Walk of Shame

by ANDREA SMITH

  Upstairs there are three bedrooms and a bathroom. Definitely roomier. It never seems to change.

  There’s a full basement too, more like a cellar since the house was built in the 1920’s. As a child, I made the basement my play area, having some old discarded furniture that my dad allowed me to make my own little apartment with my dolls. I had a play stove and refrigerator, and a little table with chairs. My dolls had cribs and I would shut myself up in my pretend house where I cared for my babies while my imaginary husband was off earning a living for us.

  I pretend cooked and baked, changed the baby doll’s diapers and bathed them. I even ironed their clothes with my toy iron and ironing board. I did everything that, at the age of six, I knew I was supposed to do. My grandma had helped me arrange my playhouse apartment in the basement. She told me that this was how my mother had played at the same age. She told me my mother would be proud to see what a fine little girl I was growing up to be.

  I have pleasant thoughts of our basement from back then. It had been my “girl cave” and my escape even as I got a bit older and swapped my baby dolls for my Barbie dolls. At ten, my friend from down the street, Allison, would come over and we would spend hours with our Barbies. We even tried to make Barbie clothes by hand. Allison’s mother worked as a seamstress at the neighborhood dry cleaners. She had shown Allison some basic stuff, and Allison had tried to teach me, but our wardrobe of doll clothes didn’t pan out very well. Pant legs weren’t the same size, neither were sleeves. Allison said we could pretend it was a new fad, so we did.

  At thirteen, my “girl cave” had been renovated into a newly-crossed-over-as-a-teen private space. All my little girl and adolescent toys were sold at a garage sale I personally conducted, so that I could buy things that a teenager wanted: CD’s, audio books, because yeah, my ‘nerdiness’ had kicked into overdrive, DVD’s to watch on my own portable television I had hooked up down there, a desk where I did my studying. I even bought a used personal computer so that I could surf the web, and ask Google the questions I had no one else to ask.

  At fifteen, I felt that life was going well. Things were great between me and my father. I was a sophomore in high school, my grades were awesome, and I was able to help out at the Bagel Stop for some spending cash and then some. I had lost my grandparents a couple of years earlier, and though I knew at their age it was to be expected, but when they passed within a year of one another, I lost my last connection to the mother I had never known.

  And then Louise came into the picture, and everything changed. At sixteen, we were now a family of four, two of them invading my turf.

  “So, why do you hide out in the basement so much, Peyton?” Phil asks, startling me as he comes up behind me where I’m surfing the net.

  “Because it’s my private place,” I reply, not bothering to look up. “It’s my inner sanctum. Where I go to be alone to contemplate the complexities of life.”

  He snickers. “You like using all those big words, don’t you? What? Does it make you feel superior over me? Dumbass, Phil. That isn’t much of a challenge now is it?”

  “Your words, not mine.”

  “You’ve got a lot to learn, baby. And I’m not talking about book learning or computer learning, I’m talking about men. Maybe Dumbass Phil could teach you a thing or two.”

  “Doubtful,” I reply. “If you don’t mind, I’m busy here.”

  “I can take a hint, babe. Pencil me in for later,” he replies, running his hand lightly over my shoulder.

  I scoot farther up in my seat. He creeps me out totally. Nothing offends him, but everything he says or does I find offensive. I want to tell my dad, I’ve tried to tell him that Phil is a creep, but Dad just says we’re all a family now. We all need to work at getting along.

  I shake the memory from my brain. I grab some clean clothes from my suitcase, take a shower, and dress for the day. I have somewhere to go this morning. I haven’t been there for years, and it’s just something I need to do.

  As I come downstairs, I grab my coat off of the bannister. Louise hears me and calls out, “If you want breakfast, Peyton, better get it while you can. I’m about to clean up the dishes.”

  “I’m good. I’ll grab something while I’m out. Be back later.”

  As I step outside, I breathe in the crisp air of the morning chill. Something about Cranston is so different than anywhere else. It used to give me comfort, but now it makes me uneasy. It wraps itself around me like a prickly blanket that offers no warmth or comfort.

