Layers of Her

by Prescott Lane

  “That’s when she suffered the hearing loss?” she asks.

  “They think so,” I say. “Her mother’s drug use caused her to be premature and being premature caused her to have a weak immune system, which led to the meningitis and her hearing loss.”

  “That’s why this fight is so important to you?” Campbell asks, coming and standing right in front of me. “You’re trying to make up for something you didn’t do. Something that’s not your fault. Punishing yourself.”

  “Campbell, it’s real easy to blame Tate’s mom for everything, but I’m responsible, too.”

  “How’s getting yourself killed in that cage going to make anything better?”

  Her tiny body fits perfectly against mine. She can barely get her arms all the way around me, but she manages to clasp her fingers together and squeezes me. “Jade scared you with all that talk,” I say, “but I promise I’ll be fine.”

  “Don’t do it,” she begs softly. “I’ve got some savings, and you could get a loan.”

  “Baby, where’s this coming from? Where’s the woman who walks into my class and kills it every week?”

  “She only ever worries about herself, but now . . . I just found you. I don’t want to lose you. For the first time in my life, someone really wants me. For the first time since I can remember, I’m happy. I’m not ready to let that go.”

  “You trust me?” I ask.

  “Yeah, but . . .”

  “You should watch Tate at the gym today. That’ll give you a chance to see how good I really am, old or not.” I grin at her, and her eyes close in embarrassment. “In a week, this will all be over.”

  *

  Four hours into training, and Campbell might be right. I’m too old for this shit. In my prime as a heavyweight MMA fighter, training was never easy, but it wasn’t this damn tough. Of course, back then I carried an extra twenty pounds of solid muscle.

  At two hundred thirty pounds, I still fit into the heavyweight division, but just barely. My opponent barely fits in, too. Unfortunately, at two hundred sixty pounds, he’s on the opposite end of just barely. And let’s just be honest, size matters in everything.

  The Guillotine – yes, that’s my opponent’s nickname, mostly because he’s known for nearly taking guys’ heads off with illegal knees to the skull when the other guy is on the ground – is a dirty fighter. He’s had more DQ’s, disqualifications, than any other fighter—ever. The commission has been asked to ban him from the sport repeatedly, but fans love him. They come for blood and gore, and The Guillotine delivers every time.

  Campbell hasn’t asked who I’m fighting, and I haven’t volunteered that information. She’ll find out soon enough. Taking a long drink from my water bottle and thanking my trainers, it’s time to find my girls, hit the shower, and get out of here. I’ll pick back up in the morning.

  Campbell and Tate seemed to do just fine together, from what I saw. They didn’t hang out in the gym too much. I’m not sure if that’s because Campbell couldn’t stand to watch, or she didn’t want Tate seeing her daddy get knocked on his ass once or twice. It happens to the best of us.

  Tate and Campbell aren’t anywhere nearby, so I decide to grab my stuff and take a quick shower. Opening the door to my office, Campbell’s tight little ass is right in my face, leaning over my desk. She flashes me a sexy look over her shoulder then pops to her feet.

  “What’re you doing? Where’s Tate?” I ask.

  She points to the corner of the room where Tate is scribbling on some paper. “I’ve decided what I’m going to buy you when you win on Friday night,” she says.

  “You aren’t buying me anything.”

  “Too late. I already ordered it. It’s coming on Saturday. Tate and I shopped online. She helped me pick it out. I was just re-measuring to make sure I got it right.”

  “You ordered me a new desk?” I ask.

  “And chairs and bookcases.”

  “Cancel it.”

  “No, let me show you. It’s really nice and . . .”

  “And fuck free, I guess.”

  “What?”

  “I’ve never fucked anyone on it. I mean, that is why you are buying me new office furniture. Because you saw me with Angel in here.”

  “If I was thinking about that, I’d have to order new floors, walls, and a mattress. Hell, I probably even need to replace your toilet seats. I was just trying to do something nice for you, that’s all,” she says as Tate waddles over to her, wanting to be picked up. “Actually, we were just trying to do something nice.”

