by Claire Adams
"What's sadistic?" I asked earnestly. As my older brother by two years, Lincoln was both my encyclopedia and dictionary.
"It means you like seeing other people in pain," he replied as he took another huge bite of his sandwich.
"Oh, yeah, that makes sense then," I said. "But he doesn't seem to be happier after he punishes us. Does that count?"
"It's not that it makes people happy, dummy," Lincoln said with a full mouth. "It's that he likes it."
"That's just weird," I said, popping the last bite into my mouth and chasing it with the last bit of milk. I liked it when things evened out just right.
"I didn't say it made sense," Lincoln said crossly. "I'm just saying …"
"Boys," my mother called from the kitchen window. "Did you leave this mess here for me to clean up, or were you planning on coming back and doing it yourself?"
"We'll do it, Mother!" I yelled. "We were just really hungry."
"That's what I thought," she called. "I knew you didn't want your father to come home and discover your carelessness."
Lincoln and I looked at each other wide eyed as we quickly grabbed our dishes and headed inside to take care of cleaning up the mess we'd made. By the time we were done, the painters had finished with our room and were cleaning up.
We surveyed the job in a state of awe as we looked at our plans for decorating the room. It was overwhelming to think that our vision of how the room should look was about to come true. Lincoln stuck his hand out and touched the wall. When he drew back, there was a print on the wall the size of his hand, and his palm was covered in dark-blue paint.
With fear in my eyes, I looked at my brother who shrugged and stuffed his hand in his pocket.
"Dad's gonna kill you if he sees this," I whispered.
"Then we need to figure out a way that he doesn't see it, don't we?" Lincoln said in a way that struck me as oddly defiant. Up until then, we'd been partners in punishment, but Lincoln seemed to be rejecting that narrative. It seemed risky to me, but since he was the older, wiser brother, I followed his lead and helped him plan how to hide the handprint.
Our plan had ultimately worked, and no one had been the wiser. However, Lincoln's pants had suffered the consequence of him shoving a handful of wet paint into the pocket, so he'd buried them in the bottom of his dresser drawer. We never spoke about it again.
Now, twenty years later, I opened my eyes and looked over at the wall where Lincoln's handprint had been and wondered how many layers of paint it had taken to cover the memories in this room—and how long it would take for me to leave the memories behind.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Leah
After the wake, I headed over to the office to take care of a few orders that were pending in our warehouse. I knew I didn't have to work. But I also knew that death or not, customers were still waiting for their orders. Our ability to survive the loss of our leader was dependent on the rest of us doing our jobs. I waved to a few of the warehouse workers and handed over the orders that were waiting to be filled.
"Get this out as soon as you can, okay?" I said to the shift manager. "I know they know about Mr. Yates, but let's keep the orders rolling out as close to schedule as possible."
"Will do, boss!" Burt nodded as he took the paperwork and surveyed the order. "How was the end of the wake?"
"The usual: lots of crying and mourning and gossip," I said.
"That's how it always is, isn't it?" John said. "The rich go out rich, and the poor get tossed in a pauper's grave."
"I don't know about that," I said shaking my head. "I mean, Mr. Yates came from nothing and worked his way up, you know."
"Sure, but he had all the money in the world to go out on," Burt said as he checked off boxes on the order, making sure he had everything in the warehouse. "His family is going to be just fine, but what about the rest of us? Who's going to lead the company now? Are we going to lose our jobs when the new guy comes in and decides that what we've been doing no longer works?"
"Let's not get ahead of ourselves, shall we?" I said, trying to stem the concern I heard in his voice. "I'm sure Mr. Yates had a good plan in place in case something like this happened. Let's give it a few weeks before we start to panic."
"I'm just saying that I've seen it before, and it doesn't end well for those of us on this end of the equation," Burt warned.
"I promise I'll let you know what's going on as soon as I hear something," I said, turning to go back to my office. I couldn't show it, but I was worried, too.