  I head out of town, stopping at a fast food drive-thru getting a coffee. About ten minutes out of town, I see the large marble statue of the Holy Mother. St. Mary’s Cemetery.

  I pull into the winding driveway. The trees are bare of leaves and the day is overcast, which makes it even more depressing. I silently pray that I can remember where my mother’s grave is located. I remember that there is a huge monument of an angel nearby. I slow to a crawl, and go around another bend and see it.

  Just as I’m about to get out of the car my cell rings. It’s Eva.

  “What’s up, Chica?” she asks when I answer.

  “Just hanging at a cemetery outside of Cranston,” I reply.

  Silence. This hardly ever happens with Eva.

  “Repeat, please?”

  “It’s all good. Just have the need to chat with my mom.”

  “Oh. Okay. Hey, not to sound like a smartass, but---isn’t the conversation going to be a bit one-sided?”

  I smile because I know my friend and she is honestly being sincere. But then, she’s always had a mom. This is the best I can do under the circumstances.

  “It’s just something I’m gonna try. See if it’s cathartic or something.”

  “Hey, I’m always here. You know if something’s bothering you, Pey, I’ll drop everything to help you through it. You get that, right?”

  “Sure I do. I just need to work through this myself first. To see if I can.”

  “Okay, then. How’s your dad?”

  “I’ve barely had a chance to talk to him. Hey, how’s your family?”

  “Aww, you know. Nothing changes here. I miss the hell out of Marcus though.”

  “Has he called?”

  “Only about four or five times,” she says, giggling. “He misses me, too.”

  I laugh. “You’ve got it bad, don’t you?”

  “Damn straight! As soon as I get back to Bainbridge and see his gorgeous face, I’m gonna be all like, ‘Take me to bed or lose me forever.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Carole to Goose in ‘Top Gun,’ that was freaking so easy, Eva.”

  “Well, it’s fitting, what can I say?”

  “I’ll see you next week.”

  “Love you.”

  “Love you back.”

  The thing about trying to communicate with someone that’s passed on is that there’s no guarantee that they can hear you. Now I’m a believer in God and the hereafter having been raised Catholic and all, and I figure my mom probably went straight to heaven and bypassed Purgatory, because after all, how much more could God take from her? But the thing that bothers me is the fact that she’s never given me a sign.

  Allison told me once when we were eleven and her Nana had passed on, that a couple of weeks later, she got a sign from her. I asked her what it was. She said that she was looking through her underwear drawer, and she pulled a clean pair of socks out that were rolled up together. When she unrolled them, the rosary her grandmother had given her for her First Communion dropped out.

  So, I think maybe the reason I’ve never received a sign from my mother is because I never really got to know her. I know that she took care of me when I was a little baby, but I don’t remember any of that. We probably never bonded. I have nothing of hers to give me comfort. I have no understanding of how it is between mothers and daughters, or how it’s supposed to be anyway.

  I was fifteen when Louise came into my life, and sixteen when she became my stepmother. That certainly isn’t a fair
representation of a mother-daughter relationship though, because we have no genuine affection for one another.

  And it’s not because I didn’t try. I simply learned once she had the devotion of my father, it was a game changer in how she treated me. Let’s face it, at sixteen I was beyond needing mothering. But at twenty-one, I sure could use some now.

  I’m sitting on her headstone, trying to figure out what to say. Why does it matter? If she’s listening, she won’t care if I stumble over my words, at least I hope not.

  “Hey, Mom,” I say out loud softly. There’s no one around, but still it feels weird. “It’s Peyton here, your daughter? Well of course you already know that, duh. Anyway, I’m sorry that I haven’t been around here for a while, but you and I both know that you’re not really here. But for some reason, I feel like maybe you’ll hear me best if I’m here.