  “We?” Damn, I screwed all this up pretty good, didn’t I? She managed to hand me my balls on a silver platter in two seconds flat. What has this woman done to me? I can knock out an enormous man, but Campbell May knocks me on my ass every time.

  Campbell smiles just a crack. “Yeah, I found this picture on your desk of Tate, but it’s hidden behind all this other stuff, because your desk is too small. Plus, you’re a big guy, you must hit your knees on this thing all the time. Then once I started Googling desks, I realized you don’t have a place to put your belts and things. I thought it would be nice to have a bookcase for those. Maybe I got carried away with the chairs, but you’ve worked hard to make this gym successful, and I thought your office should be nice.”

  Okay, she’s right. And I’m clearly a card-carrying member of the dumb-fuck club. “Guess you handle my past better than I do.”

  “Ya think?”

  She’s got Tate on her hip, glaring at me. This is my future—pissed off and staring at me. I see the two of them ganging up on me a lot in that future, and I can’t fucking wait. “Still, you work hard for your money. I will not allow you to spend it on me.”

  “Allow?” she starts laughing, and Tate does, too. “Daddy’s funny. Guess because his name is Stone he thinks this is the Stone Age. Daddy’s got a lot to learn.”

  Laughing, I capture them both in my arms. Tate’s nose wrinkles up. She’s got an incredible sense of smell, and she hates it when I stink. “I still don’t like it.”

  “Look, the money is just sitting there. It’s been there for ten years, since my mom died. It’s not a lot. I know you won’t take it for Tate because you think it’s charity or something. So I thought it would be nice to do something for you that you wouldn’t do for yourself.”

  Tate starts wiggling around and hitting my chest, clearly ready for me to shower. But this is the first time Campbell’s mentioned anything about her family, and it’s a dead mother. I can’t let that just slide. “Your mom’s dead?” She nods. “What about your dad?”

  “Living.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CAMPBELL

  Suicide.

  Whispers surrounded me, the poor offspring of a soul damned to hell. I know they didn’t mean for me to hear them, but I did. And if I heard one more person say my mother was burning for what she did, I was going to scream. Not one of them knew what was in my mother’s heart when she died. How dare they pass judgment on her when I know where the real blame lies?

  Me.

  I heard people say that if a person takes pills in a suicide attempt, it’s really just a cry for help. Well, fuck those people. My mother’s cry for help left her in the morgue, just the same. And in the days after her death, I learned it wasn’t the first time she tried to take her life. Apparently, there was another “cry for help” when I was real little, and that’s what caused my Aunt Marcie to take me in.

  I remember standing alone at the side of her casket, and thinking that’s exactly where I should be—not at her side, but alone. My words killed my mother. I had no doubt about that. I might as well have shoved the pills down her throat myself.

  My Aunt Marcie brought her back home to be buried next to her parents. It seemed like the right thing to do. She lived here most of her life, went to both high school and college here. And finally, I would be able to visit her whenever I wanted.

  Wish I could say the service was beautiful, but I didn’t hear a word. The o
nly words I heard were my own, echoing in my head. I hate you.

  My friend Jenny came up beside me, hugging me tightly. I wanted to tell everyone what I’d done, but instead I stayed silent. Wonder what all these people would think if they knew the truth? My Aunt Marcie never looked at me the same way again. She knew exactly who I was and what I’d done.

  I killed my mother.

  And all because of a lie. I didn’t hate my mom. I loved her. “Please forgive me, Mom,” I said in my head. “I’m sorry. I’m so very sorry.”

  It was obvious by the number of people that attended the service that she was loved by everyone. Even a teacher from my high school came, and I’d never been in his class. He must have known my mom. The only person who came for me was Jenny—no one from the cheerleading squad, the homecoming court, or any of those other bullshit activities I thought were so important.

  Jenny said no one came because people are uncomfortable around death, especially suicides. Guess maybe they thought my mom could be the beginning of some suicide cluster, and they didn’t want to catch it. Idiots! And what idiot chose yellow roses for the casket? My mother always sent me white roses on my birthday. The flowers should’ve been white.

