by L. E. Rico
“I failed with him, too.”
“Who, Win? Please,” I scoff. “My brother is a jackhat. I know it, you know it…hell, even he knows it.”
She nods. “That’s my point. My marriage was a lie. Everyone knew it but me. And the worst of it is that we’re divorced, and it still hurts. Just a ridiculous lie.”
I make a split-second decision and act on it before I have time to change my mind. “My entire life is a lie, Jameson.”
I barely recognize my own voice as I utter the words that have been rattling around in my head for ten years. I can’t believe how strange they sound when I hear them out loud. Jameson’s big, rich green eyes fix on mine, and her delicate red eyebrows pull together as she tries to process what I’m saying. I continue before she has to ask.
“I, uh…” I clear my throat and try again. “I was with my mother, you know, at the end, when she was dying. She was on these insanely strong painkillers to make her comfortable…but they made her lose track of time, and she’d come in and out of consciousness, babbling sometimes, crying others. It just about killed me.” I have to pause and take a deep breath. She watches me intently while I collect myself and continue.
“So, one afternoon, she was totally lucid. Her eyes were clear, and she grabbed my hand, saying she had to tell me something. She was very agitated, so I tried to calm her down, but she wasn’t having it. She said, ‘I need for you to forgive me.’ I figured she was just rambling—maybe she thought I was someone else, someone from her past. But the way she looked at me, Jameson, I could tell that she saw me. So I asked her why. And do you know what she said?”
I ask because it’s what you do in unbelievable stories like this one. I also ask because a small part of me wonders if my ex-sister-in-law somehow knows about this already. But her expression is blank as she shakes her head.
“She said, ‘You have to forgive me because we’ve been lying to you all these years.’ Well, now that got my attention. ‘You’re not mine. You’re not my son.’ That’s what she said.”
Jameson gasps from across the table, the hand of her good arm flying to cover her mouth. “She didn’t mean that. She was delusional…cancer patients get like that, Scott…”
“No, it was more. You see, I’d always known something wasn’t right with our family. We didn’t quite click. My parents were really sketchy on the details of our early childhood. There weren’t many baby pictures. They were cagey and nervous when I came home with those stupid family tree assignments, and they didn’t want to talk about when we lived in the other house.”
“Maybe it was a difficult birth. Or maybe your parents weren’t happy there and they just wanted to put it behind them. But none of that equates to what you’re suggesting,” Jameson says, reaching across the table to touch my arm. “Is that why you left so suddenly? Because Margie said that on her deathbed?”
I nod silently. I’ve never told this story or shared my suspicions with anyone before now.
“Okay,” she says slowly, considering her words carefully. “You were there. You know what you heard, and you know how you felt. I have my doubts that this is what you think it is, but I can see why you’d need to know. What I don’t understand is why you didn’t just ask Big Win about it. Why did you just pick up and leave…and never come back?”
I can tell she’s trying hard not to sound judgmental, but it’s obvious that she’s skeptical of my conclusions. And my actions.
I clear my throat, stalling for time. But there isn’t enough time in the world that’ll get me out of the simple truth of my existence. “Because, on some level, my brother’s right, Jameson. Instead of facing things head-on, I just pick up and leave. Or maybe a better way to put it is that I don’t stay anyplace long enough for anyone or anything to force me to stop and take stock of the world unfolding around me. Suddenly I’m just en route to my next big adventure. And a clean slate.”
“That’s not being cowardly,” she insists. “I mean, it’s not as if you’re on the move all the time because you’re afraid of something. Or someone. It sounds like a defense mechanism to me, Scott. Self preservation.”
There’s a long silence between us, and I’m grateful when she doesn’t seem to feel the need to fill it with some useless platitude. She’s just waiting. Waiting to listen. And, eventually, I’m ready to speak again.
“Anyway, I remembered this guy I met on campus. He was a recruiter for Project Peace, and there was just something about him…about the way he looked when he talked about all of the good things they did for people. How life affirming it was. But, most of all, the way he talked about moving from place to place, never settling in the same community for very long. I realized that I longed for that. I had a restlessness in me—an itch that couldn’t be scratched here in Mayhem. So…I left. And I never came back. Until now.”