I'd started working at Baby Steps in high school, and over the past decade I had worked my way up to warehouse manager. Mr. Yates had been a mentor and a father figure to me as I'd made my way through the ranks. I was now making a good living managing the warehouse. But I wondered how that would all change if a new CEO came in and took over.
I said goodbye to the warehouse staff and headed home to make dinner for Riley. When I got to the house, I found Mama asleep at the kitchen table with a half empty bottle in front of her and a lit cigarette in the ashtray. This was getting dangerous, and I needed to do something about it.
"Riley!" I called up the stairs. "Are you home? What do you want for dinner?"
"Up here, Leah!" Riley called down. "Pizza!"
I grabbed the phone and dialed the pizza place around the corner and ordered a large to be delivered. Then I shook my mother awake and helped her to her bedroom.
"Mama, you have to get help," I whispered as I tucked the blankets in around her. "You can't go on like this."
"I'm fine, girl," my mother slurred. "The last thing I need is you nagging me about something you know nothing about."
"Mama, it's not safe anymore," I said as she looked at me with watery eyes. "I can't leave you here alone, and Riley is too young to be responsible for you. We have to do something to change this."
"Get the hell out, and let me get some sleep," she said pushing me away as she rolled over and curled up. "I don't need your high and mighty attitude, missy."
"Mama …" I pleaded to her back. I waited but soon heard the sound of her snoring. I knew she'd be out for hours.
I walked back into the kitchen and dropped down into the chair my mother had occupied. The walls were stained a dull yellow from her years of smoking, and I knew that if the alcohol didn't get her, lung cancer would. The problem was I didn't know how to stop her.
"I'm sick of this," I said as tears welled up. "I'm sick of being everyone's keeper."
"What's wrong, Leah?" Riley said as she entered the kitchen, holding a sheet of paper. "Are you okay?"
"I'm fine," I said wiping my eyes and trying to put on a smile. Riley was having none of it.
"Gram's a pain in the ass, isn't she?" she said without judgment. "I get sick of her being drunk all the time."
"She's just sad," I said, trying not to unload my personal feelings on the twelve-year-old.
"Oh give me a break, Leah," she said, rolling her eyes dramatically. "Gram is a major downer, and I'm tired of her constantly being drunk. It's embarrassing. Why don't we just throw her in rehab and be done with it?"
"Riley? What's gotten into you?" I exclaimed.
"So, what are we going to do about it?" she asked. Her jaw was clenched, and I could see that she was itching for a fight. Sometimes she reminded me so much of Molly that it hurt. "I mean, this can't keep happening, can it?"
"I don't know," I sighed as my shoulders sagged. I leaned against the counter. "Gram won't go to rehab and I can't make her. She's never going to stop drinking, so I don't know what to do."
"One of the counselors at school gave me this," Riley said as she held out the sheet of paper. I took it and scanned the page. It was a detailed outline of how to stage an intervention.
"Did the counselor say anything about this?" I asked as my face burned with shame. Someone at school knew what was going on in this house, and they were reaching out to a twelve-year-old. How much worse could this get?
"She just said that the intervent
ion might be the last step in helping Gram find a way to get out of her addiction," Riley said. "Can we try it, Leah? We could call Patrick and get him to help, couldn't we?"
"Let me think about this," I said as I thought about how we could bring my brother, Patrick, into the mix. Just then, the doorbell rang. I handed Riley two twenty-dollar bills and said, "Tip the delivery person five—no more!"
"Gotcha," Riley said as she took the money and went to retrieve our dinner.
I read the flyer again. I thought about how Molly would know what to do with Mama. Molly would have handled this with her usual flair and forthrightness, and she would have made it look easy. Maybe that was the problem: we all thought everything Molly did looked so easy. Maybe things had been a lot harder for her than we thought, and now we were getting a peek into what drove her away.
By the time Riley brought the pizza back into the kitchen, I'd set the table and had made a decision to call Patrick after we ate.
