by Liz Crowe
“All right, well…”
Trigger gripped the phone tighter. He couldn’t wait to end the call but at the same time he dreaded the end of it. Hearing his old commander’s voice made him feel connected again, part of a team, a team he’d loved as much, if not more, than the many soccer ones he’d been on in his life.
“Fletch is trying to keep the team together. We almost beat the assholes over in two,” Ghost said.
Trigger grinned even as his heart tightened like a fist in his chest. “Yeah? Well, you tell Fletch I said to make sure he doesn’t forget that it’s not knucklehead football. It’s the beautiful game. He has to mark up, not tackle.”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Ghost said, his voice gruff.
“Hey, Trigger,” a different voice called. “Did you hear that Ghost has a woman?”
“Shut up,” Ghost growled, slightly off the phone’s speaker. “Before I pound you into the wall.”
“Ha, I’d like to see you try,” Fletch said. “Take care of yourself Trigger. I scored a goal. But we lost to the assholes on two.”
Trigger grinned again, picturing his fellow Operators, his friends, as he’d tried to teach them how to form themselves into a real soccer team over the past few years. It’d been bumpy and challenging but they were Delta Force. Their everyday existence personified “challenging.” A few of them were even pretty damn good by the time he’d had to leave.
“A woman, huh,” he said when Ghost stayed silent.
“Yeah. And I don’t wanna share my feelings on the topic, so don’t ask. You keep your god damned phone on, soldier, and when I text you, you answer. Or else.”
Terry started to respond, but Ghost had obviously run out of things to say and had abruptly ended the call. He stared at the phone a while, then finished the coffee and water, left enough money to cover his uneaten food and a decent tip before heading back into the muggy Tennessee heat.
He figured that tempting fate by eating dinner at a bar would not be part of his booze and random sex-free plan, so he got a cheap room in Lake City, just north of Knoxville once it got too dark and he was too tired to drive. The sleazebag joint was right next to a Denny’s which, last he checked, did not have a liquor license.
Perfect. Breakfast for dinner, a hot shower, five or six hours of shuteye, then back at it. He’d make it home to Lucasville by noon. That realization made him pull out his phone and stare down at it, trying to conjure the wherewithal to call his father and let him know. With a sigh, he decided to make it a surprise and put the phone away—but not until he sent a quick text to Ghost, letting him know he was within shouting distance of his home town and they could all stop acting like a pack of overactive mother hens over him.
The food filled him up, even if he didn’t taste much of it. The shower didn’t get quite as hot as he would have liked but he got clean. The bed—well, the bed was flat out disgusting but he was on a budget, so he suffered its lumpiness and slightly damp sheets. Sleep escaped him for a solid hour, but he powered through it—and the bone deep, throat drying, head pounding requirement for a drink.
He woke with a start, drenched in sweat, gasping from a dream of sand and heat and pain. The curtain-less window revealed the early horizon, pink and orange, tinged with purple and blue like a giant bruise. He lay shivering under the thin sheet, teeth chattering, mind clanging with one prime directive—find a liquor store, buy a fifth, hold it close and treasure it.
“No,” he roared into the empty room as he lunged up and stumbled into the bathroom for another shower. After standing under the barely-more-than-lukewarm trickle that his forty bucks a night bought him, he got out, toweled off and glared at his reflection in the mirror.
The image that glared back at him was a shell of the Terry O’Leary who’d been a Delta Force sharpshooter, IT ace and top-rated hostage negotiator. The man looking at him was thin, even under the layer of muscle he’d once spent hours bulking. He was lost-looking, gaunt—a loser.
Terry raised a fist, needing to strike out at something to ease the pressure building behind his eyes. He needed the contact, required it like he required oxygen. Just one, he thought. This shit hole roach motel wouldn’t miss one little mirror.
His phone buzzed, distracting him. He let his fist open. His arm dropped to his side as he listened to the incessant humming, indicating someone—Ghost most likely—was trying to reach him. He propped his hands on the sides of the sink and leaned forward, letting his sweaty forehead touch the glass, once, then again. Then once more, harder this time. And when he shattered the mirror, he smiled, wiped the small smear of blood from his forehead and marched into the bedroom.
