by Nikki Vale
“Hey, sweetheart, what are you doing here?”
She’s surprised to see me. I have to admit, I don’t come around as much as I use to. When Evelynn and I became friends, she began inviting me to her house, and I got to see how ordinary people lived. Needless to say, I started spending more time with her and Granny Mabel at her house, instead of going home to mine or coming here to Kandy Kane’s.
“Nothing. Can’t a daughter stop by to see her mother?”
“Of course, she can, but she generally doesn’t,” she replies, her shrewd hazel eyes assessing me. I fight the urge to cross my arms in the tell-tale sign that she’s getting to me – already.
I love my mother, but we’ve been more like sisters than mother and daughter. It probably stems from us only being fifteen years apart in age and the fact that I don’t think my mom has ever truly grown up, even if her clothes and chic hair style make her look the part.
“Well, either way, I’m happy to see you,” she says, placing a barely-there kiss on my cheek. “I was just headed home for the night. Do you want to come over or go grab a bite to eat or something?”
Like me, my mom isn’t the greatest cook. I’m sure that’s where I get my culinary skills or lack thereof. For some reason, I don’t feel like eating out so I say the unthinkable.
“Let’s just have dinner at your place.”
That suggestion gets a raised, perfectly arched, eyebrow. Her hazel eyes speak volumes, but she doesn’t say anything, just shrugs her shoulders.
“Hey, Buster, I’m heading out for the night,” she calls out to the bald, burly, black man behind the bar. He lifts his eyes from the laptop he’s looking at, and his stern features become soft when his gaze lands on me.
“Whoa! Who’s this beautiful stranger before me?” Buster bellows. I can’t help but smile. Buster has been a constant in my life since as long as I can remember. He used to be a bouncer for the club until Brooklynn found out that under his intimidating exterior was head for business. She quickly promoted him as her Assistant Manager.
“Come give an old man a hug,” he says in his gruff voice. He couldn’t whisper if he tried. He sounds scary and looks even more frightening, with a long scar beginning at the corner of his left eye, making its way across his mouth and ending at his right ear. Buster is in his fifties, but he doesn’t look like he’s a day over thirty-eight, even with the massive scar. He once told me that someone tried to slice his throat and missed, but not to worry, he turned out in better shape than the other guy. That’s all I know about it because I knew better than to ask any more than that.
Buster lifts part of the bar’s countertop, removing the barrier, as I make my way to him for a hug. My mother watches quietly from near the front door, with a half-smile on her face. Placing a kiss on his onyx-toned cheek, I give him a big hug, and he returns the favor, squeezing me tightly. This man is the closest I’ve ever come to having a father. I’ve often wondered why he and my mother never hooked up.
“Sorry, I haven’t been around much,” I apologize.
“That’s alright, shortcake. Go spend some time with Brooklynn, she needs it,” he replies, whispering the last part so my mother can’t hear him. I’m pretty sure she heard him anyway − a booming voice like his carries.
“I’ll stop by again soon to visit you, Buster Bear,” I promise, using the nickname I dubbed him as a child. Giving him one last squeeze and a peck on the cheek I head back to where my mother is waiting for me and we head out the door to her flashy, yellow, Mercedes AMG, parked out front.
I’m surprised that my mom would leave her ‘baby’ parked out front unattended like that. Although Kandy Kane’s is nothing close to being the dump it once was, it’s still a strip club and bad things are known to happen in and around places like these.
“I’ll meet you at your house,” I say over my shoulder as I walk past her car to my SUV parked across the street. I guess I’m one to talk, leaving my Cadillac Escalade parked on the same street, but my wheels don’t even come close to costing what she paid for hers.
Hopping in, I follow my mother out of the area and onto the freeway for the forty minute drive to her house in Brentwood. I could have just called her instead of dropping by the club out of the blue, but I really didn’t have any plans to stop by, it just sort of happened.
Well…not really.
