All of You All of Me

by Claudia Burgoa

  He lifts his hand. “It was a joke. I told you to bring coffee.” He looks at Fitz. “She needs caffeine and snacks, did you bring the emergency kit?”

  They weren’t joking. Harrison included on the general list a one month provision of protein bars for Hazel. It wasn’t necessary. She only gets grouchy when she spends all day in the office and skips lunch.

  Hunter comes up behind me—I can feel his body. His breath tickles the sensitive skin of my neck. “Can I talk to you for a moment?”

  I swallow, pressing my lips against each other and controlling my reaction to the low voice. “Now?”

  “Don’t you think it’s best if we clear the air now?” Entwining his fingers with mine, he starts walking and pulls me behind him.

  “What kind of air?”

  “Hunter, you can’t go far without one of us,” Harrison orders, pointing at himself and then his two very tall, very buff, and slightly scary looking friends. I haven’t met the third guy yet. His forest green eyes study Hunter and me, and I swear it feels like he is about to shoot us if we don’t follow instructions. “I mean it.”

  “Is my presence making you uncomfortable?” He doesn’t wait for an introduction to the subject. Hunter hits me with the question. “Because I can leave, just say the word.”

  I hunch, instinctively I squeeze his hand. The memory of feelings soothed by those hands fills my soul with whatever it has been missing—which I hate for the first few seconds. I’ve worked hard to be independent, to be the one calming myself. How dare he, still have this kind of power?

  How, when he decided to leave because he couldn’t be the one handling the fucking mess inside my head? I don’t want him to be near me, and yet I do.

  “It’s okay, Willow. Knowing you are safe here is enough, I can go home.”

  “What difference does it make to you?” I frown. “To know I’m safe?”

  He scratches his chin, scanning the area. “You’re important to me, Willow.” He takes my other hand. “So fucking important, I had to fix my shit before I could come back to you. That’s why I had to make sure you arrived safely. Being here while you face your parents. I want to hold your hand while you process everything that happens for the next few weeks.”

  “I’m a successful, independent woman,” I repeat my mantra. The one I say as many times as needed. Successful is a big stretch. My dream is starting to take shape. It looks nothing like the one most actors and actresses I admire have. My career is specifically designed by me and for me. I don’t expect to win an Oscar because I don’t plan on going to Hollywood anytime soon. My goal is the Tony awards. The applause of the public and most importantly, being part of productions I’m in love with. All that complemented by the cable show I record once a year. “Depending on a man isn’t part of the plan.”

  “Willow, you’re not depending on anyone.” Hunter holds my hands with one of his and lifts my chin with his free one. Those eyes, full of emotion, grasp onto my soul. Oh, how I missed them. “I just want to hold you, no matter how painful it gets.”

  “You shouldn’t be talking about us as if we . . .”

  “Willow.” His voice is low, a whisper loud enough only I can hear it. Or I’m imagining all the words he continues to say. “Relationships are complicated. Waiting for the right time is impossible. When is really the right time?”

  I blink a few times. “Relationship?” My lips part, those words undo me.

  “Grant, look the girls are here!” A feminine voice shouts. I take a step back as I lift my gaze toward my parents approaching us.

  “Can we go home?” I whisper, but it’s too late.

  MEET THE PARENTS

  You don’t choose your parents, that doesn’t mean you can’t change your last name and fake not being home when they visit you.

  ~ Anonymous

  Willow

  MY PARENTS HOLD hands as they approach us. Mom looks almost the same—she’s petite. So thin, I fear she might break. A straw hat covers her dark braid that falls to the side. Dad wears an old San Francisco Giants cap. His eyes are as green as mine. It’s the Beesley eyes. He has a big, strong nose that matches his long face. He isn’t as tall as I remember him. His tanned arms are still strong. As they approach us, my heart beats faster. By instinct, I search for Hazel who is right next to Harrison. Her eyes find me, but she’s shaking her head. I’m not sure if she’s telling me no, bad idea or not, we are staying.

