Vote Then Read: Volume III

by Aleatha Romig

  “Get your dog off me!” Josh screeches as my mom grabs Spritzy off his belly and stuffs him in her purse.

  “DoggieDate indeed,” mumbles Carol as Henry tosses Josh a bar towel and he cleans himself, muttering about wasted tequila.

  I briefly wonder if tequila is okay for Spritzy but figure if it’s a problem, Mom would panic, and given her current state of chill, I’m guessing the crisis has been averted.

  The bar sound system starts up with—yep.

  The song “The Dog Days Are Over” by Florence + The Machine. Henry looks at me from the stereo and winks.

  Amy’s dancing takes on a distinct beat and soon, the crowd is lost in the relentless pounding of the tune, clapping and stomping in time.

  Staying dry while everyone around you drinks is its own little world. I am an island.

  And then I am on my knees doing a blow job.

  Hold on—it’s a drink.

  Fine, fine. One won’t hurt anybody.

  Every woman is being asked by the strippers to do a blow job as a way of honoring the bride, and who am I to dishonor my bestie?

  You might even say I’m required to do this blow job.

  Might.

  The splash of liquor and mocha against the back of my throat reminds me of “breakfast in bed” with Andrew, of antics under the sheets and the morning breve that followed. Funny how viscerally we embed memories via physical events. A scent. A sound. A texture. An image. Our senses store memories in our physical bodies as much as our minds are computer banks filled with the recall.

  And as I swallow, on my knees and bent down to the floor to bite the shot glass between my teeth and tip its contents back, mind and body work together to make me recall what I’ve lost.

  Who I’ve lost.

  When Henry offers me a second blow job, I don’t say no.

  And this time, his navel is the shot glass.

  “A-MAN-DA! A-MAN-DA!” the crowd chants. They start banging shot glasses against the scarred wood tables, the sound like that popular Queen song, the one people sang at football games back when I was a cheerleader.

  That’s what this reminds me of. The spotlight. The fun. Being the center of attention for highly-structured entertainment that delivers exactly according to audience expectations.

  I deliver.

  Six blow jobs later and boy, does my jaw ache. Marie and my mom are sitting next to one of the piano players, stuffing bills into a pint glass and begging them to play “Freebird.”

  Other women are stuffing even more money in the tip jar to stop the “Freebird” madness.

  “C’mon,” my mom pleads. “If you won’t do ‘Freebird,’ then how about ‘Dog and Butterfly’?”

  “Pammy! I love that song!” Marie squeals, stuffing what looks like a free coupon for a Starbucks latte into the tip jar.

  “I hate being called Pammy,” my mom mutters.

  “You’re my new best friend, Pammy!”

  Meanwhile, the piano player just watches with a languid amusement.

  I get the distinct impression he’s been through this more than once.

  “I am the bride, so I pick the last song!” Shannon slurs. I look at the big clock behind the bar, shocked it’s nearly one a.m. already. I lost track of time slurping off the navel of a man.

  Sue me.

  “‘Imagine’!” Shannon cries out.

  The entire room groans in unison.

  “We’ll all start crying if you play that!” I argue. “How about something happier?”

  “‘The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald’!” my mom suggests.

  “Not happier, Mom.”

  Mom gives me a petulant look.

  “I know!” I whisper it in Shannon’s ear and she nods vigorously. She goes to the pianos players, and within seconds the opening lines of Van Morrison’s “Brown Eyed Girl” start playing.

  And we dance, Shannon’s brown eyes wild and full of unfettered joy as she spends her second-to-last night as a single woman surrounded by women who love her.

  Plus Josh, who is happily pouring shots into some guy’s belly button. Except I’m not sure he’s a stripper....

  We dance until they kick us out.

  And then we puke.

  Okay, so technically, my mom is the only one who pukes. There’s always one in every crowd when you go clubbing, and tonight it’s the woman who gave birth to me.

  “I’ll hold your hair, Pammy! ‘Cause tha’s what bess frienns do.” Marie proceeds to grab my mom’s purse from her.