“Yeah,” he said, pulling the towel from around his waist and holding it to his face. “I told you already. I’m almost home. Chill the fuck out.”
“I had a bad feeling just now about you,” Ghost said, his low, rumbly voice making Terry feel both comforted and furious. “You sure you’re all right, Trigger?”
“Jesus, man, if I didn’t know better I’d think you wanted in my panties.”
“Very funny. Seriously, you’re good, right?”
Terry took a few seconds to blink and process this before he formulated his lie in reply, even as a trickle of blood from the self-inflicted cut on his forehead dripped onto the bedsheet. “I’m fine. Gonna grub over at Denny’s and hit the road.”
“You tell your dad yet? Does he even know you’re coming home?”
“No. Thought I’d surprise him.” He shuddered, knowing how that would likely go down.
“Ah, well, okay then. Good luck.” Ghost’s voice betrayed his opinion of Terry’s banker father—a man who’d lost a son, a wife and who’d more or less disowned his one remaining child. Who’d shown up at the base hospital in Texas once they’d gotten Terry stateside only after Ghost had called him and told him if he didn’t get his ass there, he might never see his one remaining son again.
Terry barely remembered that bad stretch of days. When he’d opened his eyes at one point, he honestly believed that a giant had put his skull between his mammoth hands and gave it a friendly squeeze every fifteen minutes or so. As long as his eyes remained open, he’d figured that his father’s presence was a dream. Wished for, hoped for, but never expected.
As if to remind him, pain spiked into his left eye, making him grunt and bend over.
“Trigger,” Ghost said, his tinny, miles-away voice getting weaker as the ear ringing began, right on schedule.
“Fuck, I gotta go,” Terry said, hanging up even as Ghost was talking. He stumbled around the room, yanking the crappy blinds shut before diving back into the rumpled bed, pillow over his face, eyes streaming, his entire body clenched in the grip of a massive ball of agony originating in his poor, fucked-up skull.
Chapter Five
“You can’t move there,” Mariah’s mother declared in her typical fashion. “That town’s full of rednecks.”
Mariah taped another box closed and grabbed a fresh flat of cardboard to form into another one before she had the patience to formulate a polite-enough answer. “Mama, this is Kentucky. Name me a town that isn’t.”
June Bailey sniffed and lifted her chin. Mariah raised an eyebrow at her, then resumed putting the box together. “If you’re just gonna sit there and watch me, you can go on home. I have packing to do and don’t require an audience,” she said after a few silent minutes. “I know nothing I do will ever satisfy you, but could you for one second be proud of me?” She clutched the roll of clear plastic tape, anxiety over her harsh words and the general fact of confronting her mother making her face hot. “I did it, Mama. I’m gonna be a music teacher, like I wanted—”
“No, you wanted to stay out there on that heathen west coast and pretend to be some kind of a pop star,” her mother said mildly, taking another roll of tape from the table between them. “Don’t go denying it, young lady.”
Mariah’s shoulders slumped. Cole chose that moment to race out of his bedroom and into the living
room in his Batman costume, lightsaber toy in one hand. He clambered up onto the box she’d just taped shut and stood there, swishing the fake sword around and making laser noises.
“Get down from there right now,” she yelled. “I mean it, Cole. I’m not in the mood.”
He ignored her, in the way of little boys, and continued his battle with invisible foes. Mariah saw her mother’s upper lip curl in an “I told you so” way, which infuriated her. Between that and her son’s incessant buzzing sounds, she sensed the exhaustion give way to fury.
“I said, get down from there, damn it,” she shrieked, grabbing the boy under both his arms and plunking him onto the floor so hard he stumbled. “And you,” she said, heart racing as she pointed at her mother. “You can get out of here. I don’t need your help, since your help always comes with a helping of guilt and a side order of smug.”
