“I’m not sure.” Once I get an idea, like for one of my next photo expeditions, I’ll exhaustively research it, and that worries me. I won’t be able to focus on my assignment until I make progress with my mom.
Aimee gives me a hard look, then gathers her purse, keys, and phone. “Let’s get my car. I’ll have Trish close up.”
Her tone gives my heart a shove. It beats faster. I’ve made her angry. “You’re mad.”
She stops at the door, hand on knob. “No, I’m not. I’m confused.”
I cross my arms. “You don’t think I should look for her.”
“I didn’t say that. I support your decision one hundred percent. I’ll even help you. What I’m thinking, though, is that we need to discuss this tonight.” She zigzags a finger between us. “Because I want to understand why you need to do this now. Why it can’t wait until after Spain. Why are you willing to give up your dream of working with National Geographic to go after a woman who abused and neglected you?”
Sarah didn’t abuse me, not intentionally. Jackie, the monster inside my mom, was a different story. Aimee knows I spent my childhood caring for my mom more often than the other way around. How she’d shower me with love one moment and shout her hatred of me the next. I grew accustomed to having her read me a bedtime story in the evenings and throw her books at me in the morning when she couldn’t find the car keys she’d hidden from herself. Bedlam was the norm in the Collins household. I adjusted to the shifts in temperament as smoothly as she switched personas.
What is difficult for outsiders to understand, as I think is the case with Aimee, and I sometimes wonder myself, is why I still love my mom. It’s my belief that had she not had such a traumatic childhood and had I not played a role in exacerbating her mental illness, she would still love me. She would not have left me. Given the chance to apologize, I could change things with her. Not her illness, unfortunately. I cannot fix that. But maybe she can find a place for me in her heart again. She can forgive me.
I drive us to Nadia’s garage to drop off Aimee and Caty. After I agree to be home by dinner and they’re in Aimee’s van, I head to the gym. We’re talking tonight, which means I need to figure out the answer to Aimee’s question. Why must I search for my mom now?
I do my usual routine of dead lifts, squats, and burpees, then run a fast 5K on the treadmill. When I finish and my body is still a tightly coiled roll of film, I slip on a pair of gloves and work over a punching bag. I deliver several solid blows, wind up for a fourth, and nearly hit Erik’s grinning jaw.
He swings his head aside at the last second. “Whoa, watch the aim.” He grabs the swinging bag.
I point a gloved hand at him. “Good thing you’ve got quick reflexes. I would have sent you back to the orthodontist.”
“Not a chance.” He runs his tongue along his gleaming piano-key set of teeth.
“Warn me before you spot.” I huff the words. I drag my forearm across my damp forehead.
Erik stabilizes the bag. “You’re on a roll and look like you want to murder someone. Have at it. I’ve got you covered.” He braces his legs.
For the next ten minutes, I take the last three months out on the bag. The Rapa in Spain. James’s arrival while I was there and his repeat return. My overwhelmed and overworked wife who’s done much better than I have with James’s revival. I think of our daughter, who every day looks more like a blend of my wife and mom, which makes me think of the business card I’d left at home. What’s Lacy’s role in all this? Of course, thoughts of her bring me full circle to James and the Rapa, reminding me of the photos I took and who I thought I saw through my camera lens sitting in the stands. That’s when I know why I’ve been on edge since June, and it has nothing to do with James and Aimee, not directly. That one slightly out-of-focus image among thousands of photos I took at the Rapa has been quietly at work in the back of my mind, stealthily fueling my frustration and disappointment in myself. And I’ve been taking it out on Aimee, using her history with James as an excuse for my inaction.
I deliver one last punishing blow, the impact of which vibrates up my arm and rattles my teeth, and back off from the bag. I owe my wife a serious apology.
Hands clasped behind my head, chest heaving, I walk a tight circle.
“Who’s the victim?” Erik asks.
“Me.” I choke out a laugh and rip open the Velcro closure on my left glove.