*
After dinner was over and the dishes were done, I took my phone out of my purse and went into the living room to call my brother. It had been almost two years since we'd last spoken. As the phone rang, I thought about what I would say to him and how he might respond.
"Queen of Peace Parish," a voice answered the phone. "How may I direct your call?"
"Father Patrick Walsh, please," I said. There was a click and the phone began ringing again.
"Father Patrick Walsh," my brother said into the receiver. "How may I be of assistance?"
"Patrick?" I said quietly. "It's Leah. Please don't hang up."
"Leah," he said, and I could hear the suspicion hanging in the air between us. "What do you want?"
"I need to talk to you, Patrick," I pleaded before I rushed headlong into what I wanted to say. "It's Mama, she's not doing well, and I need help figuring out what to do with her. I know you don't want to have anything to do with us, but we need you, Patrick. I need you. I need your help. Please don't hang up on me."
I began crying as the weight of everything that had happened came crashing down on me. I needed my brother more now than ever before, but I wasn't sure he'd be willing to help. So much time had passed since Molly disappeared, and none of us had listened to him while we'd still had the chance.
"Don't cry, Leah," he said softly. There was a long pause before he spoke again, "Let's meet at the parish and talk about what's going on. When are you free?"
"I have to work, but I could come by when I'm done," I said. "I'm usually back in the neighborhood by six so I can pick Riley up, and she's usually in bed by nine. Can I come see you in the evening?"
"How is she doing?" he asked. I could hear the softening of his voice as he asked about his niece. "Is she well?"
"She's good," I said. "Growing like a weed and getting to be more like Molly every ... I need help, Patrick."
"I know," he said, and my fears began to abate. "Come to me this week, and we'll talk."
"Okay," I said as I sniffled and choked back everything else I wanted to say. "I'll call you when I'm on my way over."
"I'll be glad to see you, Leah," he said before the line went dead.
I sat staring at the phone for a long time, hoping that I hadn't hallucinated the call, and hoping that Patrick would, indeed, help me make choices that would be best for Mama, Riley, and for me. Given our history, I wasn't counting on anything.
Not just yet.
CHAPTER NINE
Jack
When I came down for breakfast the next morning, Lincoln and my mother were sitting at the table with my father's attorney, Gordon Brasher.
"Jackson, it's good to see you, son," he said in deep booming voice as he flashed a smile as fake as the Rolex on his wrist.
"It's Jack," I said as I sat down and waited. A plate of eggs, toast, and bacon was soon placed in front of me, and I began eating without saying another word.
"Ah, right. Jack it is, then," the lawyer said with a forced laugh. "We were just discussing the stipulations of your father's will, Jack."
"And this involves me how?" I asked with a mouth full of eggs. I was angry and resentful that I was being included in this ridiculous conversation.
"Haven't you told him?" Brasher asked, looking back and forth between my mother and my brother. "I thought he knew."
"No, we didn't say a word," Lincoln said coldly. "We thought this matter was better left to the professional."
"I see," Brasher said, nervously clearing his throat as he looked down at the papers in front of him. "Well, I guess there's no use in delaying the delivery then, is there?"
"Would someone just man up and tell me what the hell is going on here?" I said impatiently. "I'm tired of this secretive game of ping pong knowledge sharing."
"Jack, your father left a will stipulating that you are to become the new CEO of Baby Steps," Brasher said.
"Well, then he was out of his mind because that's never going to happen," I said matter-of-factly. "Anything else?"
"Um, yes, actually there is," Brasher said nervously. "You don't have a choice in the matter."
"The hell I don't," I replied. "I'm independently wealthy and need nothing from any of you. I owe you nothing, and I'm not doing anything to keep that stupid company alive in the absence of my father."
"Jack, listen to the man," my mother urged as she looked helplessly at my brother.
"Jack, your father’s company is held by Bank of Manhattan, isn't it?" Brasher asked.
