Cookie Cutter

by Jo Richardson

  I stand on our front porch for a while. I check my phone for messages, hopefully from Iris, but there are none. Then the door opens and my brother’s longtime girlfriend stands glaring at me with impatience.

  “You planning on knocking sometime today, Carter?”

  “Don’t you mean, tonight, Lila?” I wink at her and although she shakes her head in a show of disapproval, she manages to open the door a little wider for me.

  “Your brother’s in the kitchen. Be nice.”

  “I’m always nice.”

  “That’s debatable,” she mumbles behind me.

  “Depends on who you ask.”

  “How about everyone.”

  “You haven’t asked me.” I smile big, showing her all my teeth.

  “For the love of God, Carter, just go see your brother.”

  I win.

  I step into the house and suddenly, it’s five years earlier. I haven’t quit my job at the firm, so to speak, and my relationship with the majority of my family isn’t on the rocks. Yet.

  I have the inexplicable need to shove my make-shift sister in law playfully but she steps out of the way easily and bats at my hand. Lila and I have this thing. It’s kind of a love to rag on each other thing. We don’t hate each other or overly love each other either. She’s had issues with me since my father made it clear that he wanted me to take over the business, but she tries to look past that; seeing how it’s not my fault the old man is narrow minded. And I have a problem with the way she tries to run my brother’s life, but he loves her and she’s basically good so I let the two of them make their own decisions.

  It works for us.

  I’m about halfway to where my brother is probably having some sort of melt down when I notice, she’s not following me.

  “You’re not coming?”

  She laughs and crosses her arms, hanging back by the entry way. “Oh no, you’re on your own this time.”

  I nod, then turn and continue my walk of shame into the kitchen.

  “Thank God you learned how to make coffee while I was away.” The smell is what I need to wake me up a little after the six plus hour flight from the East Coast. I pour myself a cup while Tone finishes his.

  “I didn’t know if you’d make it.” He sets his cup down and walks over to me. Then throws his arms around me and bear hugs the living shit out of me, nearly spilling the caffeinated goodness I just got through pouring.

  “Woah, woah, woah there, sprocket.” I set my cup down and give him a proper hug hello.

  Curse me for missing the little shit.

  “How are ya hanging in there, bro?”

  His body shakes before he even answers me. The poor guy has been under so much stress since I left. This is most likely the straw that broke the camel’s back. I’m such a dick.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t come home, sooner,” I hug him tighter.

  After a few silent minutes of reconnecting on at least one level, he withdrawals and takes a step back from me.

  “I won’t tell you it’s okay – you’re not getting off the hook that easy.”

  He’s smiling. So I’ve got that going for me. I don’t want this to get too serious. There’s enough time for that later. So I huff out a short laugh out and push him in the chest.

  “You look good, considering.”

  “You look like shit.”

  “Yeah well . . .”

  “Baby.”

  “No that would be you.”

  He swishes my hand away from his shoulder. His tone changes.

  “You have no idea what I’ve been dealing with since you left.”

  And I congratulate myself of accomplishing exactly what I wanted to avoid.

  “Yeah,” I say. “I get that. Why don’t you fill me in?”

  He does, and by the time he’s finished, the guilt is setting in nice and solid. The familiar heavy burden settles on my shoulders like it never left. Fuck, how did my weekend go from a sexy romp on the kitchen floor of my house over in Spangler with Iris, to this?

  “So the books . . .”

  “Not so good.”

  “And dad . . .”

  “Oblivious.”

  What the fuck. There’s got to be an answer to this problem.

  “You should probably get rid of Alec in accounting. He’s probably skimming off the top. Who knows for how long?”

  “I’m not good with the confrontations, Carter.” Then his eyes light up. “Hey, maybe you could---”

  I hold a hand up. “No no no no no no no.”

  Tony’s face falls.

  “Tone, listen, I get it – and if I didn’t have a life already starting to---”

  “A life? How can you possibly have a whole new life that won’t allow you to help your family out?

  When I don’t answer right away, he lets out a huff of air and shakes his head at me. “I’m going to bed.” Then he pushes away from the table and stands. He stares at me for a second and opens his mouth like he’s going to say something else but ultimately, he leaves me sitting there at our parent’s kitchen table, alone. Almost.

  “He’s right,” Lila says from the doorway. I pinch at the bridge of my nose and try to think when she adds, “And you know it.”

  Then she leaves me, too.

  I find a bedroom and lay down, exhausted. But before I let myself fall into unconsciousness, I check the time. Even though it’s eleven a.m here, it’s only two a.m

  back in South Carolina. She’s probably asleep by now, but I call Iris anyway because this isn’t exactly something I can explain via text. There’s no answer and I go to voicemail. After debating silently, what I should say, I start to leave a message but the beeeeeeeeep sounds before I can even say anything. I try again but the same thing happens. So I resolve that I’ll call again tomorrow.

  * * *

  The next morning, after I get little to no sleep in my parent’s guest room, I take a drive over to Sutter Memorial and visit my dad. There isn’t a single sound except for my heart pounding inside my chest like a hammer on a mission. Even the nurses are scarce in the hallway. Dad looks like he’s sleeping so I make to leave. It’s not like I know what to say to him, anyway.

