by Rose, Kristi
“Except the one thing I want to do,” I say sadly.
Chapter 2
Friday
I leave Jamison's office disheartened and frustrated. And, honestly, scared. I don’t want to be the sort of person who gets caught up in a freak-out, stuck in a negative cycle, but I was seconds from needing to breathe into a brown paper bag to calm myself down.
I think of those movies where the person losing their mind gets slapped. I need a slap, only slapping myself wouldn’t be effective. It wouldn’t pack the right heat. Instead, I do what might be the equivalent of a slap. I call my mom.
Wrapping my mind around this is hard. I need to focus on the big picture. Like: if I change degree tracks, how much more time in school would be required, and how much more in student loans would I have to take out? I was focused solely on getting what I wanted. My teaching degree.
I wish I could be blasé about debt. I have plenty of it. School loans, medical debt, and the standard mortgage. But I’m treading water here, barely keeping myself afloat. Sitting in my minivan, which I also owe money on, I lean back against the seat and close my eyes while the phone rings, waiting for my mom to answer.
“Hello, sweetheart,” my mom says. She does this sing-song voice when she’s in a good mood. “How’d it go at school?”
I skim over the topic. “Fine. How are things there? How’s Tyler?” Thankfully, she’s a free and willing babysitter, which comes in handy on days Tyler’s school is out, like today. And, when she watches Tyler at my house, she cleans. Win-win. Guess that’s one silver lining today.
“Oh, it's all going beautifully.” The swish-swish of a squirt bottle sounds through the phone.
“Really?” I say. My son, almost eight, can be a bit of a…pistol. And he knows Mimi loves to spoil him, so he really works her to get what he wants.
“He's out in the backyard playing flag football with Uncle Doug. He’s burning energy and having a ball.”
“Why’s Doug there? Doesn’t he have a job?” Not that I don't love my brother, but when he stops by uninvited, it's usually to deliver a talking down or a handout or something else demoralizing. “And why is Tyler playing flag football? You know I don't like him playing contact sports. I don't think it's a good idea. What if he has a seizure?”
“Oh, Heather, let him be a child. He could have one while watching TV, and you let him do that.”
Easy for her to say. She’s never seen him have a seizure. “He’s sitting in a chair when he watches TV, not in motion like playing football. He's running down the backyard waiting to be tackled.” I glance at the smartwatch I wear, provided to me as part of an epilepsy study Tyler and I are doing. The watch's purpose is to alert me when Tyler's having a seizure. I tap the face, but it stays green, the color that means everything's good, and the only thing displayed on the face is the time.
“Nobody tackles anyone in flag football. They just pull a flag off the strap on your waist and they're laughing and having fun. This is what children are supposed to do.” She reminds me.
Yes, I agree. Children are supposed to laugh and be carefree. Children aren't supposed to have epilepsy. Children aren’t supposed to have autism or cancer or anything else that hijacks their childhood. But children do. And then they have parents who just want to make sure they’re safe and grow up healthy. But I don't say this to my mom because it's an old argument.
“Why did Doug come by?”
“Oh, your dishwasher was acting up, so I had him pop over to take a look.”
I groan. “Mom, did you not see the note I left? The dishwasher's been acting up for a while. I hope you didn't run it?” I left a bolded large-print note taped to the dishwasher with the warning.
“I did, but don’t worry, I mopped up after it flooded the kitchen.”
I slap my palm against my head.
“I was going to mop anyway. At least it’s done,” she says.
See? Silver lining. My floor is now clean.
This time she switches the subject. “Tell me what the counselor said. Did you get a placement at Tyler’s school?”
Funny how my biggest concern this morning was where I’d do my student teaching. I wanted it to be in Tyler’s school, worried that if it wasn’t I’d have to juggle both Tyler and our differing schedules. Naive, when will I ever learn?
“I’ll know more Tuesday,” I say to deflect. “There are some things that need to be resolved on their end before more placements can be finalized.”
“But you told them you wanted Tyler’s school?”