"Indeed, it is," I nodded as I stuffed a bite of jam-covered toast into my mouth and chewed.
"Well, the money your dad is paying you has been frozen until you take the CEO position at Baby Steps, and you either decide to run the company or hire someone to run it for you," Brasher said quickly. "You'll have no access to any of the money you invested in the business until you take care of your father's business."
"Are you fucking kidding me?" I exploded.
"Jack …" my mother said disapprovingly.
"No, seriously?" I said looking around the table in disbelief. "That bastard stipulated that my assets—the assets I've earned through my own blood, sweat and tears, and that I loaned him—will be on hold until his damn business is taken care of?"
"Jack, Pop had hoped that you'd come around and see that the company had a great deal of potential," Lincoln began.
"And you? You had to have helped him with this fucked up plan, didn't you?" I said, shooting my brother a look that made him avert his eyes. "Why in the hell did he pick me? He knew I had no desire whatsoever to run the company."
"Your father believed that you were the one who could best represent the company's interests," Brasher said as he slid a stack of papers across the table. "It's all explained in this document, as are the parameters of the agreement. If you run the company for a year and turn a profit that is within the normal range of what Baby Steps has been doing for the past five years, then your investments in the company will be unfrozen. At that point, you'll be given the option of staying on and running the company or hiring someone to replace you. Either way, at the end of the year, you'll be free."
"So, in other words, I'm being punished for having helped that bastard yet again?" I asked in a tone so venomous that my mother got up and walked away from the table. I knew she was crying.
"I'm not sure I'd say that, Jack," Brasher said. "I'd look at it more as an emergency management strategy that your father hoped he'd never have to use but put in place just in case something like this happened."
"This is so far beyond fucked up," I said shaking my head as I scanned the documents in front of me. I looked at Lincoln and said, "You know that, right?"
"Jack, Pop needed someone in charge who knows how to run a business," he said. "I'm the company's banking resource. I can't do it."
"Why didn't he just vet someone and put them in place to succeed him?" I asked. "That seems like it would have been a hell of a lot easier than roping me into doing a job that I have absolutely no desire to do."
"This is such utter bullshit," I said angrily. "But I have no choice, do I?"
"No, Jack, you don't," my mother said from the corner of the room where she stood staring up at a painting of my father that she'd had commissioned several years before his death. In it, he looked like the strong patriarch everyone thought him to be, but all I saw was vengeance and anger.
"He's dead, and he still gets his way," I said, shaking my head as I grabbed the papers and stood up. "I guess tomorrow is as good a time as any to get started. Would you tell Jimmy to bring the car around tomorrow morning at eight sharp? I'll be going into the office."
I marched across the room, yanked open the door, and headed up the stairs to my room. I quickly changed into running clothes and tried to calm myself. If my father had overseen it, then the paperwork was airtight. I wasn't getting any of the money back that I’d loaned him until I'd fulfilled the terms laid out in the will. As angry as I was, I'd been trained not to openly defy the man who'd helped bring me into this world.
I did, however, have the beginnings of an idea how to get out of the deal and get back to my life before a year was up. I was going to have to play the part of the dutiful son and concerned CEO of this ridiculous company until I could work out the specifics of my plan. Tomorrow would be a good day to get started.
I put my earbuds in and headed downstairs to take a very long run.
*
I tossed and turned all night, trying to find a way out of the will’s stipulations, but I came up with nothing. My father had made sure that I would be locked into the position of CEO for as long as it took to keep Baby Steps running. There was no way out. By the time the sun rose, I had resigned myself to the idea that I was going to have to suck it up long enough to figure some way out. The one saving grace was that I knew I was under no obligation to hide my disdain for the job. I would do it, but I wouldn't do it pleasantly.
After a quick workout, I showered and dressed for the office. My father had been a casual man when it came to dressing for the office, but I didn't think following in his footsteps would be a good way to start my tenure as CEO. I picked the most expensive suit I had and dressed as if I were heading to Wall Street.