I’ve been avoiding Trevor’s calls and texts since my run in with Jake at the mall earlier today. Going to see my mom is my way of escaping Trevor’s reach if he decides to show up at my apartment tonight unannounced.
Before I know it, we’ve arrived at the guard shack in front of the gated community where my mother’s home is located. She rolls down her window and stops to speak to the security guard on duty, and he waves me on through after her. I think of the large 5,000 square foot Spanish style home as my mother’s house, and not mine, because she moved into the house a few months before I left for college and got my own apartment.
The place I remember as ‘home’ was a run-down, two-bedroom apartment in a seedy neighborhood not too far from where Kandy Kane’s is located. There were crack pipes in the parking lot, the street lamps were always busted, and you were lulled to sleep at night by the sounds of the ‘ghetto bird’ flying over the neighborhood.
My mother pulls up into her three-car garage, and I park in the driveway behind her. Stepping out of my vehicle, into the crisp December air, I’m surprised when an older, robust woman with blonde hair and a friendly face, opens the door adjoining the house to the garage.
“Ah, Ms. Kane, you’re home. Oh, and you have a guest,” the woman says in a soft musical voice, looking at me with curiosity. “This must be your daughter, Megan, which you speak so highly of. She looks just like you.”
Yeah, everyone says that. Except, my mother has almost half a foot on me, with mile-long legs, and a somewhat slender build. With my wide hips and thick thighs, you definitely couldn’t confuse us from the waist down. Don’t get me wrong, my mother has curves, it’s just that hers are much more subtle than mine. Excluding her breasts, she beats me in that department – hands down. But she paid good money for her boobs so she should have a better pair.
“Yes, I’m Megan. And you are?” I ask, putting out my hand to shake hers.
“My name is Mrs. Chambers, but you can call me Iris. I play cook and housekeeper to your mother,” she replies, more like a good friend than an employee to my mom.
“Is dinner ready, Iris?” my mother asks, walking past her into the butler’s pantry and on into the kitchen.
“Yes, ma’am,” she responds, and I could swear I hear a touch of sarcasm in her voice. The look of mischief in her blue eyes as she winks at me, confirms my suspicions. “I just placed the veal parmigiana on a plate, and the kale salad is in the refrigerator. I’ll hurry and fix a plate for Megan, so you two can eat.”
Watching Iris busily set my plate, I can’t quite place her age. I want to say she’s in her fifties or sixties, but her bubbly energy reminds me of someone much younger. Tearing my eyes away from the delicious smelling food Iris is fixing for me, I look around the kitchen and into the connecting family room, and I’m reminded of why I don’t come here very often.
The modern minimalist design of the interior of the home, clashes with the warm feel of the Spanish style exterior of it. It’s definitely a far cry from the eclectic, somewhat bohemian style décor of my apartment. This house seems stark and uninviting. The sheer size of it accomplishes that, and the sparse angular furniture makes it even worse. I have to admit, I do like some of the artwork hanging on the walls − but that’s it.
“You always did hate this place,” my mother observes.
“Can’t say I’m a fan either,” Iris mumbles. I know my mother heard her, but she doesn’t comment.
“It just feels so sterile,” I say. She nods her head in agreement.
“I guess it’s my way of keeping the only part of my life clean that I can,” she says, as she pulls out a chair at th
e kitchen table and takes a seat.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I inquire, as Iris places our plates in front of us. She sets a large bowl of salad between us and pours us each a glass of red wine before quietly disappearing somewhere out of sight, but probably still within listening range.
“Nothing.” She waves her perfectly manicured hand dismissively. “So who are you hiding from? Is it that hot guy, Luke, from the bar you always go to?”
“His name is Jake and, no, I’m not hiding from him.”
Silence reigns as my mother takes dainty bites of her meal and I dive in like it’s my last. I don’t know where my mom found Iris, but damn can she cook. The chicken parmigiana is crispy on the outside, tender and juicy in the middle, with a light, yet robust flavor, caressing my taste buds. I moan in sheer pleasure.
