickling me and bringing all my nerve endings springing to life—if she didn’t stop snuggling her way into a more comfortable position soon, I was going to be sporting full-on wood, right there in the movie theater.

  I grinned in the dark. Hell. If that happened, maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad thing. The theater wasn’t all that crowded. Maybe she’d help me do something about it.

  I forced my attention back to the screen. As much as I was enjoying the movie—a nostalgia screening of the classic 1984 sci-fi adventure flick The Last Starfighter at the Arcata Theater—the truth was, I simply couldn’t wait to be alone with Brandy.

  Hell, anytime I was with her in public, or in a small group, it didn’t matter what it looked like I was doing on the outside. That was a facade. That was going through the motions. That was nothing but a mask I put on to hide the fact that, inside, I was doing nothing but counting the seconds until I could be alone with Brandy again.

  Every. Damn. Time.

  Suddenly, in the midst of Alex and Grig attacking the Ko-Dan mothership on the screen, Brandy sat up straight, her muscles suddenly rigid, her eyes wide. She sucked air in sharply, her gasp causing even people a few rows ahead of us to turn around.

  I leaned over, turning my full attention to her. “Babe, what’s wrong?”

  “Shit!” She whisper-yelled, her hands flying up to cover her face. “Shit shit shit shit shit.”

  With that, she popped up out of her seat like a jack-in-the-box and edged her way out to the aisle as quickly as possible, doing the sideways shuffle that narrow theater rows force people to do, only doing it double time. I sprang up and followed her. When we got to the street, she turned to me and yelled, “Oh, crap!” It was clear that the exclamation was made with the full force of all of the pent-up energy she’d had to hold back during her whispered “shit”-storm in the theater.

  “Babe, what’s wrong? You’re scaring me.”

  She grabbed her belly and doubled over, clutching it. “Oh, no,” she groaned, the keening quality both pitiful and terrifying.

  I grasped her firmly by the shoulders and turned her to face me. “Brandy, you need to tell me what’s wrong. Right now. Or I’m going to call 911, because I’ll be forced to assume you’re dying.”

  My tone left no room for argument.

  She clenched her jaw and squeezed her eyes shut, then took a deep breath and let it out, slow and steady. When she opened her eyes again, they were clearer.

  “I had a paper due today. I…I forgot. I just…forgot.”

  Her voice was stricken. Like it was a huge tragedy.

  I laughed. I couldn’t help it. It bubbled up and sprang out before I could stop myself.

  Her face lost color and she took a step back, away from me. “It’s not funny.”

  I took a step forward, closing the gap and pulling her into my arms. “No, of course it’s not,” I assured her. “I wasn’t laughing because I thought it was funny. I was laughing out of relief.”

  “Relief? What are you talking about?”

  “I thought maybe you were sick, or having a heart attack or something. You looked so stricken.”

  “I was stricken. I am stricken! Clay, you don’t understand. I’ve never missed a deadline. I’ve never turned in an assignment late.”

  “Okay. That works in your favor. Do you think that, if you just talked to the professor and explained what’s been happening, you’d be able to turn it in late?”

  “Probably. Yeah, probably. But that’s not even the main point.”

  “What is the main point?”

  “That it’s more than just this one assignment. It runs deeper than that. It’s more than just school, even. Clay, I’ve never just forgotten a responsibility. That’s crazy! I’m on top of things. It’s my main characteristic. I’m the girl that holds everyone’s world together. Including my own. And now the wheels are coming off!”

  I pulled her against me again. “The wheels aren’t coming off, baby. You forgot one assignment. And there’s been kind of a lot on your plate, don’t forget. So, don’t worry. You’re still the girl that holds everyone’s world together. Especially mine.”

  Chapter 38

  Brandy

  My eyes flew open as I sucked air violently into my lungs. This was a familiar sensation. A well-worn routine that I recognized. The pounding heart, the sheen of sweat, the scrambling fingers trying desperately to find purchase. All of it was familiar territory.

  Except for one part. The part where, before I’d even come completely awake, I’d turned on my side and my arms had reached out for Clay, seeking the warmth and solidity of his arms to bring me back down to earth, to slow my breathing, to wipe the moisture from my forehead as he kissed my hair and whispered comforting words.

  He wasn’t there, of course. I was in my dorm room. I realized that almost immediately. Clay wasn’t with me, he was in his hotel room. I’d been so freaked by the missed paper deadline that I’d said we needed a night off and fled back to the sanctuary of my dorm, and my safe and predictable college routine.

  Safe. Predictable. God, those words weren’t exciting, or sexy. But, damn, I craved the security they represented at that moment. I’d gotten swept away in the drama of my new family, and of Clay. And now things were spinning.

  I closed my eyes, trying to do for myself what I’d instinctively turned to Clay for in my sleep. I tried to calm myself, get back on an even keel and drift back to sleep.

  It didn’t work.

  I had a brainstorm, then. An idea popped into my mind and I was suddenly convinced that it was the perfect way to get me back on track, back to sleep, back to my routine.

  Even if Clay wasn’t there at the moment, that didn’t mean I couldn’t talk to him. Hell, that’s what telephones were created for, right? Thanks, Alexander Graham Bell!

  I pulled my cell phone off of the nightstand and tucked the blan
kets up around myself to hide the light from my roommates. I flipped the toggle to turn it to vibrate in case Clay called me back, and then sent him a text. I kept it simple. I wasn’t trying to play the damsel in distress or get him to come rescue me. I just wanted to hear his voice.

  “U there?” I typed and hit the send button. I waited. And waited. And waited. It felt like an eternity ticking by. When I finally allowed myself to look at the clock on my phone, I was shocked to see that only two minutes had passed.

  God!

  I shoved my knuckles into my mouth to stop the scream of frustration that wanted to escape.

  After five agonizing minutes, I let myself send another text. “Free 2 talk?” I hit send.

  I watched the screen intently, willing the telltale three dots to appear and let me know that Clay had seen my messages and was replying.

  Nada.

  My heart sped up. My breathing grew shallow, and my stomach churned. I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to make the panicky desperation go away through sheer force of will.

  It didn’t work.

  Holy hell, rather than providing a vehicle for calming me down as I’d envisioned, this plan of texting Clay was only ramping up my anxiety. That sucked.

  As much as I didn’t want to admit it, I knew what the problem was. I was becoming too dependent on him.

  Look at me right now…he didn’t get a text I sent him past midnight, when he was probably sound asleep in his bed (where I should be!), and my mind went spinning off with possibilities, none of them good. The star of the show, though, was the most realistic concern, and my biggest fear.

  Is he just gone? Did he really just decide to bounce, Good Will Hunting style? Am I going to be the Ben Affleck in this scenario, peeking through his metaphorical windows and seeing nothing but a rolled-up mattress?

  Fuck!

  I couldn’t deal with this. It was crazy-making, and the last thing I could afford to be was crazy. Hell, I couldn’t even afford to be a little unfocused, as my dropped deadline had proved to me.