The two of them, her son and her mother, gaped at her. She was not a yeller, or a fan of confrontation. She was a pleaser—the sort of person who wanted everyone around her to be happy and content. But she’d spent her near twenty-six years on this planet attempting to make her mother happy and had seemingly done nothing but disappoint. “I can’t wait to get the hell out of this town and away from you,” she went on, surprising them all. “I don’t care how many rednecks live in Lucasville.”
Depleted, she dropped into a chair, sending a stack of mail and papers from her last master’s degree project to the floor. Tears plopped onto her hands, which were clenched together in her lap. “I’m sorry,” she whispered to no one, and everyone. “I’m so tired.”
Cole put his hand on her leg. She looked at it, studying it for the millionth or perhaps the trillionth time since she’d first laid eyes on it. Then she tugged him until he got the hint and climbed into her lap, wrapping his arms around her neck and suffering her need to cling to him.
They sat quietly, something they’d done a lot in the last five years, foreheads together, eyes closed, breathing in unison. Her mother made a loud fuss about putting one box together then she put a hand on Mariah’s shoulder. “I’m going to let you have your little tantrum, young lady,” June Bailey said in her queenly voice. “I know you’re tired. But don’t think you can use that as an excuse to be impertinent to your own mother. You’re the one who wanted to finish school on time. You knew that meant long hours, especially since you’re responsible for this child.”
Mariah sighed and kept Cole close, reminding herself that he was not just her responsibility—he was her very heart, ripped from her chest and walking around outside her body wearing his father’s face, looking out of his father’s eyes and sassing her with his father’s attitude.
“Did you put your toys in the box like I showed you?” she asked Cole, ignoring her mother.
He nodded, glancing over her shoulder at his grandmother, confusion on his face. “But I found my saber,” he said. “So I wanted to play.”
“Okay then,” she said, peeling him off her and setting him on the floor, gently this time. “We have exactly twenty-four hours to get everything else ready. That means one day. The moving truck will be here tomorrow afternoon.” She gave his behind a friendly pat. “Go on Batman, use your powers to finish packing up.”
“Batman doesn’t have powers, Mama,” Cole reminded her with a patient tone. “He’s just an angry man with a lot of weapons.”
“You’ve been talking to your Pop-pop too much,” she chided him with a smile, swiping at her face as she attempted to refocus on the task at hand. The living room had been packed up—not that it took much. She’d moved on to the kitchen when her mother had shown up, dressed perfectly as if for church and demanding that she explain herself for daring to take a job out of town.
“Pop-pop says Superman is better,” Cole declared, grabbing his light saber and swinging it around.
“Go, Cole. Finish. Mama needs your help, remember?”
He shot her a look that she figured she’d be seeing a lot of in the coming years—exasperation crossed with amusement. Then he trudged back to his room and slammed the door.
As Mariah watched him go, she noted that he had managed to outgrow his clothes yet again. His bony ankles were poking out the bottom of the black sweat pants she’d bought last October to augment the Batman costume. She turned and caught her mother watching the boy as well, her eyes hooded and pensive.
“Don’t let me keep you, Mama,” she said, keeping her voice neutral. “You didn’t get all dressed up to come here and help me pack.” Obviously, she thought as she started wrapping the few remaining, mismatched coffee mugs and glassware then laying them carefully into the box.
The woman didn’t move for a solid five minutes. Mariah studiously ignored her as she emptied out her remaining kitchen cupboards and set aside the food she’d pack in a different box, tossing out a few squashed granola bars and a bag of onions that had started to sprout small trees.
“I am proud of you,” June said. “It’s just…you…” She sighed.
Mariah put the stack of dishtowels she’d liberated from the drawer on the counter and closed her eyes, preparing for the onslaught of guilt and recriminations. Her mother had never fully recovered from her four wild years of college—years in which she’d barely spoken to either parent while sorting through all the many wonderful options—boys, men, friends, parties, booze, and a few drugs.