  “It’s okay,” Hunter releases one of my hands, wrapping his arm around me and holding me tight to his side. “If you guys want to leave right now, we will make it happen. You don’t have to do anything you aren’t ready to do.”

  The panic only lasts seconds, erased by the reminder that I want to be here. Mother releases my father’s hold. They split, she walks to Hazel and Dad walks toward me.

  Once he’s in front of me, he studies me. Then, he glares at Hunter and hugs me. “It’s so nice to see you, my little whimsical Willow.”

  “I haven’t been called that in a long time.” I hug him back, reminiscing about my wanting to be Glinda, the good witch of Oz.

  Maybe this can help me remember the good memories from my childhood. I’m sure there’s a lot more than seeing my parents leaving us behind. The knots inside my stomach loosen since at least, I have a memory. A question pops into my head. What if my parents were great at home? What if I have been too hard on them? I have so many questions. Now more than ever, I want to know what’s real and what’s not. The foreign feel of my father’s hug is at least the first indication that I have forgotten what it was like to be around them.

  My fingers don’t let Hunter’s go. We remain connected for the few breaths I’m attached to my father. The good emotions are replaced by waves of anger, resentment, and sadness riding freely inside my blood. Those unanswered questions come back with things like, because they hate you. they never cared about you. I want to cry, yell, run. This is what my therapist meant when he said that working through every emotion I felt was essential. If I allow them to stay in my head without discerning them, I will always lose my mind. The way it used to happen.

  “When you said you’d be joining us for a couple of weeks, I couldn’t believe it. And best of all, you brought man power with you.” My mother who can’t contain her excitement speaks. “This project might be done before September rolls in, Grant.”

  Mom marches to where I stand, Dad releases me and goes to Hazel who looks a little lost.

  “Look at you, Willow. You look so much like your grandmother.” She grabs my face with both hands, studying me. “There’s no denying that you’re a Beesley.”

  “Good to see you too, Mom.”

  I take a second look at her trying to bring a memory of her. What do I remember about her?

  Those summer mornings when she decided to plant flowers around the house. The times we would bake cookies and twirl around the kitchen while we waited for them to cook. Screaming at us if we were noisy. Sending us outside when her head was killing her. Laughing while painting the walls a different color. She loved to change them all the time. No one should stay in one place, she used to say.

  “Laila,” she corrects me, kissing my cheek and giving me a hug. I had forgotten that she hates labels. We should always call her Laila, and instead of Dad, we should use Grant. “This is such a wonderful reunion. It’s been ages since the last time the four of us were in the same place.”

  You decided to move away from us, I bite back the awful remark and let it slide.

  Hazel, on the other hand, says it, “You stopped visiting us.”

  “We visited New York last year,” Dad amends. His voice calm and soothing. “These gentlemen received us at the airport.”

  “And sent us to our next destination.” Mom smiles at them, then, walks to Scott. She pats his chest. “You seem like a good candidate for my daughters. One of you should step up before he becomes unavailable.”

  “Thank you, but I don’t need an arranged marriage,” Hazel protests.r />
  “Who said anything about marriage?” Mom who doesn’t believe in marriage answers. “I just want a couple of grandchildren to spoil.”

  “Why would you care about grandchildren when you never did us?” My tongue was faster than my brain this time. My tone is harsher than I intended.

  “Mrs. Beesley,” Hunter greets her.

  Turning her gaze to Hunter, she extends her hand. “Laila Richardson.” Her voice is forceful, like an unleashed lion about to eat her prey.

  “Excuse me. I didn’t know you use your maiden name.”

  “Why would you assume I’m married?” She snaps at him, then turns to me. “I see you are as judgmental as you grandfather. That’s why I never wanted you close to those people.”

  Watching her anger ignite just by the mention of the wrong last name, I’m reminded of the millions of times she would yell at Hazel for being hungry or at me for making noise and waking up the baby. She reminds me of myself. The days when a simple word shifted my balance. Turning to look at Hazel, I see it. The questions about what just happened. Maybe the end of our visit.