“I know, right?” my mother says, delicately covering her mouth full of food with her hand.
Finishing off the last bit of pasta, I sigh in content and push the empty plate away from me. Reaching for the glass of wine, I bring it to my nose and sniff. Yuck, it’s the dry wine my mother favors. I remember the days when she was content with frozen pizza and a case of wine coolers.
“It’s Trevor,” I confess.
“Evie’s brother?” she asks. I nod my head in response. “It’s about time.”
“Huh?” I say in surprise, sitting up straight in my seat.
“You’ve been crushing on him for a while now haven’t you?”
“Crushing? I’m not some teenage girl, mom.” Although I have to admit that my response just made me sound like one.
“Whatever. You like him. You have for a while,” she states matter-of-factly. “He’s getting too close so you’re creating distance between you. That’s what you do. He must have gotten close pretty quickly because I didn’t even know you two were a thing, and yet, here you are, already trying to ruin it like you do.”
“Well aren’t you the pot calling the kettle black,” I snap, standing up from the table.
I think I’ll have some of the nasty ass wine after all. I pick up the wine glass and quickly gulp down the contents before turning and grabbing my purse from the kitchen counter.
“I never avoided men when they got too close,” she argues.
“No. You just dump them when you get tired of them. You change men like you change your underwear.”
“Is that what you think of me, Megan? I’m just some trashy stripper that can’t keep a man?” she demands, her voice cracking.
“I never felt that way, but apparently, you do,” I remark. “Believe it or not, I think I was happier when you worked at the club instead of owning it. We didn’t have a lot, but we had each other. And I’m not going to lie, I hated that you never kept a man more than a year or two at a time. Especially, when you found a good person, like Frank Walker.”
My mother gasps in shock. “You still remember Frank? How could that be? You were only three or four years old back then.”
“I remember that he would read me stories and tuck me in at night. Sometimes he would give me a kiss on the forehead, and I would think to myself, ‘this is what it must feel like to have a daddy.'”
My mother looks sad and lost as if she doesn’t know how to form her next words. “Honey, Frank was married with three kids of his own,”
“I know,” I quietly admit. “A couple of years after you broke up I saw him and his wife picking up their kids at my school,” She looks grief stricken at my confession. “Is that where you met Frank, at my school?”
The tears roll down her cheeks as she nods her head, confirming what I always knew to be true. Even fundamentally good men like Frank Walker, aren’t really ‘good.’ It’s best never to let them get too close. That way, they can’t hurt you.
“I’m so sorry you were hurt by that Megan. I never knew you found out the truth.” My mother puts out her arms, reaching for me, but I step out of her grasp.
“I’m fine, Mom.”
“No, you’re not, Megan. Because of me, you think that you need to run from anyone who tries to get too close, and that’s no way to live. Trust me, I know.”
It sounds like my mother is ready to tell me something about her life I don’t already know, but I’m so emotionally drained at this point I don’t think I could handle any more confessions right now. I hold up my hand to stop her from divulging anymore of her ‘truths’ to me.
“Alright, now may not be the right time, but you and I are going to have a heart-to-heart. You can sleep in the downstairs guest bedroom,” she instructs me. Nodding my head, I walk in the direction of the guest room. Stepping inside, I wrinkle my nose at the sleek black headboard of the queen sized bed, with its plain white bedding. Bleh. At least I know from experience it’s a lot more comfortable than it looks. Tossing my purse on the night stand, I kick off my shoes and fall back on the bed.
It amazes me how much my mother has changed over the years. People say I’m a spitfire. Well, my mother can be the bride of Satan if you get on her bad side. I never tried to push my mom too far when I was younger. Except of course when I when I became a teenager and got too big for my britches, until she slapped the taste out of my mouth and brought me down to planet earth. Believe or not, that didn’t have to happen more than once − I’m not crazy. My mother may look like a sophisticated businesswoman these days, but I still remember the days she wouldn’t hesitate to jump in a fight. The day my mother broke a few fingers on her boyfriend Seth’s jaw, is how I came to meet Evelynn.