“And that’s why you want your birth certificate?”
I nod. “I’m hoping it’ll give me a clue as to who I am…where I belong. Maybe—maybe—once I know that, I’ll be able to stay someplace for more than a few months. Maybe I can finally come home.”
Jameson O’Halloran Clarke takes a deep breath, stands up, and pulls a bottle of vodka out of the freezer along with a couple of glasses. Suddenly, she’s looking a whole lot better. Her color is back, her eyes are sparkling again, and an aura of determination surrounds her. She pours us each a shot and knocks hers back without preamble, immediately giving herself a refill.
“Come on, Clarke. Tomorrow we start digging, but tonight we start drinking.”
Chapter Seventeen
Jameson
“I kinda like it,” he says, pulling his foot out of my lap so he can admire my handiwork. “I don’t know why more guys don’t do this…I’m totally in touch with my feminine side, and it feels goooooood!” he croons.
I snicker. “Yeah, yeah, you do a little baking and get a pedicure and suddenly you’re Rachel Ray.”
“Who?”
I roll my eyes. “You know,” I begin, pointing the nail file at him, “I think you’re just pretending to not know anybody. I bet you secretly watch the Kardashians and know the lyrics to every Taylor Swift song…”
“Oh! She’s got cats and Swifties, right? But not snack cakes…”
I give him a nod of approval, and the whole room spins.
“Whoa,” I mutter, putting a hand on the arm of the couch to steady myself. “Did you feel that?”
He shrugs. “Dunno. I haven’t felt anything for a while. Hey, any more Stoli left in that bottle?”
He stretches out from his reclined position, and I refill his shot glass, only spilling a little of it on him with my shaking hands. He immediately puts it to his mouth and tips it back.
“Mmmmmm. I think I might regret this in the morning,” he says.
“Probably,” I agree. “Soooo, you wanna sleep over?”
He quirks an eyebrow. “Yeah? You inviting me to spend the night?”
“Yuh-huh.”
“I can’t. I’m your brother. In law. Sorta. I think…”
“You’re not. I don’t think. But anyways, there are two bedrooms. You can have one, and I’ll have the other.”
“Oh! Yeah, okay. Hey, do you remember the other night? When you were on the Percocet?” he asks, as if suddenly recalling something.
“Not really… Hey, did I kiss you?”
“Yes!” he says excitedly. “Yes, you kissed me! Did you mean to do that?”
I think about it. “Uhhhh, yeah, I think I did.”
He smiles smugly. “I thought so.”
A thought occurs to me, and I’m just drunk enough to voice it. “So…was it…any good? The kiss, I mean? ’Cause I’ve only ever kissed Win before, you know? Oh, and Tommy Lobianco. But that was in the third grade, so I don’t think it really counts…and besides, he told everyone I gave him cooties afterward…”
“What a little spit!” he says, then frowns. “No, I meant ship. What a little ship. No…that’s not right either… Uhhh�
��yeah. No, yeah, the kiss was…” He pauses and looks upward, as if searching for divine inspiration. “The kiss was sub-lime.”
He drags out the one word so that it sounds like two.
“You’re just saying that!” I chuckle, but he shakes his head seriously.
“Nope. Best kiss I’ve ever had, Jayjaaajameson. Really.”
I nod. “’kay. Now, how about a little color?” I ask, examining the bottles of nail polish I’ve swiped from Hennessy’s make-up bag. “I’m thinking pink…”
“I thought you hated pink?”
“Oh, I think I’m gonna like it on you. A lot.” I grin.
…
It takes me a minute to figure out where I am, but when it comes back to me, it comes in one huge, muddled wave of half-memories, vodka-mouth, and nausea.
