After I hang up, I try again to convince myself that this isn’t a blow off, a “sayonara sweetheart,” but I’ve done so many of them in my life that I know one when I see one. This is the first time that I’ve ever felt one though. They fucking hurt a lot more than I ever realized; that’s for sure.
My doorbell rings shortly after I eat my last piece of pizza. Like a damn pussy, I run to the door, hoping like Hell that it’s Leah. I open the door to Vincent Franchetti and a strikingly beautiful girl, who resembles an older, tougher Leah.
“Mr. Franchetti? Come on in,” I say, surprised, opening the door and stepping aside. I lean out the door, looking beyond them.
“She’s not with us,” Jill says, extending her hand. “I’m Jill—Leah’s sister.”
“I can tell,” I say, shaking her hand. “You look a lot alike.”
“And you… damn… she was right. I could ‘go straight’ a night or two for someone like you,” she says, smiling.
“No, no, don’t do that,” I say, shaking my head vigorously. “That would ruin all my dirty little fantasies.”
“Okay you two, we’re here on official Franchetti business,” Leah’s dad says.
I walk them into my apartment, motioning for them to sit down. “Sorry this place is so trashed. I’m at the tail-end of moving out.”
“That’s why we’re here,” Jill says, sitting down on the ottoman in front of the chair her father sat in.
It strikes me immediately how close they are. I’d never sit that close to either of my parents, especially my father. Some families are knitted closely together after a tragedy. Obviously, after Leah’s mother died, they strengthened the bonds between the remaining Franchettis. It’s so strange how some families cling harder to one another and others just fall apart. With us, every tragedy the O’Donnells face is another reminder for my father of how imperfect and flawed each one of us is, tearing us further and further apart.
“I’m not sure what’s going on with you and my daughter, Tristan, but you should know one thing about her… she’s terrified… terrified of everything,” he says, rubbing Jill’s back.
“Every time my sister sees something that could potentially hurt her, she runs the other way, building up a fortress, a sanctuary to keep her safe,” Jill explains. “Like this surgery tomorrow, she’s so afraid of dying like my mom did, she’s trying to do everything in her power to avoid it… which means avoiding all the good things in life too.”
“We’ve done everything to try and talk her out of this damn surgery,” Leah’s dad says, “but none of us can. We know you and your brother tried too. Thank you for that, son.”
“You’re welcome. I’m sorry I couldn’t get her to reconsider, sir,” I apologize, wondering what more I could’ve said to convince her.
“We know she’s been pushing you away too,” Jill says, standing up and pacing the room, just like Leah does when she’s nervous. Watching her makes me smile and wonder if Adrian, Piper, and I have any similar idiosyncrasies like that. “Tristan, we’re not going to put you on the spot and make you tell us how you feel about her… that’s not fair… to you… or to her,” Jill explains, stopping and staring at me. “We just want you to know that if you care about her… love her like my dad and I think you do… then we don’t want you to give up on her.”
“Son, if you love my daughter, then you gotta fight for her… fight enough for both of you… because she’s too scared to fight on her own,” Vincent explains, standing up and heading for the door. “Leah seems like a fighter, but she’s more afraid of life than you’d ever realize.”
“I guess we’re done here,” Jill chuckles, walking around the other end of the couch toward the door. “Holy shit Dad, look at this.” All of my paintings and cheap artwork are leaning against that end of the couch. Jill holds one up to show to her dad.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” he says, nodding and smiling. “Fight for her… fight with all you’ve got.”
Nearly thirty minutes later, I’m almost through half a bottle of old scotch that I found in my pantry when my doorbell rings again. I stumble to the door, opening it wildly. “Leah, what’re you… what… God, you’re so beautiful.” I begin petting her hair. Yes, I said petting her hair.
“Tristan, what’s going on? Jill texted me and said that I needed to come over here right away,” Leah says, looking around frantically. “She said there was something here you needed me to see.”
“Leah, they came over here to tell me that I should fight you,” I say.
“Fight me?” she asks.