  “Carter.” His voice comes out like a croak. It sounds like he’s been screaming at a concert all night but I know it’s from the tubes they’ve probably had jammed down his throat for the past couple of days. I turn and give him a small grin.

  “Hey Dad.”

  This man does not resemble my father. He’s old. Too old for his age – and he looks weak. My dad was never weak. I shove my hands into my pockets, unable to come up with anything else to say. He waves me over. Even his hands look smaller. I’m nervous all of a sudden. We haven’t done this since the day I left. There still seems to be so much that needs to be said but how do I say it? Now, especially. Turns out, I don’t have to.

  “You have to stay, Carter.” My dad forces the words out. It sounds like it might be painful. “Anthony can’t run things by himself.”

  And even with him looking as frail as he does, with tubes in him and a tray full of crappy food and a half eaten pudding cup sitting nearby, I’m ticked that’s the first thing he has to say to me.

  “Dad, I’ve got a life of my own now. And I’ve been disbarred, remember?”

  Maybe he forgot.

  “They make exceptions.” He clears his throat and reaches for a glass of water. I hand it to him. “You could get reinstated. If you really wanted to.”

  “I don’t know if that’s what I want.”

  That’s a lie. I know it’s not what I want. As usual, though, I try to soften that blow with kinder words. He shakes his head, then turns away from me, to look out the window.

  “You’re a stubborn child, you know that?”

  “I’m stubborn?” My tone is harsher now.

  He nods. “And selfish.”

  “What?” The fuck?

  He looks back at me. “Your old man is dying and you can’t even be bothered to stick aro
und for a while and help out.”

  He’s not sick. He staged this shit to get me to come back here. It’s exactly like him to something like that. Devious.

  “Dad . . .”

  “Mother’s . . . gone. Uncle is . . .” He huffs. “Your brother is the only one who cares enough about this family to . . .” He trails off.

  I don’t know if he’s unable to keep bitching or he’s gotten tired of it after all these years. On one level, I’m pissed he’d have the nerve to say that shit to me. I busted my ass for him for since the beginning, but on another level, irritatingly enough, I get what he’s saying. Tony’s good but he gets overwhelmed and even if Dad pulls through this, he won’t be in the shape he needs to be to guide my little brother through the ins and outs of running a law firm.

  “Dad . . .”

  He waves me off and rolls over.

  “I’m tired, Carter.” He breathes in, groggily then lets out a long, exhausted breath of air. “Too tired to fight with you.”

  I stay a while longer and watch him sleep. Never have I seen him as vulnerable as he is now. It’s odd, sitting here. I honestly thought I wouldn’t be back this soon, if at all, and yet here I sit, in a room, much like the last one I was in with my father. Empty, except for us: cold. I have a similar decision to make. There’s really only one place in Sacramento that helps me think through tough decisions. I get myself up out of the hard visitor’s chair that sits next my father’s bed, leave word at the front desk for my brother, and head South onto the Capital City Freeway toward 21st street and Broadway.

  * * *

  I sit at my mother’s grave and stare at the words carved into her head stone.

  Loving mother. Caring wife.

  It’s so bland. It doesn’t do her justice at all. She was bigger than life. Bigger than all of us combined. She held us together. And now . . . As if on cue, I get a text from Spencer. How’s life?

  I smile. I swear it’s like the kid has mini cams all over and knows exactly what’s happening before he even asks the questions.

  I type back a quick reply.

  Still here, you? How’re your classes?

  No need to stress the guy. He’s got college to keep him occupied.

  Classes are good. We’re talking about HH today. Thought of you.

  HH is Habitat for Humanity. I have to grin at my own memories. Luckiest day of my life, finding Spencer at the construction site. Man do I miss the kid.

  You need to visit during break. I’ll send money.

  He’s quick to reply.

  No need, I’ll get there, just tell me where.

  Where. Good question. Doesn’t matter though.

  Will do, I tell him.

  Meeting friends, just wanted to check in, he types and I tell him, have fun.

  Mom would have loved Spence, and she would have really loved how I met him. I’ve made a commitment to this guy and it’s been rough lately. Flipping doesn’t exactly pay enough to cover college tuition and cost of living when you don’t quite know what you’re doing yet. If I did try to get my license reinstated, which isn’t guaranteed, but if I tried, and I succeeded and I came back to the firm, even for a little while, I could easily ensure Spencer doesn’t miss out on all things college life. He could attend all the right social gatherings, and go on all the right trips . . .

  But if I did stay, I’d no doubt lose Iris.

  My brother sits next down to me. “Got your message,” he announces to the wind.

  And there we sit, the two of us, cross-legged in our business suits, probably looking like a couple of very lost, very highly paid funeral directors.

  “What’s up?” He breaks the silence.

  “You know,” I pull at some grass, “my life would be a lot easier if you had just been born first?”

  Tony laughs and then breaks out the paper bag full of Stellas he has brought with him. “Can’t help you there, bro.”

  He hands me a beer and I take it, gladly.