The odd phone call or text or rare email from her father never contained anything but support for her and her straight-A efforts. It was in college that she learned to operate on three hours of sleep and diet pills to keep her grades up, no matter where she’d wake up the morning after a party. He’d always kept enough money in her bank account so she could survive and have a bit of fun. She’d started waiting tables her junior year for extra cash. Which was when she’d met…
“I never liked him,” her mother said, breaking through her unwelcomed jaunt down memory lane. “You were too good for the likes of him. I thought…” June stopped. Mariah turned and faced her, arms crossed, the distance between them so much more than the few actual feet of air and boxes. “Then you got pregnant and were stuck.”
Even though she knew better, Mariah opened her mouth to protest, to defend herself and her decision. She’d wanted a baby. That urge had been so primal, so utterly overwhelming, she shuddered now, still able to recall its intensity. It had been a lot about tying her husband down, keeping him from flying off like the hot air balloon he no doubt was. And it had worked, at least during her pregnancy.
Her mother raised a hand, as if to ward off her words. “No, no, it’s all right. I know you loved him. There’s no accounting for the heart’s power. And that boy, your boy, he’s a wonder, a heavensent treasure to be sure.”
Mariah sighed, waiting on the inevitable “but.” To her shock, however, her mother strode over, grabbed her upper arms and squeezed them. “I love you, Mariah. You’re my one and only, my baby. I wanted…something more I guess. And now…” She shrugged. Mariah saw the tears welling in her eyes. “Now you have it. You’ve gone and done it. But it means you’re leaving me behind.”
“Oh Mama, please. I’m only two hours away.” But Mariah knew what she meant.
It was true. She had to get away, out from under her parents, to be on her own for real. It scared her to death. But the second she’d accepted Mr. Love’s job offer, she’d known this was what she’d been working toward for the last four years of class, work, her child—class, work, her child—interrupted briefly by the singing competition that she’d entered on a total whim.
And she’d won. In front of the entire country.
Her cover of Beyonce’s “If I Were a Boy” had been number one on mobile music downloads for two solid weeks. She’d had one of the celebrity coaches ready to sign her to his label on the spot.
Mariah gulped and looked away. Her mother crushed her into her arms for a few seconds then let her go. The tears had not fallen. No big surprise. June Bailey wasn’t one for going overly emotional. �
�You did us proud at that competition. And you did me prouder by coming home, shouldering your real responsibilities, and getting this degree. Not getting caught up in all that unrealistic nonsense.”
Mariah sucked in a breath and disentangled herself, not in the mood to hear what she already knew—the self-justification that barely covered her extreme embarrassment about leaving behind “that nonsense” she had adored so very much. The coach, a famous pop star himself, still sent her text messages twice, sometimes three times a week, half a year after the big win, letting her know that his offer stood. That he’d fly her back out on his dime. Put her up in a place she could pay him back for, once she started earning the millions she’d make, according to him.
When she’d taken the teaching job offer, she’d sent him a text, telling him her news. Shutting that particular door, she figured.
“Congrats,” he’d responded. “I understand. But know that my offer is good for the duration. Please consider it.”
That had been three weeks ago. She hadn’t heard from him again.
“I have to get this done,” she said, turning away and picking the dishtowels up again. “Will you—” she stopped, gulping back panic and a sudden onslaught of tears. “Will you and Daddy be here tomorrow, when the moving truck comes?”
“Of course,” her mother said. She put a hand on Mariah’s shoulder again. “You’ll be just fine.”
“I know that,” Mariah said, moving to the side and out of her mother’s reach. Rude, she knew, but she needed the woman to get out, to leave her to her tasks, otherwise she’d chicken out and never manage to do this thing.
Four hours later, she and Cole sat in camp chairs, watching a video on her laptop she had opened on top of a pile of boxes, and shoving pizza into their mouths. They were both tired and testy as they finished. “Go on, finish your milk,” she insisted. He pouted, and picked it up half-heartedly, just enough so it slipped through his greasy fingers and hit the edge of the box before smashing to smithereens on the floor.