  Dad comes near her. “Laila, we have to go back to the orphanage.” His voice is quiet but firm. He redirects her gaze, engaging it with his. “There’s work to do.”

  “We will see you later,” Dad says, walking away without turning back.

  Like it happened years ago, I have a hole in my stomach and lots of questions. One phrase that I can’t say while I see them leave is, “Please, stay.”

  Hazel and I cover our mouths, looking at each other. Is she thinking what I am thinking?

  “We can leave at any point.” Hunter remains by my side, murmuring the words.

  “You saw it too, didn’t you?” I angle my head, leaning on him as I wait for his answer. He nods. “She exploded. Just exploded out of the blue.”

  Hunter looks at me with a worry line etched on his forehead. “Are you okay?”

  “What happened?” I ask out loud, but I know the answer.

  I have the answer, but I don’t want to say it yet. Like me, she has a mental illness. That explains a lot more about my own diagnosis. Borderline personality disorder has a hereditary predisposition. I knew about the stressful childhood. For years, I suffered the separation from my parents. They neglected me. I had no fucking chance to escape it.

  “He knows.” I exhale, finding my internal tools to remain calm.

  My insides are churning with anger. My father knows my mother isn’t right. That she’s unstable. His behavior, the way he redirected her and just swept her away from here.

  “He fucking knows about it.” My voice drags the attention of my sister and all the guys that came with us.

  For a moment, I’m that kid again. Watching my parents drive away as they leave me behind with my little sister. Alone. He’s taking her away. My father is taking my poor mother away. Is he the one who hates me? I shake my head. This can’t be real. I’m a grown woman. My therapist cautioned me about this. There’s nothing wrong with feeling undesired, I repeat to myself. Just go back to your special place. Remember who you are and how far you have walked to be standing here. I can stand up as many times as I fall.

  Yes, it’s normal to feel hurt. No matter what I do, I won’t stop feeling that unconditional love toward the people who brought me to life.

  “What do you mean, Wills?” Hazel approaches me, giving me a tight hug. It’s soothing and needy. We give each other strength because if she’s feeling a bit of what I do, she’s angry and hurt, too. “He knows about your being sick?”

  “No, that our mother isn’t stable.”

  Every step was premeditated. Our father has a contingency plan. His immediate reaction was to move her away from the area. “His voice became firm. Like he was ordering what she had to do, dragging her attention back from us.”

  “You’re right, I’m tempted to say let’s leave,” she comments. “But it’s up to you. I go with what your gut tells you.”

  Suddenly, I feel everyone’s eyes on me. I hate to be in the spotlight when I’m not on stage. But I understand it’s up to me if we turn the car around or stay for the full two weeks as we had planned.

  Of course, we’re staying. Mom needs us. She did so much for us when we were little. I’m fine. I’m able to help her. We can be together again. Mom needs me. A lump clogs my throat as I think for one second to leave. How can I leave when I see my mother’s struggle? I’m not experienced, but I can do something here. We can find her help. Give her a safe place. She needs a support group and a family who loves her. This is what we all need, to be a family again. I’m so cruel. How can I judge her behavior when I wanted to leave her behind?

  “We should stay,” I decide. Everyone nods.

  “If nothing good comes out of this visit, remember, we have Gramps waiting for us.” Hazel squeezes my hand, and her expression fills with unease and worry.

  She shouldn’t be worried about me, she should worry about our mother who needs help.

  Harrison claps. “Now that we all agree, it’s time to feed our Bumble Bee,” he says in a mocking tone.

  She growls, narrowing her gaze. “I already told you, my name is Hazel.”

  “That’s not what your parents called you, little buzz buzz bee.”

  I laugh at Hazel’s annoyed face. Harrison winks at me, and I smile even more. This guy might say stupid things most of the time, but he does it to dissipate the tension.

  THE MORE YOU LIVE

  The world is a big family, and we need to help each other.

