by Claire Adams
“Yeah,” I stall. I’m angry at her for trying to tell me how to live my life, but I know she’s right about everything. It doesn’t take long to figure out that I’m angry at her because she’s right about everything.
“So,” she says, “that’s where I’m at. Maybe this is a stupid idea.”
It’s not lost on me that I had a conversation a lot like this not too long ago with my brother. That’s what has my attention more than anything right now.
“It’s not,” I tell her. “Something needs to change.”
There’s a hint of what almost looks like a smile on her face, but I still feel bitterness in my bones. I want to explain to her that it’s not me, but Chris who’s screwed up, and that she’s right, that it’s none of her business how I deal with things in my own personal life. Not a word of that makes its way to my lips, though.
One word keeps flashing in my mind. At first, I’m offended at my own thoughts and then I’m confused, but the more I think about it, the clearer the thought behind the word becomes.
Victim.
My life hasn’t been a particularly easy one, but that’s no excuse for anything. My parents failed me, but that doesn’t have to rule my emotions. Chris has brought an unprecedented amount of crap down on himself and, indirectly, on me, but that doesn’t have to rule my thoughts.
They say it’s what you do that matters, but if I learned anything from the string of low-rent Freudians I was sent to again and again growing up, it’s that if you can’t change the way you think you’re never going to change the way you act.
The longer I blame Chris or my parents or the people who tried to help me turn things around or the therapists that failed in their task, the more I’m just feeling sorry for myself. I’m not a victim.
“I’ll give it a try,” I tell her. “Therapy, that is. I’ve got to tell you that I’m not sure it’s really going to do anything, but I know something needs to give. I don’t know where I went last night or even all of why I went there. What I do know is that it’s not someplace I ever want to go again.”
“I hope you’re not just saying that for my benefit,” she says, her arms slowly unfolding, eventually resting at her sides.
“I’m not,” I tell her. I’m not sure if it’s the truth or not, but I actually feel good saying it. “You’re right, maybe it’ll work, maybe it won’t, but whether you and I end up together or not, that’s not the person I want to be the rest of my life.”
“Yeah,” she says.
As much as I don’t want to lose her, I’m more worried about losing myself. All I’m really hanging onto, though, is the belief that I can’t do any better than I’m already doing. I think I’m willing to challenge that particular thought.
The problem is that’s what a therapist would tell me. Maybe I’d get lucky and find one with some insight, but if I can’t get someone who can tell me what I don’t already know, what’s the point?
The point is that it’s something. The alternative is the possibility of another night like that one, and I don’t want that sick feeling to become a more permanent fixture in my life.
I don’t want even a flash of it.
“Chris is probably never really going to change,” I say, just as much to myself as to Ash. “Even if he comes out of jail saying he’s seen the light—which I can guarantee you he will—I’m probably not going to believe him. He’s done this too many times. Jail’s new, but it’s hardly unexpected. I guess what’s got me willing to even consider going back to a therapist is that I don’t want to be like that. I don’t want to be the guy who’s always promising he’s going to stop screwing up, I’d rather be the guy who doesn’t have to apologize. I’d rather just not screw things up.”
It sounds stupid the way I’m saying it, but Ash’s expression softens a little. “You’re always going to screw things up,” she says.
I wasn’t expecting that.
“That’s not just you,” she says. “Everyone screws things up and we’re all destined to continue to screw things up as long as we’re alive. Learning how to not screw things up the same way, though…” she says. “I don’t know, maybe it’s objectively better that way, maybe not. You’ve got to think it’s more interesting, though, right?”
I smile. “That’s true. It sounds pretty boring the other way,” I tell her.
“Don’t promise me perfection,” she says. “I think you’ve heard enough of those kinds of promises to know why I say that.”
I should probably be more resentful, but I can’t really argue with anything she’s saying. “You’re not perfect, either,” I tell her.
She chuckles a bit and smiles, saying, “I’m aware.”
Chapter Fourteen
The Return of May Weese
Ash
“How are you feeling?” I ask Mason as he looks out the window of the car. “Are you still up for this?”
“Yeah,” he says blankly.
Things have been good since we talked, but I’m not convinced he’s quite ready for this. It’s not my call, though.
Over the years, it seems, Mason’s brother had cultivated quite the professional relationship with his lawyer. As a result of this, Chris can have visitors, at least until he’s arraigned next week.
I didn’t ask how he’d gotten anyone to agree to that.
“What do you think he’s going to say?” I ask.
“I don’t know. Why?” Mason answers.
I shrug. “It just seems like it might be good to be prepared, you know.”
“I guess,” he says.
“Do you want to go home?” I ask. “We don’t have to do this today if you’re not up for it.”
“I’m not going to be any more up for it tomorrow than I will be today,” he says. “May as well just get it over with so I don’t have to listen to him complain about how I never went and saw him in the joint. Right now, I think the best I can do is just try to minimize whatever damage he tries to cause today. Are you still all right going in there with me?” he asks.