  “That’s not her hair.”

  “What?” Marie looks at Mom’s purse cross-eyed.

  I sigh and reach for Mom’s hair.

  The retching definitely puts a damper on the night. Luckily, I am not a sympathy gagger. Poor Mom has a system clearly not cut out for alcohol, and I’m actually surprised she drank at all tonight. We don’t keep alcohol in the house. I’ve never seen her even tipsy.

  “I’m sorry, honey,” she says, trying to compose herself. “I think I drank more tonight than in the past twenty years combined. I also touched more man skin tonight than in the past two decades.”

  “Go Pammy!” Marie says, high-fiving my mom. She misses and goes flat on the ground, purse clutched in her other hand.

  Growing up means realizing your parents are flawed human beings who are just twenty-five-years-older versions of your friends. Does that mean there’s no such thing as actual adults? We’re all just pretending?

  “Pammy, you need to learn to hold your liquor.” Marie pulls herself up and brushes grass off her knees.

  “Something old, something new, something borrowed, something spew,” Mom says in a sing-songy voice that immediately turns into a snore as I drag her to the open limo and tuck her into a spot.

  “That’s not how it goes,” Marie protests. She follows Mom and doesn’t seem to realize she’s passed out.

  And then she climbs inside and crashes on the seat, right in Mom’s lap.

  Shannon walks up from behind. Carol’s already in the limo, and Amy is—oh, God, is she crouched around a corner, peeing in public? I’m going to pretend I didn’t see that.

  “Is that going to be us in a few decades?” Shannon ponders, her arm on my shoulder.

  Marie’s hand cups my mom’s boob just as Amy walks over, adjusting her skirt.

  “Oh, that needs to be captured on camera,” she says, reaching into her cleavage and pulling out a camera.

  Click.

  “Nothing on social media!” Shannon cautions.

  Amy gets an uneasy look on her face. I instinctively reach for her hair and pull it back.

  “What are you doing?” she says, recoiling.

  “You looked queasy.”

  “I was trying to decide whether to say something or not.”

  “About what?”

  “About social media.”

  Shannon’s eyes narrow like a hawk’s. “Spill.”

  Amy sighs. “Jessica Coffin was here.”

  “WHAT?”

  “Yeah. We had the bouncers kick her out, but we don’t know how much she saw.”

  “I didn’t notice her,” I say.

  Josh’s voice pops up behind me. “That’s because every single one of your senses was engaged in a piece of man beast named Zeke.”

  “Who?”

  “Your blow job man.”

  We all nod as if this is a normal conversation.

  “You guys see Jessica earlier?” Josh asks. When he drinks he gets chipper. “She heard a rumor Andrew and Amanda were dating.”

  Ouch.

  Were.

  “If she took pictures, I’ll kill her,” Shannon warns.

  “You want me to hack her again?” Josh asks, then slaps his hand over his mouth. “Er, I mean...someone should hack her Twitter account again.”

  A light snore floats out from the limo. Then it’s in harmony and melody as both Mom and Marie make beautiful music together. I peer in to see Amy and Carol on either side of them. Josh is sitt
ing across the way now, staring at the inside of the limo like it’s the deck of the U.S.S. Enterprise.

  To my surprise, Shannon walks over to the driver’s side, says something to a chauffeur I’ve never met, and closes the back doors, thumping the hood like a pro.

  The limo takes off.

  “What are you doing?” I ask, watching the tail lights narrow to red, glowing pupils as the car disappears into the night down the city street.

  “Gerald will arrive in ten minutes with another car.” Her sigh tells me everything and nothing. “I just needed to, you know...breathe.”

  “Need me to hold your hair?”

  “Hah. No. Poor Pam.”

  “I think my mom got twenty years of teetotaling karma in one night.”

  “No one can keep up with my mom when it comes to alcohol, I guess.” Shannon’s voice is wistful. A cool breeze cuts the night and I shiver, all gooseflesh and gobsmacked. The alcohol is wearing off and I feel myself spiraling down, gently, like an autumn leaf. The maudlin mood feels fine, given the night we’ve had.