“They know that.”
“You should have reiterated it.”
“Quick question. Who’s that lawyer Dad plays golf with?” Because I want to make sure I don't call him when I seek services.
If I can get my record expunged, my parents need never know about this latest obstacle, and what caused it. I mean, I already got the lecture about dropping out of college. I already got the lecture on getting pregnant while in college, which is why I dropped out. Then I got the side-eyes and little retorts when Justin and I separated. Now that we're divorced, I don't dare tell my family he's consistently delinquent with child support because somehow they’d make that my fault, too. No need to add to the list. I’ll come up with something believable if this can’t be resolved quickly.
“His name is Robinson, Mitch Robinson. He's a criminal attorney. Heather, you don't need a criminal defense attorney, do you?”
I’m not surprised she makes that leap.
“No, Mom. I'm asking for a friend.” Thank heavens, Mom isn’t on Facebook and doesn’t know the inside joke of “asking for a friend.”
“Oh, dear. You have a friend in trouble. It's not one of the girls, is it? Because you know if I had to pick one, it would be that Josie.”
“No, mom, it's not Josie—who, by the way, is a lawyer.” I should’ve called her. But I know why I didn’t. Because I hate that all my friends are successful and going places and I’m…
Right where I’ve always been. And I need yet another handout.
“Are you and Tyler still okay with me going to work at the fundraiser?” I ask. I volunteered to waitress at an epilepsy fundraiser today.
“Yep, we’ve got the day all planned out. You take some time for you. Celebrate. You’re almost done with school, and your dad and I are so proud. Let today be a small gift from us.”
I suck a deep breath in through my nose, yoga style. “Thanks Mom. Tell my kid I love him. I’ll try to call around dinner.”
We hang up after a few more words.
Before I drive away, I do an internet search for expunging records and lawyers who do this sort of thing in Daytona Beach. Ads for various firms pop up.
Get your record clean in two to six months. Prices start at $1000.
Okay. That’s a start. I will offer Josie that amount. The cost sucks, but it gives me an idea of what dealing with this issue will entail. What the baseline cost will be. I mean, if I were going to blow a thousand dollars, would this be what I would spend it on? No. Maybe I would buy myself something or get a new dishwasher. And I’d take myself and my child out to eat, too. Haven't done that in a while.
Big picture, a grand is small to get what I want, right? Though with my luck, it’ll probably cost something ridiculous, like six grand.
I click on one of the ads for the expunging company. Is that even the right word? Expunging? Sounds like there’s mold or something on my roof, expunge.
My next call is to Josie. But after four rings, the call goes to voicemail. Josie is also working at the epilepsy fundraiser, so I know I’ll see her there. Nothing more I can do now. I will myself to set the problem aside. Once I'm done working the fundraiser, I’ll devote all my attention to this issue.
Though if I had one wish, it would be…what? Truth is, if I had one wish, it would be that my child wouldn’t have epilepsy. But I pretend that wish has already been granted and I’ve been gifted another one today. Lucky me. And so, I’ll wish for…a resoluti
on that won’t break the bank and will give me what I want.
A glance at the clock on my minivan’s dash tells me I’m supposed to be back in Daytona Beach in an hour and a half for my assigned shift with the fundraiser. The drive from the campus to downtown Daytona is just shy of an hour.
Leaving the campus of the University of Central Florida, I point my minivan north, take 417 through Sanford and catch I-4 at Seminole. The scenery is so familiar I don’t really see it. Palm trees, lakes, and strip malls. Fifty minutes later, I’m exiting onto International Speedway Boulevard, and I don’t remember anything about the drive. I was on autopilot. I’ve done it three times a week for the last two years. I don't recall seeing any of the landmarks, signs for new Disney attractions, or even crossing lanes to get to the off-ramp, which is pretty scary when you think about it. No cell phone necessary to cause my distracted driving today.