“No, not fight you… that would be bad… and wrong… wrong and bad… you’re a girl. I shouldn’t fight girls,” I babble, wishing I could filter my drunken slurs as I slump down on the couch.
“Tristan, I’ve got a big day tomorrow. As much as I’d love to babysit a drunk guy tonight, I’m gonna pass,” Leah announces, turning away from me.
“For you… they want me to fight for you… and show you this,” I explain, desperately praying that I really said what I think I just said and not some fucked up rendition of what I wanted to say.
Fuck. Damn scotch. Nobody drinks scotch—except for old rich dudes named Edgar or Ebenezer or Elfred. Elfred’s not a name, is it? Fuck, I’m drunk. Oh yeah, ever since my dad painted that masterpiece of my epic failures and allowed me to drown my sorrows in scotch with him, it’s been my “go to” vice. Scotch and failure go hand-in-hand in my life.
Bringing the painting to her, I trip over one of the boxes I packed earlier in the day. “Here, this is what Jill wanted you to see.”
Staring at the painting, her eyes fill with tears. “Who painted this?”
“I don’t know. Some artist in New York. Obviously, I couldn’t ask you—after everything that happened. So, I found this dude, showed him the sketch, and asked him to paint it exactly as it was drawn,” I explain, garbling my words. “I know it would’ve been better if you’d have—”
“Tristan, I can’t believe you have this—that this was in your house—”
“On my bedroom wall… next to me every night I slept,” I say, wrapping my arms around her. “Leah, that night, the night that everything went to shit, up until it all went to shit, it was hands down the greatest night of my life. I’d never experienced such a connection with anyone before,” I admit, staring at her, hoping she’ll see how important she is to me.
“It really was the best night of my life… that is until six weeks ago when you came back to me.” I kiss the top of her head. “I know I’m drunk as fuck right now, so you probably won’t believe any of this, but I promise you this, I’m going to be your hands… be exactly what you hold on to when you need strength.”
Sobbing into my chest, she says, “Tristan, I can’t do this right now, okay? Can we just talk about this tomorrow… after… after…?”
“Sure, anything you want… whatever you want,” I say, holding her tighter. “Just know that I’m here for you… and that… and that… Leah, I love you.”
“I’m going to go,” she says, shocking the ever-loving Hell out of me. I’m going to go. I tell her that I love her—the only girl I’ve ever said those words to, and she says, I’m going to go. I’m going to go. Mother-fucking, incoherent, inability to formulate thoughts, fucking scotch.
“Now? You’re leaving now?” I ask, attempting to shut down the hurt and surprise in my voice.
“Yes Tristan, I just said that I can’t do this right now,” she says, opening the door and stepping backwards out of it. “I promise, we’ll talk about this tomorrow.”
“Stay with me tonight,” I beg, reaching for her hand. I begged. I just begged a woman to stay with me.
Leah pulls her hand away, shaking her head. “Tomorrow.”
Like some dramatic scene in a movie, a slow motion, silent fucking, black and white dumbass movie, the elevator arrives on cue, and Leah disappears behind its stupid closing doors. Fuck.
I spend the rest of the night throwing shit in boxes
and finishing the mind-muddling scotch. Finally, I lie down on my bed, fully clothed, with an empty bottle on my chest. The last thought that I have before I pass out is fight for her. Well, I did. I fought like a damn girl for her—and lost before the first round was even over.
I awake to a deafening pounding in my head. Praying for something to dull the ache, I get out of bed to grab Ibuprofen from the medicine cabinet, only vaguely remembering that I packed it somewhere in my tennis shoes or ski boots. Rummaging through my boxes, dumping shoes and shit all over my floor, I realize the knocking is on my door—not in my head. Well, it’s on my door and in my head.
“Hold on, I’m coming,” I mumble as I make my slow, reluctant walk to the door.
Opening it, I’m beyond surprised to see my mother, but more shocked to see her hair unkempt and sporting tennis shoes and yoga pants. “Mom? What’s up?”