“Of course,” I tell him, “whatever you need.”
I’ve never had to visit a family member in jail, but that’s because they let wealthy people to get away with anything. I almost told Mason a couple of times, but it just never feels like the right time.
Equating what Chris has done with what my parents still actively do is easy enough. The consequences, though, are a much different thing. I don’t know how he’d react.
There’s not much I know how to say on the rest of the drive to the county jail where Chris awaits whatever’s to come. When we get there, I just park and we both get out without a word.
As we’re walking up to the door, I grab his hand and hold it. He doesn’t pull away, but I can feel the tension in him.
“I’ll be right here the whole time,” I tell him quietly, just before we get to the door.
“Yeah,” he says in a near whisper.
We enter the jail and remove our keys, wallets and cellphones, placing them in the plastic trays to be scanned. He goes through the metal detector, then I get beeped back out of it.
He just stands there with crossed arms and a distant look while I go through all of my pockets until I realize my underwire bra is the culprit. They spare me the humiliation of removing it and use the wand instead while Mason stands unflinching on the other side of the metal detector.
I finally get through and we follow the sign to the visiting area. It hadn’t really occurred to me that there would be much waiting, but minute after minute ticks away on the old clock on the wall.
Mason is quiet. I don’t know that talking would even help, but I feel so helpless sitting here.
Finally, Chris comes into view of the booth where we’re sitting and he takes a seat on the other side of the glass. I’m busy looking for a phone when Chris starts talking, the sound traveling easily through the tiny holes in the glass.
“I know it’s not my best look, but I think I’m pulling off the whole incarcerated thing,�
� Chris says. “I haven’t shaved for a couple of days. That’s key.”
I don’t want to talk before Mason’s had a chance, but the silence stretches from a few seconds to half a minute. Finally, it’s too awkward and I break the seal, saying, “How are you doing?”
“I’m all right, I guess,” he says. “People aren’t as touchy-feely here as the movies make out.”
“That’s got to be a relief,” I chuckle nervously.
“It is,” he says, “definitely. Still, I’m so insecure, I can’t stop thinking maybe it’s me. Am I really that unattractive?” he asks. “You’d think I’d get at least a gentleman’s look in the shower.”
The fact that I’m trying to not laugh is making it that much more difficult to contain it. Mason’s clearly upset, more upset than I’ve seen him since that fight, though it’s coming out in a very different way. I don’t want to make light of things, but Chris really is kind of charming in a sleazy, I’d-never-leave-him-alone-in-a-room-with-my-purse kind of way.
“Have you worked out a deal yet?” Mason asks.
“Whoa, hey bro,” Chris teases. “When’d you get here?”
“Whatever,” Mason says. “I just need to know whether you’ll be out in time to pick up the stuff you left at my house, or if I’m better off donating it.”
“My little brother, always the bucket of sunshine,” Chris says, looking to me with a quick flash of the eyes.
The guilt I’m feeling tells me he’s looking for some kind of lifeline, some sort of validation, something. Being human and being here at the same time, I can’t help but want to offer him some sort of reassurance, but that’s not why I’m here.
I’m here to help Mason get through this.
Chris looks back to his little brother, letting me off the hook, but Mason just sits there, shaking his head.
“Listen, I know there’s nothing I can say right now that you’re going to believe,” Chris says.
“I believe that,” Mason says.
Chris sits up a little straighter and smiles. “See? I knew you still had a sense of humor.”
“Could you answer my question?” Mason asks.
“What question was that?” Chris returns.
“Have you conned the prosecutor into some kind of deal yet or are you waiting until after your arraignment to see if you can sweet talk the judge into throwing the case out?” Mason asks.
“I don’t seem to remember hearing that particular question,” Chris says, but finally drops the forced levity. “My lawyer’s talking to him. There’s nothing concrete yet, but my guy says the prosecutor’s starting to come around.”
“Congratulations,” Mason says. “When you get out, I want a phone call so we can set up a time for someone to pick up your things. I don’t want you at my house for a while.”
“I screwed up. I screw up a lot. I always have,” Chris says. “I’m not an idiot. I know you’re not gonna trust me for a while, and I get that you want someone else to come by for my stuff, but we’re family, bro,” Chris says, adding a tinge of frat boy to an otherwise decent appeal. “You can’t cut me out of your life forever.”
“Why do you think I’m so pissed off?” Mason asks. “When they took you away, I told myself that I could cut you out. I thought that I could finally stop caring so much about how long it’s going to be before you get your life worked out, but that theory kind of got blown all to hell.”
Chris looks to me and then back at Mason. “What does that mean?” he asks.
“That means,” Mason says, “after you’ve shown me some decent evidence that you’ve gotten past all this crap that put you in here, we can talk about being brothers again. This doesn’t change the fact that I’ve never trusted you any less in my life than I do right now looking at you in that jumpsuit. Do you know how many times I’ve imagined this conversation?”
Chris looks back to me with that same wide-eyed flash of the eyes, but if it is help that he’s seeking with that look, I’m not the one that can help him.