I crawl out of the twin bed I used to sleep in and drag myself for a look in the mirror. My hair is a disaster and there are still traces of smudged makeup under my eyes. At some point, I changed into a pair of Henny’s yoga pants and a T-shirt. Now I throw a hoodie on top and make a brief pit stop in the bathroom to scrub my face and freshen up. When I emerge, I find an amusingly disheveled Scott standing in the hallway, waiting for me.
“Uhhh…Hi. Good morning. Did you sleep okay?”
“I-I don’t really know,” he replies hoarsely, closing his eyes with the effort of speaking. “I’ve got one whopper of a hangover, that’s for sure.”
“Well, I don’t think you got any tattoos last night. So…that’s a good thing.”
“No…but why do I remember something about you rubbing my feet?” he asks, scratching his bedhead.
“Rubbing your…?” I think for a second. “Oh! I might have given you a pedicure!”
“What? No! I never would’ve let you do that!” he protests, even as he’s looking downward.
“The evidence is indisputable,” I say, following his glance to the garish shade of pink.
I slap a hand over my mouth but can’t suppress the giggles spilling out of me. “Great color,” I snark. “Matches my cast!”
My laughing makes both of us wince.
“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” I apologize in a much softer voice. “Why don’t you take a nice hot shower? When you’re done, I’ll get us both some aspirin and a little seltzer to settle the tummy.”
“How is it that your butt isn’t dragging?” he asks with bleary wonderment. “You matched me shot for shot, and I can barely stand upright!”
“Oh, make no mistake about it—my butt is dragging, just not as badly as yours. Don’t forget, I’ve had years of practice and an Irish father who taught us how to drink for maximum effect and minimum consequence.”
He grumbles something unintelligible as I pad down the short hallway to the kitchen, where I turn on the gas under the kettle. A nice strong cup of tea sounds perfect. Meanwhile, I fix a plate of saltines, a glass of seltzer, and two aspirins for Scott. It takes a while, but he eventually resurfaces, dragging himself into a kitchen chair with some effort.
“So, I’m kind of afraid to know, but what, exactly, did we get up to last night?” he asks, taking the pills in one hand and the glass in the other. “I mean, aside from playing beauty parlor?”
“Uh, well, I remember crying. And crying. And crying. You were very sweet and you let me soak your shoulder. In between, we did vodka shots…which, in hindsight, may not have been the best idea.”
“Holy crap!” he says, wincing at his own volume. “Did we…did we make brownies?”
I laugh and point in the direction of the sink. “Yeah, I think we might have attempted that somewhere around two in the morning. Judging by the gooey mess over there, I’m guessing we didn’t have much success.”
“Oh, God,” he moans and shakes his head as he pops the pills into his mouth and gulps some seltzer.
“I think that was when I suggested we have a sleepover.”
“Right.” He drops his head down onto his arms on the table. “Yeah, I’m done with vodka for a while,” is his muffled response.
“I’ll bet.”
He sits up again, palms up toward the ceiling in a “what’s with that?” gesture.
“I thought it was my friend.”
“I’m sure.”
“But it betrayed me.”
“Oh, yeah. Vodka’ll do that.”
He narrows his eyes at me suddenly. “I can’t believe you. How can you drink that much, sleep that little, and wake up looking…like that?”
Excuse me?
“Like what?” I fish.
“All cute and sassy and sexy. It’s just…it’s just wrong!”
I stare at him, half expecting him to back pedal or find a way to correct himself. But he doesn’t. If anything, he’s staring back at me, challenging me to challenge him.
“My brother is a freaking fool,” he says at last. And he’s not teasing anymore. There’s a strong whiff of disdain as he makes this pronouncement. “And he’s blind if he thinks anyone anywhere has anything on you.”
Wow. Just…wow.
I feel my stomach clench, and my breath catches involuntarily. It’s not even the words. It’s the way he’s looking at me, his eyes boring into mine. It’s as if he’d like to kiss me. No, actually, devour is more like it. Suddenly I’m feeling like a standing rib roast in front of a hungry lion. And, unbelievably, it’s not a bad thing. I will myself not to blush, but I can already feel the red warmth spotting my cheeks.