At a red light, my phone pings. The text message from Mom is a picture. Tyler at the Kona Shaved Ice truck. He’s holding a giant blue shaved ice, and his lips are already stained. His smile is infectious.
The caption from Mom is This kid finds joy everywhere.
I bang my head against the steering wheel twice and am going for a third when the car behind me honks.
Big picture, right? Who cares that my degree track just went sideways, my dishwasher is leaking, the roofer I hired after the last hurricane did a terrible job and I suspect that’s leaking as well, and my ex hasn’t paid child support in two months.
I’ll get past this obstacle like I’ve done every other. Tyler is healthy and his seizures are currently managed, and as much as I hate that he’s playing football, I know that he’s loving it. What kind of mom would begrudge that? Not this kind. Even though I worry.
My mom’s right. I’m going to enjoy tonight. I’m going to laugh with my friends who are also working the fundraiser, and I’ll be raising money for a worthy case.
Anything else this day wants to throw at me, I’ll simply swat it to the ground. Like the pesky issue it’ll probably be. I’m more than this hurdle.
Bring it, universe! It’s going to take more than topless sunbathing to bring me down!
Chapter 3
Friday
Bike Week officially starts today. Close to half a million people, a large majority on motorcycles, pour into Daytona Beach and surrounding towns and clog up the roads. This isn’t their fault. To manage the congestion, the city is forced to rope off several roads, turning them into one-way streets as one of Daytona's biggest tourist events explodes onto the scene.
The sun is bright and warm, and women clad in bikinis ride behind men dressed in head to toe leather. Mufflers pop around me as people gun their bikes.
Between this and race week, the locals have become desensitized. Now the rev of a motorcycle is like white noise.
The Fox and Hound restaurant, known for its traditional English fare and pub atmosphere, was started by my friend Jayne’s parents, and is kicking off the fundraising event. Each night for the next week, a different local restaurant is slotted to “pop up” in the empty parking lot across from the beach and one block north of the most popular bar on the strip, The Boothill Saloon, which is known for its famous saying, “You’re better off here than across the street.” Which is a cemetery.
The “pop-ups” consist of an RV converted to a kitchen, twelve folding tables, several sets of chairs, and whatever ambiance the restaurant can create. Each restaurant supports a different charity. Based on our location, traffic for our pop-up should be good, and fifty percent of all proceeds will go to the Epilepsy Fund for Families at Orlando Children’s Hospital. It was this foundation that covered a lot of my son’s medical bills when my ex-husband’s insurance didn't.
Along with my friends, Josie, Paisley, and Jayne, I signed up to work a four-hour shift. Our plan is to hang out afterward and maybe go dancing. Soon, Paisley will get married and move across the world to Japan, since that’s where her fiancé Hank’s next duty station is.
Good news. I totally need a night out with my friends.
Bad news. They’ll instantly see right through me and know something’s wrong.
I pull into the designated parking lot for our pop-up, a block east from The Fox and Hound pop up, and check my reflection in my rearview mirror. My eyes are red and puffy from unshed tears, and my throat is splotchy from holding back my angst. Trouble with being a pale-skinned blonde is that all emotion shows on me one way or another. Usually in this blotchy, unflattering way.
I freshen up my mascara, add more blush, and pink my lips with a shiny gloss.
Once my face is back on, I tighten my ponytail, let the few loose strands stay, and force my mouth into a smile. Standing outside my car, I tuck my white T-shirt into the front of my jeans. I’ve worn my Sketchers because, for me, comfort wins over sexy every time.
The walk is quick, and I come up behind the converted RV that’s the kitchen. Jayne is outside the door to the RV, gesturing to staff, likely instructing them on what t their role is. Josie and Paisley flank her side. The restaurant seating takes up most of the parking lot. Several retractable rope-style barricades separate the restaurant patrons from the hundreds of people milling up and down the sidewalk, some drunk as skunks.
Jayne’s the first to notice me. She gives me a wink and a smile which I return. Josie and Paisley each give me a wave.