“No time to for idle chitchat,” she says, storming past me, like her typical bossy and controlling self. “I’m not here for niceties.”
Looking for a place to sit, she circles the furniture a few times. “I’ve got a flight to catch in 15 hours—red eye to Portugal,” she announces. “There’s a ton that needs to be done before then.”
“Portugal? What’re you going to—?”
“Tristan! No time for chitchat, I just said that. We’re wasting time,” she remarks, clapping her hands for emphasis. “Sit down.” Afraid to do anything but, I plop down on to my couch. Mothers have an uncanny ability to control people with just a certain tone of their voice and look of their eyes. I wonder if they have special classes for that shit. I’d audit it for sure.
“Now, here are all three of your trust fund and inheritance activation codes and passwords,” she states, flipping through piles of paperwork. “I trust that you’ll see to it that Piper and Adrian get their money—money that is rightfully theirs.”
Looking through the paperwork, I pause, tossing it onto the coffee table in front of us, “Okay Mom, what’s going on? Why’re you giving me all this?”
My mother looks at her watch, rolls her eyes, and leans back on the chair. “I guess I could leave tomorrow morning if I don’t get everything done today,” she says, slipping off her shoes and putting her feet up on the table. In all my years of living with her, of being her kid, I’ve never seen her without high-heeled shoes on or even with her feet up.
“I’m done… done with all this,” she announces. “I’m sick of looking the other way while your father gallivants around town, Hell around the country, with other women, destroying my family in the process.”
“Mom, I know that—”
“No, that’s just the tip of the iceberg. I’m sick of being ignored and being some puppet he controls in a whole world of puppet shows he puts on for whomever will watch,” my mom says, scowling, brow furrowing. “I’ve sat back long enough letting him run the show… but… but once he starts cutting my children… my children… out of my life, then that’s going overboard.”
“Mom, we’re still in your life,” I argue, leaning closer to her, patting her knee for reassurance. “Tristan, look around. You can’t get out of here fast enough… just like your brother and sister. It’s him… your father has pushed all three of you away with his overbearing demeanor and his unattainable desire for perfection. I’ve just had it. I won’t stand for it any longer.”
“Are you sure this is what you want to do?” I ask, fearing for how my father will react. “You know if you do this, it’ll be like waking a sleeping grizzly bear.”
“Oh Hell, he can’t do a thing to me,” she laughs, waving me off. “He’s been hiding money from the IRS for years, refusing to pay taxes, putting money in offshore accounts.” I knew my father had some accounts overseas, but I didn’t realize how much. Continuing, my mom says, “I know about all of it. Your father was so dumb; he never thought I had a clue. I have so much evidence against him that they could put him away for years if I turned any of it in. He knows better.”
“Mom, he’s going to be beyond pissed,” I argue.
“Let him be. He deserves this. Between his affairs and bullying each and every one of us, it’s time he paid the price. He may be a sleeping grizzly, but I’m a mama bear and when someone tries to hurt my cubs, I get very hostile,” she says, with more edge and anger than I’ve ever seen. It’s kind of cool really. I wish she would’ve been this angry and ready to fight after I got back from Texas years ago. But who am I to judge? Sometimes, it takes the O’Donnells a little longer to figure out the things that are right there in front of them.
“Yeah, I guess you do,” I say, surprised by her tenacity. “So why Portugal?”
“Why not Portugal?” she asks, shrugging her shoulders. “It’s time that I started doing what I want to do.” Getting up, she walks toward the door, and says, “Now, you will give Piper and Adrian their money?”
“Of course, Mom,” I say, following her.
“I knew I could count on you… my responsible, reliable son,” she says. “Ya know baby, I’m so glad you and Adrian both picked strong, fearless women—at least Piper will have Leah and Kathryn to look up to and emulate. God knows I never showed my own daughter how to be a strong, confident woman and face her fears head on.” Tears begin to fall down my mom’s face.
“Mom, that’s not true. You’re very brave and strong,” I argue.