  “I think my mom was last in a club in 1991 or something,” I marvel. “I mean, asking the piano player for some song called ‘Walk the Dinosaur’? What the hell?”

  We snort and snicker until another gust of wind makes us wrap our arms around ourselves as we wait.

  “You okay?” she asks, giving me a look that says I need to tell the truth or she’ll just pull it out of me anyhow.

  “No.”

  “You miss Andrew.”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “He’s an asshole.”

  “Yeah. I wish I could storm into his office and line all the McCormick men up as my puppets and make him see reason like a certain someone I know did for me two years ago.”

  “You didn’t, um, do that by any chance, did you?” I ask in panic. “Because this isn’t the same as you and Declan.”

  “No, no office storming. That’s your deal. But I did talk to him.”

  Lightbulb.

  That’s why she sent everyone off in the limo.

  “And?” My gooseflesh now has nothing to do with the weather.

  Trouble seeps into her expression. “Andrew’s terrified. He would never admit it, but he is the son who does whatever James wants. Dec says before their mom died, Terry was the rebel and Andrew was the cocky, carefree player. He did well in sports and that was it. Mouthed off to James because James let him. He was headed for pro sports and the wasp sting ended that.”

  “What does this have to do with me?”

  “Have you ever talked to Andrew about what happened when he woke up?”

  Our conversation from the last time we made love hits me.

  “Yes.”

  “How James couldn’t stop being so angry with Declan for the choice he made?”

  “Yes.” My own anger rises so fast.

  “And how it makes Andrew feel like he’s here only because Declan made a choice James might not have chosen himself, in the moment.”

  My heart stops. No, really. We can’t survive without the push of blood through the sixty thousand miles of blood vessels within us, delivering oxygen and nutrients, but Shannon’s words deprive me of one beat.

  Just one.

  “Andrew doesn’t really think his father would prefer he’d died?”

  “It’s so complicated,” Shannon groans, starting to pace. “No. Of course not. He loves Andrew. But Dec has described how he just shut down because of his own trauma from the event, and how James put Andrew into boarding school and he had to change sports, and how Andrew told him once—and he told me this, too—that he feels like when their mom chose him to survive, she didn’t realize that the family would be destroyed.”

  “Oh, God. It’s like what he said to me.”

  She stops in front of me. We must look like mangy raccoons by now, makeup long worn off and hair like magpie nests. I have a hair clip and probably a stray shot glass in there. Shannon’s disco top looks like crumpled aluminum foil, and her eyes are tired.

  So tired.

  “He won’t let you pick him, right?”

  I nod.

  “He woke up to a world where his mother made this huge sacrifice, but he felt unworthy. Andrew has spent the last twelve years trying to make up for the fact that his mother loved him so much she chose to leave James and her boys behind for his sake.”

  “And James never got the choice,” I say, the reality hitting me.

  Headlights glimmer, then triangulate, the rectangles stretching and skewing with the turn into the parking lot.

  “Ms. Warrick. Ms. Jacoby.” It’s Gerald. “Soon to be Mrs. McCormick,” he adds with a wink.

  Shannon shivers as we climb in.

  “Let’s go to Amanda’s place first,” she tells him on the intercom.

  My head is in my hands with the blinding grief of what I’m hearing. “Andrew knows what the aftermath of losing someone so fragile is like.”

  “Hey, I may have a life-threatening allergy, but fragile is a bit much, isn’t it?” Shannon chides.

  “Honestly? No. No. It’s not. You and Andrew are at opposite ends of the risk spectrum on this, Shannon.”

  She frowns and says nothing.

  “He isn’t afraid of what I thought he was afraid of.”

  “Commitment?” she asks.

  I shake my head. “He’s afraid of the mess his death would leave behind. That one-in-a-gazillion chance that he’d be stung and not have an EpiPen and not get medical attention and...the Hobson’s Choice that Declan was stuck with is so rooted in Andrew and...I give up. I can’t puzzle through it any more. I feel like I’m just going around and around in a never-ending loop.”