Seth was a big guy, a few years older than my mother. He had tattoos all over his body, most of which were affiliated with his motorcycle club. My mom wasn’t normally the type to go for the dangerous bad-boy type, but for some reason, that time she did. Seth was used to getting his way with women without too much backtalk. I think he preyed on women he considered weak and helpless. What easier prey than a stripper that was also a single mother? But Brooklynn Kane was not the one.
It was a hot day for spring my sophomore year of high school, when Seth had come into our ratty apartment after working on his motorcycle all afternoon. He plopped his grease-stained butt, on my mother’s couch, followed by his steel-toed boots on her brand new coffee table.
“Go get me a cold one,” he ordered me without even glancing in my direction. I’d been standing in the doorway and had a smart remark on the tip of my tongue when I’d suddenly felt my mother’s hand on my shoulder.
“Go on Megan,” she’d told me. I heard the warning in her voice, and I made like I was going to the kitchen, but I didn’t go too far, ducking around the corner into the hallway.
“Seth, what did I tell you about sitting your dirty ass on my furniture? Get your filthy boots off my table,” she said, pushing his feet off the table as she spoke.
No sooner had his feet hit the floor, he was standing over my mother, her hair – which was long at the time – coiled around his meaty fist, his rats-nest-of-a-beard so close to her face I could have sworn I saw her skin reddening before my eyes from the abrasive contact. Right then, I saw my mother do something I’ve never seen again to this day. She groveled.
“I’m sorry Seth. I don’t know what I was thinking, please forgive me,” she plead. I couldn’t believe my ears. Seth had a look of triumph on his face as he gave her hair a hard yank before releasing it. As soon as he released his hold on her fiery curls, my mother kneed him in the groin, followed by a left hook to the jaw. She wasn’t done after that. With a low growl of rage, she smashed her palm into his nose. Looking back on it now, I realize she’s lucky she didn’t kill him with that last strike.
Coming from my place of hiding, I pulled her away from him, and we hightailed it out of there. She called Buster and told him what happened as I drove her to the nearest hospital. That’s the day I met Evelynn. She was visiting her sick grandmother who had recently had a heart attack. We ran into each other at the vending machines. She gave some spare change when I didn’t have enough for some candy I had my eye on.
We started talking as if we had known each other forever. Kindred spirits are what Evie had called us, and I think she was right.
When my mother and I returned to the apartment later that night, Seth was gone, along with all signs of a struggle. We never saw him again, and my mother hasn’t spoken of him since that day either. It’s like it never happened − except it did.
That’s the problem with us, my mother and I, we never discuss things. Not things that really matter, like who my father is, and why I’ve never met him. The only information she’s ever divulged is that she was fifteen, and he was twenty-one when she got pregnant with me. She met him while working at a strip club in Las Vegas. She had apparently lied to the club, and my father, about her age. My dad’s sister, Daisy, was a cocktail waitress at the club my mother worked at. They became friends and when Daisy’s brother, Matthew, had come looking for her one day, he met Brooklynn, and the rest − as they say − is history.
My mother got pregnant with me, left Las Vegas for whatever reason, and came here to California. That’s all I know, and I never bothered to ask for more information. I figure that if my father cared enough, he would have looked for my mother and me. Hell, he’s had over twenty-four damn years to find me. If your own flesh and blood can’t be bothered with you, how can you expect someone who isn’t related to you, to love you for life? To love you at all even.
Rolling on my side I grab my enormous purse, reaching into the cavernous interior in search of my cell phone. Feeling the cool screen against the palm of my hand I close my fingers around it and pull it out, mentally debating whether I should look at it. I didn’t turn it off, its been on silent since I left the mall. I have a few texts and some missed calls from Gina and Evie, but only one text and one voicemail from Trevor.
Placing the cell phone face down on the nightstand, I get up and head to the downstairs bathroom to get ready for bed.