“Not strong enough—at least not until this very minute,” she says, wiping her face. “Not like those two feisty pistols you and Adrian fell for.”
“How do you know about Leah?” I ask.
“I’m your mother, Tristan. I know everything,” she smirks, winking at me. I have a flashback of the day we laid by the pool, and she spent hours teaching me how to wink. My mom taught me how to do my trademark wink. She never gave up on me—even now—after all these years. My mom never gave up on me.
“Tristan, I also got rid of that stupid contract. To think that your father, that heartless troll, would ever want you, our perfect son, to miss out on the most wonderful thing in life. The man is a monster… Thank God I learned it now while there is still a little life left for me to live,” she says, winking at me again. Wow, I wonder how many times she’s used that wink to get what she wants.
“What contract? I resigned Mom; you know that,” I say, grabbing her hand. “I don’t work for him anymore. I’m free.”
“Not the work contract. The fatherhood agreement. God, I hope you weren’t going to listen to that anyway. But trust me, I got great pleasure in shredding that atrocity to bits,” my mother explains. “Tristan, the fact that you even signed that thing breaks my heart. Don’t you realize that having kids, having babies of your own is the greatest gift in the world? How could sign something like that?”
“Mom, I just don’t think—”
“Tristan Michael! For God’s sake! Stop thinking, sweetheart. Kids aren’t something you think about; they’re something you experience and cherish,” she explains, her face full of honesty and compassion as tears fall down her face.
“When you hold your own child in your arms, stare down at your very own eyes looking right back at you, you know what life is really about—what it’s all for,” my mom says, more tears streaming down her face. “It’s love—pure and simple love. The idea that your father wanted to take that joy from you is unforgivable.”
“Placing her hand on my cheek, pulling me close to her, she emphasizes, “Don’t you ever doubt for a second how wonderful parenting and fatherhood is. I wouldn’t give motherhood up for the world—even though I failed so miserably—I’d never give it up. There are a lot of things that you can pass up in this world—fatherhood shouldn’t be one of them. Not now. Not ever.”
Running into the hospital, I’m out of breath when I see Jill and her father, drinking coffee in the waiting room by the glass partition in the hallway. I try to catch my breath, as I pant out the question, “Where is she?”
“You’re too late, Superman,” a voice comes from behind me. �
�You missed your chance to swoop in and save the day. They took her back into surgery about forty minutes ago.” The woman with the voice comes around and takes the cup from Jill, sipping the coffee from her cup.
“You must be Shayla,” I say, bending over, placing my hands on my knees to catch my breath.
“Must be,” she says, rubbing Jill’s back. I notice that Jill looks like she’s been crying. Her dad does too. I’m too late. Too damned late. And now, I’ve ruined everything, ruined the future for everyone, all because I was too dumb to fight for what I wanted.
“She was pretty scared going in there, but she’s going to be okay,” Jill says, burying her head into Shayla’s shoulder. “She’s just so stubborn and pigheaded.”
I feel like a total ass. Why couldn’t I just convince her to stay last night? If she would’ve been there this morning… If I could’ve talked to her after my mom’s visit… If I could’ve gotten here in time… If… If… If… If what? What would you have said to her, Tristan? What would you have done? I ask myself, knowing that I really don’t know the answer.
Why does clarity always hit when it’s too late? Why can’t things be clear when you need to see them for what they are? I do know a few things for certain. I don’t want to spend one more day alone. I want to fill my days and nights with Leah; I want to drown in her. I’ll stop the sale on my apartment today if she’ll have me. Or, if she wants, she can come to Charleston, and we’ll live in the beach house for the rest of our lives together. Whatever she wants in this world, it’s hers. If she’ll let me give it to her.
I sit down on the couch, opposite Jill, Shayla, and Mr. Franchetti. Watching the worry and anxiety on their faces, I wish I could turn back time and never let her come home after those days we spent together in Charleston. I wish I could’ve convinced her then how great we were together. I could’ve shown her, proven to her that we were… we are meant to be together.
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