“They only give us a few minutes,” Chris says, his voice
“I’ll make this quick then,” Mason says. “I’ve imagined this conversation so many times I even came here knowing exactly what I wanted to say. If this had happened a year ago or ten years ago, I would have had the same thoughts going through my mind. The words have changed a little over the years, but now that we’re sitting here, none of it is anything that I want to say to you.”
“I don’t know if ya know this or not, big guy,” Chris says, “but I’ve thought about this day, too. You know me, I’ve always told myself it wasn’t going to happen to me, but here I am in a jumpsuit. Or are these overalls? I never really knew the difference.”
“Did you have a point?” Mason asks.
“I’ve imagined this going every way possible,” Chris says. “I could sit here and tell you that I’ve seen the error of my ways or whatever, but you’re never going to believe it and I’m not sure I’d still mean that if they let me out tomorrow. My point is that there’s nothing either of us can do or say that’s going to make this any worse. I guess I’d just like to know that there’s some chance that maybe down the road, we can talk about getting past it.”
“I don’t know,” Mason says. “I already told you I can’t ignore that you’re always going to matter to me. That doesn’t mean that I’m happy about it or even that I’m ever going to be happy about it. I don’t know if I’m going to want to welcome you with open arms when you get out of here or whether I’m going to want to punch you repeatedly in the face, but I do know I’m not going to respect you if you just con your way out of taking responsibility for this just like you’ve been conning your way out of responsibility your whole life. Everything else out the window, I came here today to tell you that if you really want to know how to start rebuilding trust, you can start today. Call your lawyer and tell him that whatever voodoo bullshit you’ve got him doing to get you off with a slap on the wrist, it’s over. You don’t want any special treatment. You are going to avail yourself of the criminal justice system.”
“They’re trying to railroad me, Mase,” Chris says.
“Don’t call me that,” Mason responds.
“You’re telling me to call my lawyer and just tell him to go with whatever they’re offering?” Chris asks. “They don’t make good offers to guys like me. They make examples of guys like me.”
“I know,” Mason says. “I can’t tell you what to do. All I can do is tell you what I’m going to do. The rest,” Mason concludes, “that’s your call.”
With that, Mason gets up from the fixed, metal stool and leaves the visiting area.
For a moment, I just watch, not sure whether to give him a minute or whether I should get out there and talk to him. It’s not until Chris clears his throat that it becomes clear what I have to do.
“I’ve got to go, Chris,” I tell my boyfriend’s brother. “I really hope this all works out for the best.”
“Any chance you’d happen to know that that is?” Chris asks. “I’m open to advice.”
I think for a moment, but end up just shaking my head. “I’m sorry,” I tell him. “If I were in your shoes, I’d love to say that I’d do what Mason told you to do. The reality of it, though… I guess you’re going to have to decide which is more important: an early release, or a better shot at a relationship with your brother—Chris,” I tell him, “I’ve got to go.”
“Okay,” he says. As I’m walking away, I can hear him behind me saying, “Thank you.”
I make my way out of the jail and find Mason already sitting in the passenger’s seat of the car. To be honest, I didn’t know it was unlocked.
Mason’s quiet as I get in, but that was expected. What I’m not expecting is the bluetooth notification on my dashboard telling me that my mother is calling.
“Call from May… Weese,” the automated voice announces.
I never programmed her into my phone as Mom. She wouldn’t be offended, though. She always
felt the word “mom” just made her sound old.
“You can answer it if you want,” Mason says. “I don’t think I’m going to be much for talking right now anyway.”
I don’t have to think about it, but I pretend like I’m weighing my options before saying, “Reject.” Glancing over at Mason, I pass it off as just having other things on my mind right now, but the truth is that I know what the call is going to be about.
Traditionally, there are two occasions on which I’ll receive an unsolicited phone call from my mom. First, she always used to call when dad’s net worth topped another million dollars, but she stopped making those calls a while ago. She was calling so often, it was starting to feel like we actually had a normal relationship in which we wanted to keep in close contact with one another.
Neither of us was comfortable with that.
The other reason she’d call without warning, and what I’m almost certain is the reason for today’s call, is to give me a heads up when someone filed a new investigation into one or both of them. This generally happens at least once a year, though that frequency has been increasing slowly, but steadily over the last few years.
The reason she’s so consistent about calling me when one of them is in trouble is that she is compelled beyond reason and sanity to make sure I don’t do or say anything that’s going to hurt the public’s perception of them. “The difference between jail time and an apology is how much people think of you,” she says.
I’ve never caused problems for my parents or for anyone, and frankly, I don’t want to have to deal with it right now.
There’s enough on my plate with what’s going on with Mason and staying on top of school work and everything else without having to worry about the latest crimes two people with more money than common sense. The fact they’re my parents doesn’t change that.
“Have you not told them about me or something?” Mason asks. “If that’s all this is, don’t worry about it. I’m not going to get butt hurt if you don’t want to tell them about me until you’re sure that I’m—”