Erik slaps the bag. “I guess that’s one way to beat yourself up. What’s got you worked up?”
I shake my head. That’s a conversation between Aimee and me. I foresee groveling in my future.
Erik waves his fingers for me to give up the goods. “I just spent the last ten minutes praying I didn’t leave the gym today with a shiner. The least you can do is let me leave knowing why I risked my gorgeous face.” He crosses his arms over his chest.
“Can you get any more full of yourself?”
He shrugs a shoulder. “Probably.”
I shake my head, tugging off the glove and tucking it under my arm. “I’m not turning this into a pity party.”
“Suit yourself.” He dusts my shoulder.
“What’s that about?”
“Whatever’s got the squeeze on you”—he holds up a fist and grips air—“shake it off.” He breaks into a falsetto rendition of Taylor Swift.
“Thank you for reminding me how much older I am than you.”
“Seven years my senior.”
“Enjoy thirty while it lasts.” I yank off the second glove and drop both on the floor. I shake out a towel and wipe down my face and neck. The acrid odor of old sweat that never washes out from gym towels burns the back of my nose. “Did you submit your Big Sur photos?”
“Yep. The article ran this morning. Which you obviously missed.”
I shoot him a guilty-as-charged glance and chug my water. The paper I brought inside after this morning’s run was last seen folded and unread on the kitchen counter.
“What about you?” Erik knocks his knuckles into my shoulder. “National Geographic, eh?”
Elation shoots up me only to nose-dive at my feet. “Al called with the assignment. He’s sending me back to Spain.”
“Fantastic. Your Rapa photos are brilliant. I knew they’d select you. When are you going?”
“I’m not sure I am.” I collect my gloves and phone and gesture for Erik to follow me to the locker room.
He gawks. “What do you mean you’re not going?”
“I might have a conflict.” As in an I-can’t-put-off-the-search-any-longer conflict. “I’ll explain later.” I have to get home and call Al.
“That better be a life-or-death conflict. You’ll never get another opportunity like this.”
My phone pings with a message from Aimee and I jump at the distraction. I read the text. Kristen has gone into labor, and as with her two previous pregnancies, she wants her friends at the hospital for moral support. Aimee’s worried about me. Another text pings.
Join me. We can talk there while we wait for Kristen.
Guess we’re chatting in the hospital cafeteria. I hope they’re serving humble pie.
“Gotta run,” I tell Erik. “The wife’s hailing.”
“My reputation is on the line, man. They’ll never let me refer you again. You better go to Spain.”
“I’m pregnant.”
As I drive to the hospital, I recall Aimee’s declaration from five years ago. Two words that packed a punch.
She’d whispered the announcement, the pregnancy stick shaking in her hand.
She was worried. We both were. Given my own childhood, I had serious doubts how I’d handle myself as a father. Would I be like my dad and make myself scarce when life at home became difficult? Did I even want to be a father? Aimee and I had only been dating a few months. We had yet to discuss marriage, let alone the future. But within a heartbeat of her announcement, I realized two things. I wanted to be the father of Aimee’s child and I wanted to spend my life with her. I’d do anyt
hing to make her happy. I’d give up photography, I loved her that much. Still do.
In a whirlwind of activity, she moved in with me, and by early June we were married. Six months after we’d officially started dating.
Six months after she’d left James behind in Mexico.
Did I rush her into marriage? I mull over Aimee’s question while waiting at a light. I’d been crazy sick in love with her for more months than I care to admit and to finally have her want me just as much? It meant everything. Because up to that point in my life, I had no one except me, myself, and my photography, which I didn’t want to give up—ever—I realized back at the house while I showered after the gym. I want it all: my family, to make peace with my mom, and that National Geographic assignment I’ve been pining for since I first picked up a camera.
The light changes and I acknowledge that the plan I worked out at home, the one I convinced Al Foster to agree to, is the right one.