  “I know we never really got to know one another, Mom, and I hate that part. I only ever had photos of you, and well, Louise put those away years ago. I still have a picture of you and me when I was a tiny baby on my nightstand back at my apartment. Gosh, I wish you were here right now because I could use some motherly advice. You see, I’ve kind of got some misguided views on how the male/female dynamic works, and I think that it has kind of screwed me up. I’m not blaming you for that whatsoever. I know dying wasn’t your first choice, and Pop did the best he could, but things---stuff happened that Pop never knew about because…well, because I was embarrassed and ashamed to tell him. I really, really felt like I handled it okay, but now I’m not so sure. I could tell him now, but what good would that do? Making him feel bad isn’t going to change anything, is it? And it wasn’t his fault. I just…I just don’t know what the right thing is, Mom. If you could, I don’t know, somehow make my mind know what the right thing to do is – or give me a sign, or if an opportunity presents itself out of the blue to nudge me in one direction or another, I sure as heck would appreciate it.”

  I feel a tear run down my cheek, and I brush it away with the back of my hand. “I really, really miss you, Mom. I wish I could’ve grown up knowing you, loving you, arguing with you, and then growing into the woman that you did because I know Pop loved you like crazy. I hope we meet someday, and I hope that I’ll do you proud while I’m still here. I love you.”

  As I stood up, I blew a kiss up into the sky, hoping that it reached her. The wind rustled, and I heard the shrill shriek of a red-tailed hawk overhead. I think that is my sign that she heard me.

  Chapter 33

  Weston submerged his body into the warm, soothing waters of the whirlpool. Practice had been a bitch, but he had held his own. He had practice every day until their next game, which was the Friday before finals. He knew he’d start that game and hopefully, Hardwick’s record would improve.

  Marcus came into the locker room, peeling off his sweaty tee, tossing it onto the bench. He rooted through his locker for a clean towel. “So, how’d your Thanksgiving go?” he asked, a sly smile forming on his lips.

  “Shut the fuck up,” Weston growled, closing his eyes and resting his head against the side of the tub.

  “Aww…don’t be like that dude. Alex and Drake filled me in on your plans. I was surprised but also kind of impressed.”

  Weston raised his head and opened an eye to see if Marcus was sincere or just being an ass. He looked sincere. “Impressed? Why?”

  He peeled off the rest of his clothes, and wrapped the towel around his hips. “Because you’re expanding your horizons, brother. It’s not about the pussy like it usually is with you.”

  “Oh for fuck’s sake,” Weston barked, “she’s a friend, Marcus. Not some love conquest like you and Eva.”

  “No need to get defensive. I’m being serious here. Alex and Drake are idiots, but you already knew that. I’m your friend, remember? And I think it was a nice gesture on your part being that you and Penny have been at one another’s throats most of the semester. It’s all good, dude.”

  Marcus grabbed his body wash and started heading for the shower when Weston’s voice stopped him in his tracks.

  “I think I might’ve fucked her,” he said.

  Marcus turned around slowly, his brow quirked in confusion. “What do you mean – think? You mean you don’t know?” he asked, busting out laughing. “Now that is a new one for you.”

  Weston shook his head. “No, not yesterday. I think I fucked her at the Halloween Gala.”

  He saw Marcus’s eyes widen in surprise. “What? You weren’t even there, were you?”

  Weston nodded. “Yeah, I was there. I got back into town that afternoon from New York. I hadn’t planned on going, but since I found the perfect costume before I left the city, I decided to go. Totally incognito. I kept a low profile – at least I tried to,” he finished with a wry smile.

  “Whoa,” Marcus said, taking a few steps back so none of the others coming into the locker room would hear their conversation. “So if you were there, are you saying that Penny was there too and you two hooked up?”

  Weston nodded, and then his face turned sheepish. “I got pretty wasted. The whole scene in New York was a bad one. I just wanted to sit at the bar, drink and people watch. And that’s what I did. But then I got bewitched,” he said with a chuckle. “And that was all she wrote.”

  “What do you mean bewitched?”

  “Some chick across the bar was dressed up like a witch. She was eyeing me. I was kind of eyeing her. She matched me shot for shot, and then, shit, the next thing I know, she’s over on my side of the bar, grabbing my arm and pulling me out into the hall. We found an empty conference room and I fucked her on the stage.”

  Marcus howled in amusement. “You’re fucking shitting me, right Matthews?”