  Maybe I was the idiot for thinking about flower colors after killing my mother.

  “Come on, Campbell,” Jenny said. “Let’s get you home.”

  Jenny was the only reason I survived that summer. She practically lived at my house and me at hers. I could go a whole day without saying a word to her, but she just kept coming over. She’d talk, and I’d listen. We both turned sixteen. She took her driving test. I didn’t. She got a car. I got inheritance from my dead mother.

  By the time school started in the fall, I was barely one hundred pounds, a shell of the old me. The first day of school, the seas parted as I walked down the hall, and the whispers began. There were all kinds of rumors about my mom—that I was there when it happened, that it happened in front of me, that my mom was a drug addict. The real truth stayed buried inside of me.

  I killed my mother.

  Jenny and I had first period together, Honors English. I stepped into that classroom, and I saw the strangest thing—it was the teacher from my mom’s funeral. The bell rang, and I stood frozen, staring. Jenny tried to snap me out of it, waving me over to sit by her.

  “Quiet down,” he told the class, but I think he was trying to stop them from staring at me. I made my way over to Jenny, but my eyes remained fixed. “For those of you that don’t know, I’m Mr. Donnelly. Warren Donnelly.”

  What did he say? Did he say Warren? That’s not exactly a common name. Could it be? Was this my father?

  Am I Campbell Donnelly?

  The rest of class, all I could do was stare at this guy, trying to figure out if we share the same DNA. His eyes were blue, though not exactly like mine. He seemed like a nice man, and was super smart, and a good storyteller, too. I thought I would like his class. Then the bell rang, and everyone shuffled out.

  “Miss May,” he said quietly, “would you please stay behind for a moment?”

  Jenny and I exchanged a quick glance. “I’ll wait for you in the hall,” she said before leaving.

  Mr. Donnelly motioned for me to sit back down. Oh, my God! Was he going to tell me he’s my father? It seemed like an odd time to tell me—in between classes—but I was ready if he was! I needed to calm down. I needed to get hold of myself.

  Suddenly, the man kneeled down in front of my desk. I started trembling, thinking this might be the moment I finally figure out my life. Could it be that I lost my mother, but found my father? How strange the world works. But what would he think of me when he finds out what I said the night she died?

  He began to speak. “I wanted to tell you if you need anything at all, you come talk to me.”

  That’s very father-like.

  “I will, thank you,” I said. Anything else?

  “I can’t get over how much you look like your mother. Except the eyes, of course,” he said.

  “You knew my mother?” We’re getting close!

  “We went to college together. Well, first year.”

  Yes, this is it!

  “Did you and my mom date?” I asked.

  A puzzled look covered his face. “Why would you ask that?”

  “You looked very upset at her funeral,” I said. “Like, more-than-a-friend upset.”

  Mr. Donnelly inhaled deeply. “Guess it doesn’t hurt to tell you. Your mom was the first woman I ever loved.”

  It’s got to be him! Maybe he never knew about me? Maybe she never told him? Will he love me, too?

  “She mentioned you to me,” I said.

  “Did she?” He smiled a little and tapped the desk. “You’ve got to get to second period,” he said and got to his feet. “But I mean it. If you need anything at all, you come to me.”

  “Can you get me out of PE?” I joked, and it was the first time I’d smiled since that night.

  “No,” he said, laughing. “Now hurry, or you and Jenny will both end up in detention on the first day.”

  I liked him. He seemed like total dad material. Even though I didn’t have confirmation, it had to be him. But maybe he already had a family? Maybe he wouldn’t want that messed up by bringing me into the fold?

  First things first, I needed actual proof. It couldn’t be this easy. I mean, this wasn’t some bullshit Hollywood movie where everything works out so easily. This was real life, and mine had been pretty shitty lately. I heard women say when they find their wedding dress, they just know it in an instant. They feel it. So maybe it is easy. Maybe that’s the same with finding your dad.

  Because Mr. Donnelly had to be my father. He just had to be. And if he could love me, forgive me for what I did, then I’d be alright.