  “Like Andrew.” She sighs. “Like Declan.”

  I jolt. “What do you mean?”

  “They can’t, you know...” We’re exhausted, and the strain of months of wedding planning shows in her shoulders, the dark circles under her eyes, and I can hear it in her emotional voice. Shannon’s like a guitar string pulled too tight. “Declan is still haunted by the fact that he couldn’t save them both. James is angry he had his life ripped out from under him and couldn’t control the outcome.”

  “And Andrew?”

  “I don’t know.” Her voice goes quiet. “I think Andrew feels like he owes it to the world to make sure he never puts himself in any true risk.”

  “Why do you?”

  “Why do I what?”

  “Live like a normal person. Go out into nature. Let yourself be around bees.”

  “Because I’d go crazy spending my life mitigating all the what-ifs. That’s not really living.”

  “Why can’t Andrew see that?”

  Newton is just close enough to the piano bar that the drive is almost over, especially at this hour of the night. As Gerald guides the limo into my driveway, I’m assured by the sight of lights on in the house. Mom made it home safe.

  “I’m guessing it’s like Declan and James. I don’t know Terry well enough to know if it’s true for him, but I know that Dec and James can’t let go of the fact that this happened without their being able to fix it.”

  Fix. There’s that word.

  “And Andrew? I don’t think it’s the same thing, Amanda. I think he feels like he’s a sacrificial lamb. Like he got saved without his input. Like he has to live with the consequences of his mother’s decision and if anything bad ever happens again, everyone around him will fall to pieces. That’s one hell of a burden to carry.”

  I won’t let you pick me.

  The air becomes thick, my lungs like wet balloons as I open the door and wheeze, inhaling fresh air so quickly I feel faint. Three breaths later and I’m around the car, normal. Shannon walks me into my house and, without a word, zips into the downstairs bathroom.

  Mom is snoring lightly on the couch. I walk over and reposition her bent arm so she doesn’t wake up with a cramped neck. A thick fleece throw blanket over her will help keep her from getting
chilled. I can’t prevent the nasty hangover that is coming in the morning, though. For that, she’s on her own.

  The sound of running water comes from the bathroom as I notice a large, flat package. It’s in a delivery envelope with a familiar logo. My name is on the label.

  “I didn’t order anything,” I mumble to myself, rotating the large, thin package in my hands. With a perplexed sigh, I rip open the pull tab and remove the contents.

  And gasp.

  It’s from Andrew.

  Fragile

  One of Yes’s best albums, and from the looks of it, this was from the original release in the 1970s, long before I was born.

  Shannon walks in to find me holding the vinyl album in one shaking hand, the other fishing around in the envelope. My fingers brush against a piece of paper. I remove it, handing her the album. Eyebrows crashing together as she puzzles over it all, she nonetheless stays silent, and as if reading my mind, goes over to Mom’s record player and loads the album, setting the needle to the first song.

  “Roundabout” begins, the first notes low and jaunty, strumming through my blood like tidal waves caused by dropping many moons into the ocean in rapid-fire succession.

  Dear Amanda,

  Enjoy.

  AJM

  She’s reading over my shoulder and inhales sharply. “That’s it? That’s it? Oh, Andrew...” Shannon’s voice gives me permission to let the tears flow, her exasperation and polite outrage confirming that all the mixed feelings I’m experiencing are the only rational reaction to this chaos.

  “Why did he send me this? Why now?” I look at the outer package. The date is from weeks ago. It was mailed from the UK. Ah. A remnant of the past.

  Just like everything involving Andrew.

  One look at the album cover and Shannon smiles. “‘Fragile’, huh?”

  All I can do is weep.

  “You want me to stay?”

  I shake my head. “I’m okay. I need to be alone.” Sniff.

  Except I’m not alone. The music is a talisman of something I’ve lost, yet it’s also a comfort, reminding me of a world where it was once safe to imagine I could just be with someone and not feel an obligation to prove my worth. That I could risk my heart and not be left behind.

  That I could choose love.