And then the spell is broken. Scott looks away so quickly that I wonder if perhaps I’ve imagined it all. He gets to his feet, stretching his long, lean body so far that he can touch the ceiling.
“I suppose I’d best be getting back to the house. I need to clean up and go see my dad. Then I’ve got a few errands to run.”
“Uhh…okay,” I mutter, trying to get my thoughts grounded again. “Like detective work kind of errands?”
He shrugs in response. “I don’t know. Maybe. Probably.”
“Will you keep me posted?” I ask a little hesitantly. “I mean, I don’t want to get in your business if this is something you need to do alone.”
A small, sweet smile curves his lips upward, softening the hard line of his jaw.
Jesus, Mary and Joseph, this is one handsome man.
Stop it, stop it, stop it!
“Are you okay?” Scott is peering at me curiously now.
“Ummm, yeah, why do you ask?” I reply, trying to sound cool and calm.
“I don’t know. It just seems like maybe there was something going on in that pretty head of yours.”
Yeah. That would be me categorically categorizing every square inch of your body…
“Jameson?”
“Nope, all good,” I assure him, my voice pitched just a bit too high.
I see it then, the gleam in his eye, as if he knows I’m thinking about him. And maybe, unbelievably, that’s not a bad thing, either.
“Yeah,” he says at last. “Yeah, I’ll keep you posted.”
Scott: “Hey, Siri, how do you dispose of a body?”
Siri: “What, again?”
Chapter Eighteen
Scott
I groan out loud when I find Win’s car is sitting out front of my father’s house when I return. Well, I guess I was going to have to face him again at some point. I’m just wishing I’d had more sleep and less liquor for this little reunion.
I park in the driveway and am barely out of the car when I hear it. The screaming. I slow my pace so I can make out what’s going on. It’s the baby. Oh God. This can’t be good. I speed up, taking the porch steps two at a time and throwing the storm door open. When I don’t see them in the living room, I dash to the kitchen, stopping short at the bloody scene before me.
“Jesus, Win! Call an ambulance!” I shout at my brother, who doesn’t seem to be particularly panicked by the blood smeared all over the walls and floor…and covering Jackson’s screeching face. “What’s wrong with you?” I run to the baby and scoop him up off the flo
or, preparing drive him to the hospital myself.
Win must be in shock because he hasn’t moved. When I twist around to look at him over my shoulder, the jerk is actually smiling. Smiling? Maybe he did this… Maybe Win has finally snapped…
“Unca Sock!” Jackson whines and tries to stuff his little fist into my mouth. A sticky, sweet-tasting fist. That’s when I realize that what I’m seeing isn’t blood, it’s jam. Globs and globs of jam. Rivers of the stuff, in fact. Enough to make my father’s kitchen look like a crime scene.
“What. Happened?” I ask, sinking to the floor and pulling the crying toddler into my lap.
“What happened is that your nephew got into the fridge while I was on the phone, and he pulled out Dad’s thirty-ounce jar of Smucker’s strawberry jam. Don’t ask me how the kid got it open, but by the time I got back in here, he’d dumped the jar onto the linoleum and painted half the cabinets and the floor. I took one look at him and thought he’d opened up an artery!”
“Holy crap,” I mutter, peering down at Jackson, who now resembles a candy apple. “So why is he so upset?”
Win rolls his eyes. “I took the jar away from him, and he started to screech. Kept saying it was ‘Goppa’s’ jar. That’s what he calls Dad, Goppa.”
“Goppppppppaaaaaaa!” the child wails as if on cue. “Gopppppppaaaaaa!”
“I don’t think this is about the jam, Win. I think he’s freaked out that Dad isn’t around.”
My brother considers this. “Yeah, could be. They’re very close.”
I suddenly wish, more than anything, that I could see my father playing with this little boy. Holding him and reading him stories. Tucking him in at night. Somehow, the image takes the edge off my anger at Win. “Have you heard anything? From the hospital, I mean?”
“That’s who I was on the phone with when the Marmalade Massacre was going down in here.”