Turning into the hospital parking lot, I find an empty space near the main entrance—lucky me—and head upstairs to the maternity ward. I find Nadia flipping through a rag magazine in the waiting room, which smells of hand sanitizer and floral bouquets. Plastic plants fill the corners. Over the intercom, an Evelyn Wright is requested to come to the nursing station.
Nadia puts aside the magazine and stands up when she sees me. “Hi, Ian.” She gives me a hug.
“Hey, how’s Kristen?” I remember to ask as I look around for Aimee.
“She’s good. Aimee and I were just in there with her until the doctor arrived.” Nadia glances at her phone. “Baby Theo should arrive any moment. Nick’s over the moon.”
His first son. “That’s great.” I nod, somewhat distracted. “Where’s Aimee? I tried to reach her to let her know I was on my way.”
“She probably didn’t get your call. The reception in here is spotty. She’s over at the nursery.”
I give Nadia’s arm a squeeze. “Thanks.”
Going on memory from when we were here for Caty’s birth, I make my way to Aimee. She stands in front of the nursery window, arms crossed, hands clasped over her elbows. I come up beside her and wrap my arm around her, letting my hand rest on her lower back.
“Can you believe Caty was that tiny?” Aimee asks, awe in her voice.
“Her head used to fit in the palm of my hand.”
“And her scent.” She inhales deeply, lost in her memories.
“Which end? Because the smell I remember—”
“Ian. Gross.” Aimee laughs, a low vibration, and I can’t help grinning. She ribs me with her elbow. “Her scalp, not her rear. And her skin, her special baby scent.” She sighs, wistful. “I miss that.”
“Me, too,” I say, looking down at Aimee, remembering the way she held Caty as she nursed, the way that special mother-daughter bond evolved before my eyes.
Aimee’s gaze roams over the babies aligned like cars in a sales lot. We both grew up as only children and neither of us has broached the subject of giving Caty a sibling. We’ve been too busy, but I see the longing in Aimee.
“Ian.” She turns to me. “Do you—”
I rest a finger on her lips, halting the question I know she’ll ask. Do you want another baby? I do. With Aimee, I’ll have a dozen. But there is something I must tell her, the apology I realized I owe her. And there’s something I need to do before we consider bringing another child into the world. I need to resolve my own issues and put my past to rest.
Aimee frowns, her expression asking me what’s wrong.
“I had a really good workout. I cleared my head and figured out why I’ve been such a dick toward you lately.”
“You haven’t been a—”
“Yes, I have,” I interrupt. “I haven’t been fair with you about James. It’s not your history with him that bothers me. We both have past relationships, some more meaningful and intense than others.” I quirk a brow in reference to her ex. “We can’t change our past, but we can do something about how we move forward together.”
I grasp her shoulders and dip my face so that my eyes are level with hers. “I trust you, Aimee. I believe you when you say you love me and want to spend your life with me. I know James is in your past and that you’ve moved on. You’ve had closure on that chapter of your life, where with my mom, I”—my arms fall limp at my sides and I take a step back—“I haven’t.”
Her eyes dart left and right, searching my face. “What are you saying, Ian? Your tone sounds funny.”
“There’s been a change of plans. I leave for Spain tonight.”
“Tonight?”
“My flight’s in a few hours. I’m packed and ready to go.”
“But I thought you wanted me to go with you.”
“Next time.”
Her frown deepens. Worry clouds her eyes. “You’re not making sense, Ian. What does Spain have to do with your mom?”
“Everything.”
CHAPTER 9
IAN, AGE ELEVEN
“Did you have a nice sleep?” Ian’s mom asked when he entered the kitchen. She was sitting at the table, sipping tea.
“Yes.” Ian yawned, scratching his head through sleep-tousled hair, and fixed himself a bowl of Wheaties. He joined his mom at the table and shoveled a spoonful into his mouth. With an empty expression, she watched him chew. She might be looking at him, but she wasn’t seeing him.