  “Nope,” Weston said. “True story.”

  “And so what? You didn’t exchange names, digits, nothing?”

  “Hell, we didn’t even talk that I can recall. It was just…well, it was amazing sex.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Spare me the deets. So, what makes you think it was Penny?”

  “I’m still not positive it was her, but something she said yesterday got me to thinking. She was confiding in me about her recent breakup with her boyfriend. She mentioned something about never having had an orgasm until she downloaded porn and fucked a rogue clown.”

  Marcus’s eyes widened. “Dude, you were there dressed as a clown?”

  “Yeah. Long story,” Weston replied.

  Marcus shook his head back and forth. “This has to be a coincidence, but man it’s some hilarious shit.” He continued laughing, drawing Weston’s ire.

  “Marcus, what the hell are you talking about, man?”

  “Oh – it’s just that Eva’s friend – you know the one, Peyton? Well, of course you do, you hit on her at Big Daddy’s…”

  “Yeah, yeah, I remember,” Weston snapped, “get to the point why don’t you?”

  “Well, she,” he started, and then broke out into laughter again, “Sorry – sorry,” he continued, trying to compose himself. “She claimed that she fucked a clown at that party. Eva thought she was just drunk and dreamed it because when Eva got back to their room that morning, Peyton was passed out on the bathroom floor. But Eva said they actually got into an argument about it later since Eva didn’t believe her. Peyton swore it was the truth. Now how weird is that?”

  “Did you see Peyton that night?” Weston asked, the twitch in his cheek didn’t go unnoticed.

  “Uh, well not that I know of, but then I was pretty busy with the hosting, and trying to spend time with Eva…”

  “So, you don’t know what her costume was for the party?”

  “No. Want me to ask Eva?”

  “No,” Weston replied sharply. “I don’t want you mentioning any of this to Eva, are we clear?”

  “Chill, I get it. Don’t worry. You need to lighten up, dude. At least if it was Peyton that means you didn’t fuck Penny, so quit beating yourself up.”

  “Yeah whatever.”

  Marcu
s went off to the shower and Weston leaned back to finish his whirlpool massage. He was going to get answers. And he was going to do it his way.

  Chapter 34

  I spend the afternoon holed up in my room, going through my closet to see what remnants of my childhood, adolescence, and teenage years still remain. Louise has a penchant for tossing things out that she deems to be junk, regardless of ownership.

  As I’m digging through a large cardboard box that appears to hold some photo albums, home videos, DVDs, CDs and audio books, my hand snakes deeper, touching upon some of my old sweaters and jackets. Then something sharp at the bottom pricks my finger.

  “Shit,” I say out loud, quickly pulling my hand out of the box. I examine it just as a drop of fresh blood pools at my fingertip. I put my finger to my mouth, sucking the blood off it which I’m sure isn’t the most hygienic thing to do, but it’s instinctual.

  What the hell snagged me? I switch on the closet light to see better, and carefully remove everything from the box, placing it into a neat pile next to me. As I lean up and look over the top of the box, I see the culprit.

  It’s the glass framed picture of my mother that used to sit on the top of my dresser. Evidently, Louise had tossed it into the box, and the glass had cracked before she placed the rest of the items on top of it.

  My sign?

  “Appreciate the sign, Mom, but next time can you do it without drawing blood?” I smile, because I know that if ever there was a sign from the beyond, this is it. My mom came through for me.

  Louise is helping Pop at the store. I take a deep breath and open the door from the kitchen that leads down to the cellar. ‘I can do this,’ I repeat over and over in my head like a mantra. I square my shoulders, and flip the light switch at the top of the stairs as I descend to the place that used to represent my own personal space, my refuge from life, my quiet place, my playroom…but after Phil, it became my nightmare.

  He has beer on his breath and my stomach roils as I try to pull away from him. I need to get away from him. His one hand is clamped over my mouth and I try to bite him, but he’s pressed it so hard against my face that I fail. I’m trapped between him and the concrete walls of my special room in the cellar that has now transformed into a prison. His other arm has me pinned firmly against the wall.