  ~ Jet Li

  Hunter

  TODAY, LIKE THE past days, has been exhausting but gratifying. Every day, I wake with the sun, get dressed, have some coffee and head to the construction site. From the moment we arrive, until the sun goes down, we dedicate our time to fixing houses. One by one, we are trying to add windows and doors and add a coat of paint. Mom taught us to help the less fortunate. These weeks I’ve understood why she volunteered so much. Donating money to a charity helps, dedicating our time to improve the lives of others is life altering. During my travels, I saw poverty. Instinctively, I handed over a few dollar bills or food. But now I want to help make a difference.

  My brothers and I decided to do this more often, at least once a year. We’ll find places closer to home, too. Hazel brought to our attention that there’s poverty inside our country. People who need the same kind of help we are willing to give outside. Whatever we decide, it’s going to include the Beesley girls.

  The creaky noise of the door opening startles me. It’s Willow wearing a pair of denim shorts and a loose tank top. She’s holding her toiletries, a small towel and a bucket of water. Not having indoor plumbing sucks. “Hey, I didn’t know you were here.” She closes her eyes shaking her head. “I didn’t mean to see that.”

  I hurry cleaning myself with a towel. Soon I’m going to have to take Harrison’s offer to go to the next town to take a real shower. I put on my jeans. “We need a lock.” I point out the obvious.

  This isn’t the first time someone has walked into the bathroom while someone else was using it. We laugh, I bet at the memory of Hazel running around the house demanding that she see Harrison’s dick since he got to see her boobs. An eye for an eye.

  “How are you?” I ask since we only get to have some time alone at night. Only if we happen to be in the kitchen washing dishes. Most of the time we are surrounded by everyone.

  Willow looks at me, one hand holding her stuff, the other in her pocket. Her stooped posture says it; they didn’t come today either. Her parents disappeared after the first day we saw them. The idea of staying just another day was starting to crack her heart. I saunter toward her, embracing her in my arms. For the past few days, I’ve seen the disappointment in her face, dark like tonight’s sky. They should’ve been here all along with their daughters. The sole purpose of our trip was for Willow and Hazel to talk to their parents, to be with them. The fuckers disappeared on them. Every morning they wake up hoping they
’ll show; every night they go to bed hoping tomorrow will be the day.

  I’m fucking angry at those fuckers. Their daughters came all the way to see them, and they don’t care. Hazel and Willow aren’t children, but for fuck’s sake, they have feelings.

  “Tell me how to make this better.” I sway our bodies, cradling her as I soothe her.

  “A part of me takes this personally. They don’t want to see me.” She puffs some air, twice. “The logical side is trying to find what triggered her anger. I believe she ran away to avoid showing us her nasty side. At least I find that as a good excuse. I want to forgive their poor behavior.”

  “All possible scenarios,” I say sparsely. Who am I to judge? There’s no fucking way to know what is going on inside their minds. I only know that if my children were visiting me, I wouldn’t miss any second of their stay. “None of them are your fault.”

  “The thoughts about my nonexistent children are like an electric hammer inside my head.” She wraps her hands around me. “If she can’t handle her children? Will that be me? Should I plan on not having a family? Why am I thinking about them when I can’t fathom having a family?”

  “Your fears are valid, Willow.”

  “They are?”

  “Of course, you don’t like surprises as much as you hate planning. The future terrifies you, and maybe I’m wrong, but you’re trying to find a point of reference. A role model to learn from.”

  “She’s no role model.” Her tone isn’t angry. It’s a fact.

  “For what it’s worth, I’m proud of you. The determination to find a way to overcome your disorder. Facing what frightens you. You’re the bravest woman I know.”

  Her head rests on my chest, and the fullness of the moment means everything to me. I enjoy this minute without fearing that it might be the last. Only knowing that, for now, we are enough for one another. We stay silent. I can practically hear her busy mind analyzing her feelings. She showed me the journals where she writes each emotion she felt during that day. The feelings and the best tool to prevent the turmoil. Every night she asks herself if it’s her presence, her existence, or is something else that made the disappear without a word?