Jayne’s my boss at her shop The Daily Mirror. I’ve often heard that people shouldn’t go into business with or work for their friends, but Jayne’s been a godsend. Her shop hours have given me the flexibility to prioritize Tyler and college.
Jayne gestures for me to hurry to her, and when I’m beside her, she wraps her arm around my shoulder and gives me a side hug.
She says excitedly, “Here she is, our soon to be teacher.”
Anything she says always sounds wonderful because of her lovely British accent. Jayne has always, always, always been the cheerleader in my life.
Her support makes me want to whine. I shove those emotions away, something I’m good at.
I say, “Okay! What's the plan? I'm ready. Let's do this. Let's earn some money for epilepsy.” I clasp my hands together in forced eagerness, ready to throw myself into the work and forget my troubles for a while.
“Right.” Jayne side-eyes me but moves into hostess mode. “The restaurant is divided into four parts. Back left, back right, front left, front right.”
Four a-frame signs with our restaurant name and the charity we support are spaced out by the barriers for the passersby.
Jayne continues, “Each section has three tables. Josie is covering the front right. Heather, you'll cover the front left. Paisley and I will cover the backs, and I’ll also rotate through, helping where I can. The more people we move through here, the more money we make.”
I say, “I love the sound of that.”
Josie smiles. “Me too, because Brinn and I have decided to match however much is made here tonight.”
Tears spring to my eyes. “Josie, that’s so generous.” I dab at the corners of my eyes to keep from messing up my makeup.
She shrugs nonchalantly. “We saw how helpful the foundation was to you and Tyler. It’s the least we can do.” She hands me a napkin. “No crying. We’ve got money to make.”
Paisley, a pretty redhead with a bright smile, pumps her fist. “Let's do this.”
I wrap her in a hug. She’s in the throes of planning a wedding and getting ready to move overseas, but put all that on hold to do this today.
“Thanks for being here,” I say.
She rolls her eyes. “Are you kidding me? Here is the one place I want to be. I want to get as much friend time in as possible. Besides, between working on the wedding with my mom, my sister, and his sister, Gigi, I’m ready to elope. I need to do something other than wedding planning.”
Josie puts her fist in the middle of our circle. “Here’s to a night where big money is raised, laughter is shared, and good things go down.
” She wags her brows. “You can take that however you want,” she adds with a wicked smile.
We all laugh.
From the pile, three hands with sparkling engagement rings glisten, reflecting the afternoon light. Mine is the only ringless hand. I glance at both Paisley and Jayne. When I was getting my divorce, they were hooking up with their Mr. Wonderfuls. In reflection, I’ve come a long way. Yeah, it’s been hard, but I’ve done it. And I’ll get over this next bump, too.
I squeeze my hand over theirs. “Don’t forget to thank everybody for being here, for helping such a good foundation, and push appetizers and desserts.”
“Family on three,” Josie says.
It reminds me of a football huddle and my early college days when life was classes, football, and easier times.
“One, two, three,” Josie says.
“Family,” we say in unison and dissolve in laughter because it’s fun and silly.
Jayne nods to the rope being removed from our entrance to allow customers in. “Doors are open,” she says with air quotes. “I’ll start seating people.”
There’s a line of bikers in all shapes and sizes. Some with long hair, some with short. White-collar or blue-collar, at Bike Week, none of the specifics matter. The only requirement is a love for motorcycles. And often leather.
Jayne seats people, and we’re off taking orders. I’m dropping my first order at the counter for Jeff, the cook, when Josie sidles up next to me.
She says, “Wanna tell me what had you looking so blotchy when you arrived?”
I feign ignorance. “The sun?”
She shakes her head. “Wanna try again? I wasn’t the only one who noticed. Jayne mentioned it, too.”
I blow out a heavy sigh and gesture to the event. “I tried calling you earlier. After all this is over, I need some professional advice.”
“Sorry, I haven’t had time to check my phone. I was helping with the setup.” She raises one brow and looks confused. “Is it that snake of an ex of yours again?”