  *

  Aside from pulling a hair out of his head and going on Maury Povich, I had no idea how to prove my new English teacher was my father. So for the entire first semester, I basically stalked him. I followed him around school, and I followed him home. He was married, and his wife was expecting. A baby sister or brother could be nice, I thought. He tutored after school and ran five miles every morning, mowed the lawn on Saturdays, and went to Mass every Sunday. I knew his favorite coffee shop, dry cleaners, even his dentist.

  But I was no closer to finding out if he was my dad.

  I knew stalking was a crime, but it was good for me. It gave me a goal, a purpose, and was a good distraction. I didn’t think about what I did to my mom nearly as much as I used to. My dad, aka Warren Donnelly, took a special interest in me, too. He wrote long comments on my essays, called on me a lot in class, and asked me to stay after sometimes to discuss my thoughts on things we were reading. It happened enough that Jenny asked if anything inappropriate was going on. Gross!

  Then an idea hit me.

  “Hey, Mr. Donnelly,” I said, walking into his classroom after school, “I was wondering if you could help me figure out what a couple poems are about.”

  Smiling like only a proud father could, he sat down on his desk. “We aren’t working on poetry right now, so you’ve got me intrigued.”

  “Well, the first one is ‘Daddy’ by Sylvia Plath. I was wondering . . .”

  “Campbell, I don’t think you should be reading Plath right now.”

  “Why?”

  “People might get the wrong idea. You know how she died, right?”

  Duh! She killed herself. Okay, so that probably wasn’t the best one to start with. He probably thought that was a cry for help or something. I tossed it aside and sat beside him on his desk. “Never mind. The other one I was wondering about is E. E. Cummings ‘my father moved through dooms of love’.”

  He began reading it aloud. I watched his lips move, and the words pouring out about a father’s love, wishing I’d heard him read me a thousand bedtimes stories. When he finished, he looked down at me, grinning, a glimmer in his eye, and asked, “You’ve already figured it out, haven’t you?”

  �
�I think so,” I said. “You’re my father, right?”

  *

  Tears streaming down my face and my knees tucked under me, I sat in the chair behind his desk—my English teacher’s desk, not my dad’s. I rested my chin on my knees and watched him talking to my Aunt Marcie through the window of the closed door, a heated discussion between them out in the hallway.

  Mr. Donnelly gave me a concerned glance. He’d be a good father. He had the worried thing down pat. They kept going another minute or two, and I could only hear bits and pieces. I got the sense Mr. Donnelly knew certain things about my mother that my aunt didn’t want him to tell me.

  The door flew open. “She’s been through enough,” my aunt said, waving her hands. “Come on, Campbell. Let’s go.”

  I grabbed my book bag and headed towards the door. I felt bad that I’d involved Mr. Donnelly, but if he knew something about my mother—my life—he needed to tell me. “I’m sorry,” I whispered to him.

  He closed his eyes. “I wish I was your dad, Campbell. I almost was.”

  “That’s enough!” my aunt snapped. “I’ll have you fired, Warren, if you keep this up. Campbell, I’m getting you switched out of this class.”

  I rolled my eyes into the back of my head. I hated when Aunt Marcie was so dramatic. I hated that no one would tell me anything. She took my arm and began to lead me out when a thought popped into my head. I pulled my arm away and turned back to Mr. Donnelly. “My mom told me my dad’s name was Warren. I can’t imagine she was with two guys named Warren her freshman year of college. Do you know if my dad’s name is really Warren?”

  Mr. Donnelly’s eyes nearly bulged from his head. “Don’t say a word,” Aunt Marcie told him.

  “Your mother told you your father’s name was Warren?” he asked, and I nodded.

  “Don’t betray Charlotte,” my aunt said to my teacher. “She never wanted Campbell to know.”

  “Please!” I begged him. “The truth can’t have died with my mother!”

  His eyes filling up, Mr. Donnelly looked at my aunt and nodded. My last hope just slipped away, and I hated my aunt for it. I hated all the secrets.