Ian hated when she stared at him like that. His chest twinged and his chewing slowed as he watched her, waiting. Who knew who his mom would come back as when she retreated into her head? He noticed her uncombed hair and the shadows under her eyes, the misaligned buttons on her robe. She picked at her ragged nails.
Ian pushed the cereal flakes around in his bowl. “I heard the phone ringing. Was it Dad?”
She nodded and sipped her tea. “Yes.”
Ian exhaled with relief when it was his mom who answered. “What time will he be home?”
“He wants to stay for the press conference. He’ll be home late tomorrow morning.”
Ian slumped in his chair. He’d been hoping they could go fishing at the lake this afternoon like they used to. They’d wait for the fish to bite and his dad would teach him new tricks with his camera. Ian had read an article about time-lapse photography and wanted to give it a try. He didn’t have the skill or the equipment. His dad did, though. But now with the trip extension, they wouldn’t have time together before his dad left for his next assignment.
He missed his dad.
He missed spending time with him.
For almost a year after Jackie had abandoned Ian on the roadside, his dad had stayed home and worked for the local paper. Ian’s mom agreed to be admitted to the hospital, where they kept her under observation, as his dad referred to it, then released her with an order to see a psychiatrist. A woman had also shown up at Ian’s house soon after he arrived home from the hospital himself. She asked Ian all sorts of questions about living with his parents. That’s when his dad decided he needed to be home more. He didn’t want to be the negligent father and risk Ian being placed into foster care.
When Ian had listened to the woman with the beige wool suit and thick file tell his father he could end up in foster care, he swore to himself he’d watch his mother more closely. He’d make sure no one outside the house knew how often his parents used to leave him alone. He didn’t want to be taken from home. And for a year, life in the Collins house was almost normal. He and his dad went on adventures together almost every weekend. They’d go exploring after school, quick photo expeditions around their property.
But his mom started resisting her therapy and wouldn’t take her medication. His dad grew weary of arguing with her. They’d always argue until his mom started crying and his dad pulled her into his arms and just held her. A couple of times Ian swore his dad cried, too.
Then there were the overdue medical bills. Ian once overheard his dad explain to his mom that there was much their insurance wouldn’t cover and his job at the paper barely paid to
put food on their table. He needed to start taking on more assignments or they could lose their home. Soon Ian and his mom saw less of his dad. And eventually, their routine reverted to the way it was before Ian had been lost.
Appetite gone, Ian took his bowl to the sink, overflowing with dishes. His mom often let the dishes collect throughout the day and washed them after dinner. Ian hadn’t seen them pile to this extent before. Pots and plates cluttered the sink and counter. The meat loaf from two nights ago and last night’s spaghetti had been left out to spoil.
His lip lifted at the milk curdling in yesterday’s cereal bowl and glanced over at his mom. She sat unmoving, staring beyond the kitchen window. A layer of dust from the plowed fields clouded the glass. Dried cornstalks had been cleared for the next planting cycle. The sloping landscape stretched toward the mountainous rise on the horizon.
“Do you want me to do the dishes?”
She didn’t answer, which worried Ian. She’d been detached since his dad had left earlier this week. She napped each day and had stopped reading. Ian came home with an A on his science test yesterday. She’d taken the test from him and uttered a simple “That’s nice, honey” before setting it aside without a further glance.
“I’ll wash them,” he muttered to himself. He doubted she was listening.
He cleared out the basin and turned on the faucet. Twenty minutes later, counters cleared and dishwasher loaded, Ian skimmed through his mom’s planner.
“Did you finish the shirts for Mr. Hester’s Boy Scout troop?” He glanced at her and she nodded once. Ian flipped the page. “Have you started Mrs. Layton’s costumes for the”—he squinted at the note—“Oklahoma! musical?”
The teacup clattered on the table. “Yes, Ian.” His mom’s voice took on a perturbed tone.
“I’m just trying to help.”
“Thanks, but that’s not necessary.” She buried her face in her hands, took a couple of deep breaths, and folded her hands under her chin. Her mouth pulled into a little smile. “What are you doing today?”
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