  “Carter, I know this isn’t something you were planning on happening.”

  “No, it’s not.”

  He takes a swig of his beer.

  “So, this life you have now; I take by the torn look on your face that it involves a woman?”

  I look over at him, surprised. How did he know?

  “I am a lawyer you know. Not a good a lawyer as you, maybe, but I know how to read people.”

  I laugh a little and shake my head but don’t really know what else to say on the matter of Iris for now.

  “Sounds like you have a decision to make,” he says after finishing his Stella.

  “Sounds like I do.”

  “I’ll leave you to it, then.” He pushes himself up off of the grass and leaves the beer. “Oh and Carter?”

  I twist my body and block the sun from blinding me as I look up at him.

  “I missed you, man.”

  I nod and grab another beer out of the bag as I go back to staring at mom’s headstone, looking for answers. For the first time in a half a decade, I have no idea what to do.

  Chapter 19. Iris

  I end the call from Strickland’s Music Store, slightly panic stricken. I know somewhere in the back of my mind that I should have put the manager on hold when I saw Carter start to leave but . . .

  What was she thinking?

  My head spins and my throat tightens. I can’t think clearly at all as I walk in circles searching for my keys and purse.

  Ah.

  I find them, grab them and run out to pick up my daughter, who is now apparently, a shoplifter.

  * * *

  “If she wasn’t your daughter, Iris . . .” Tracy, the daytime store manager of the music store Ally has so graciously stolen from today, shakes her head and gives my daughter another look of disapproval as we talk privately.

  “I know, I know, and I am so sorry about this, Tracy. She’s been going through something lately, and . . .”

  I spot my daughter, who isn’t paying either one of us any mind but I can tell she’s deep in thought. I look back to Tracy.

  “I’m just so sorry – and thank you for not pressing charges.”

  The air leaves Tracy in that irritated way that some people let it out – like they aren’t sure whether they’ve made the right decision or not.

  “You might want to keep a better eye on who she hangs out with in my opinion, Iris. Not that it’s any of my business, but that boy---”

  “Boy?” I put a hand on her arm. “What boy?”

  She shrugs. “Blonde, cute, hangs out at the strip mall way too much and has too much time on his hands. He left her high and dry when I snagged her walking out with the CD.”

  My blood boils. It’s that Blake.

  I take a controlled breath before I continue. No need for Tracy to know he’s been a thorn in my side for too long already.

  “If there’s anything I can ever do to help make up for this . . .”

  She nods and finally smiles. “Just . . . keep her out of trouble.”

  I nod, then I collect my daughter and go. It’s not until much later, when we arrive back at home, safe and sound, that I find my voice with her. Ally is making her way up the stairs to retreat into her room when I call after her.

  “What in the hell were you thinking exactly?”

  She stops and throws her head back. She groans as though she’s the one who’s been inconvenienced today. “Really not that big a deal, mom . . . I was just skipping school.”

  “Just . . .” I force myself to breathe and to calm down. “Allison, you shoplifted honey. I’m not sure you’re grasping the full gravity of what that means.”

  “I just---”

  “And if Tracy had pressed charges, you could have very well gotten thrown off of dance team for pulling your little stunt.” She would have definitely gotten thrown off the dance team.

  “Mom, would you---”

  “And worst of all, you were with that boy.” I throw my hands up into the air. Does she not get it yet? Why
doesn’t she get it yet? “I mean, what do you think would have happened if something went wrong? What if he hurt you? Or . . .” I can’t even finish the thought. “Have you learned nothing this year?”

  “Yeah mom, I’ve learned something.” Ally’s expression turns from semi-embarrassed, to slightly enraged. “Would you like to hear what I’ve learned this year?”

  I don’t get to tell her it was a rhetorical question. Plus, I don’t want to, not yet – I’d much rather hear why Ally thinks she knows more than I do.

  “I’ve learned that it doesn’t matter if I make straight As or straight Fs, or if I make team captain, or that I’ve been chosen as one of very few dancers to participate in the state finals, or, if I get drunk off of my ass, or skip school with some stupid boy who likes to steal things, even though he’s got more money than he knows what to do with – my parents are still divorced: they still hate each other, and they still hate me.”

  She’s in tears and I’m shocked. Hormones are one thing but this – first of all, when did she get drunk off her ass?

  And secondly, “We don’t hate you, Ally, we could never---”

  “Whatever!” she screams, full on crying now. She runs to her room without another word. The door slams shut and I have, as I usually do, a strong urge to follow her; to hold her until she understands that none of what she’s said is true but I know my daughter. And I know she won’t hear me until she’s ready to so I give the both of us some time to settle down, some.

  * * *

  Hours later, I’ve baked two dozen sugar cookies from an extra batch of dough I saved in the fridge. I frost them with care and place four on a plate then I walk up to my daughter’s room, determined to make her hear me.

  When I open the door, I turn the dimmer up a little. Her eyes are closed but I can hear the music from her ear buds and I know there’s absolutely no way she’s napping with the music playing that loud. I turn up the light some more and step inside her room. Ally rolls over and sits up. Her eyes are red and she looks tired.