Tiller

by Shey Stahl

“I don’t know if I can. I’m fucked up and I did fucked-up shit. I’ve got huge problems and they. . . even I don’t understand them. Just that they are there and deep. I don’t know if it’s fixable.”

  “Everything’s fixable.”

  I nod; it’s not going anywhere like this. My problems are inside me and it’s up to me to fix them. Not my family

  “Have you seen River?” I don’t know why I ask. It just sort of comes out. Probably because I fucking care and want to know if she’s okay.

  “No,” she admits, swallowing and fidgeting with her hands. “I talk to Amberly, check in. River’s turning four next month.”

  Again, I nod, my heart pounding, my hands shaking. I didn’t want River. I never wanted to be a dad. Does that make me a bad person? To some, okay, maybe many, it does. But hear me out. I didn’t want her to know me. This guy. The one who destroys everything.

  And then I realized, somewhere within the last few weeks here, she has nothing to do with that. She’s innocent. She’s been brought into this world without regard to what she wanted. When I looked at it that way, I can’t turn my back on her.

  I look anywhere but at Scarlet. The ground, the trees, the blinding blue sky. I don’t want them coming here, but Scarlet keeps coming, every couple of days. As if she feels the need to remind me someone loved me.

  They tell you to work on relationships in rehab. The ones you inadvertently destroyed, or in my case, purposely. I wanted isolation because the fewer people who cared, the better off they were when they realized what a piece of shit I really was.

  But, as it turns out, they care enough to come see me.

  “Rhya called me the night she killed herself,” I tell Shade, making eye contact with him.

  He stares at me, blank-faced, his hidden behind shades. Though I know it bothers him, her death doesn’t affect him as much as it used to. “Why?”

  “She asked me to look out for you. She knew you’d blame yourself.”

  Shade shrugs. “You’re doing a pretty shitty job looking out for me.”

  There’s truth to his words. I’m not surprised by them either.

  They leave, and I’m left alone. In thought. Prisoner to my own mind.

  In those group sessions, one word comes up more than the rest. Addict.

  An addict doesn’t have to be addicted to drugs. It can be alcohol, adrenaline, crimes, sex, shopping, food, gambling, there’s so many different forms of it you can’t just assume being addicted only means you’re into drugs. The life of an addict is always the same though.

  There’s no excitement. There’s no happiness or a future to escape to. It’s only obsession. It’s forever there, fully controlling. This completely overwhelming obsession. And until you learn to control it, to say to yourself, I don’t need that, it’s never going to change.

  When I look at the book on my nightstand that night, I don’t have any desire for the addiction. What I want is a little girl with my eyes to see there’s more to me than being someone who’s completely overwhelmingly obsessed.

  I have more than one bad habit and more paralyzing fears than most realize. There’s the glaringly obvious habit you notice when you look at me. They see that I’m suffering. They suspect addiction, but what they don’t see is what drives me to that high.

  They don’t see the one who controls me far more than anything I use to numb the pain.

  It’s in the early morning hours when I think of Amberly. I don’t even recognize the man in the mirror. Dark, tired eyes stare back at me. I’ve spent the entire night on the bathroom floor vomiting, shaking, and willing myself to sleep. I want a drink, or more.

  I don’t sleep. I can’t. I stay up all night and stare at the wall in the bathroom. If I do sleep, the nightmares I have keep me awake the rest of the night. I don’t even know what they’re about, just that they’re so terrifying that my mind won’t stop. I wake up drenched in sweat and confused, afraid to open my eyes and see that those nightmares might be real.

  It’s been three weeks since my last high.

  Three weeks.

  Though I’ve gone weeks before, even months, this time is different. It’s different because I went from using a gram a week to nothing. The crash is unbelievable.

  I’ve tried to quit more times than I can count. Maybe every day. I once went three months.

  Drawing in a deep breath, I’m not sure I can do this.

  And if I think this is the worst of the withdrawals, I’m wrong. The times I’ve tried to quit, I know it’s weeks after you stop that’s the worst. That’s when most relapse. I’ve never admitted to anyone all the drugs I’ve done. Not even to myself. To think I put myself through this, a little bump for a thirty-minute high that leaves me feeling like shit.

  Stumbling back to the bed, the Beauty and the Beast book is on my nightstand, and I think of her.

  “What happened to you?” I ask myself.

  Grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge, I stumble my way outside, and flop down into one of the wooden lounge chairs. Fires still rage nearby. The sky’s painted a smudgy black orange, the distant glow from the hills eerily close. It’s not easy to breathe out here, with dense thick smog that never seems to lift. Funny how that’s strangely similar to the crazy inside my head.

  There’s a knot in my throat I can’t seem to swallow, but I keep trying. I’m sweating, perspiration forming at my temples, prickling and pulsing through me like a fever does, but I’m not sick. Maybe mentally.

  I reach for the book Scarlet gave me. I flip it open, read it, then write a note in the inside.

  I mail it to Amberly, for River.

  “Why can’t I see him?”

  Hand in hand, I look down at River, her hair blowing in the wind, her feet dragging against the pavement toward the mailboxes. “See who?”

  “Tiller. I miss him.”

  We pass by a couple walking their dog. I tighten my grip on Kona’s leash. “He’s been out of town lately.”

  She thinks about it, her brow pulled together. “Is he my daddy?”

  My stomach dips. “What made you ask that?”

  “We both have freckles.” She shrugs. “My mommy and daddy died. I want to pick new ones.”

  Are you crying? I am. She swings my arm, carefree, sunshine on her dark hair. I kneel, and Kona licks my face. It’s River I’m focused on. “They’re still your mommy and daddy. They always will be.”

  She nods, her eyes bright like the sky. It hurts to look at her when she shares his eyes. “I know. They’re my heaven mommy and daddy. Can I pick new ones for earth?”

  When she puts it like that, it’s hard to tell her she can’t. “If you want to.”

  She smiles and twirls purple strands around her fingers. “I pick you. And Tiller.”

  I pick him too, but he didn’t pick us, baby.

  I don’t say anything, but I reach for her hand, leading her to the mailboxes. She lets go when we’re near, rushing toward the park next to them. Kona runs with her, trailing along beside her like the protector he’s become.

  I watch for a moment, then place my key into the lock, digging through our mail. Knowing he was in rehab, I wasn’t expecting to hear from Tiller, but when I open the mail that warm fall afternoon and see the book, I know in my heart this is the old Tiller. The one who cared.

  On the inside cover of Beauty and the Beast, there’s Tiller’s handwriting, and I’m not sure who the message is meant for. Me or River. Probably both.

  Are you crying? I am. Oh hell, of course he’d do something like this. I keep his sweet words locked inside my heart, knowing I may never hear them again. I know his touch, his kiss, and how warm his heart can be. He’s not all bad. No one is all evil. We all have good and bad inside of us. Light and dark that coexist within the person, and while it’s sometimes ugly, it’s sometimes beautiful. He asks for my vulnerability and every time I surrender my heart willingly.

  River spots the book, even from where she’s at and comes running. “Is that for me
?”

  I nod and hand it to her. “Is it from Tiller?” Again, I nod and hold back tears. She smiles, flipping it open. “He misses me.”

  It’s not a question; it’s a statement. One I can’t deny because I know it’s true. Tiller may not have wanted a child, but here she is, and even in the state he’s in, he couldn’t ignore that.

  I can’t say the last three weeks have been easy without him. They’ve been exceptionally hard, but we’re learning to live on our own and I’m giving her what Ava and Cullen would have wanted. A stable, loving home full of spontaneity and life.

  I wouldn’t say we’re on good terms, my parents and I, but I don’t deny them the right to see River.

  Alexandra, marriage seems to be calming her, but not nearly as much as pregnancy has been. I know, crazy thought there, huh? Alexandra as a mother. Maybe that’s all she needed in the beginning.

  Since the DNA results were confirmed, my parents let it go with Tiller and the custody battle. Maybe because he wasn’t in the picture, or maybe because he went to rehab. I don’t know for sure, and I haven’t questioned it. I still think of Tiller and hope one day soon, he can share this with me.

  When I think of him, I’m just as breathless as the day I left him at the house. It was only a week ago that I stopped waking up crying and hating myself for missing him. Because I do. I miss him every day. I miss the man who knows me better than anyone else.

  He still pays for my apartment with River in Pasadena, and because he’s her father, the courts demanded he pays child support. I rip up the child support check, and called the three grand a month apartment he pays for good enough. And even then, I feel incredibly guilty for taking that from him. What I want is him.

  Do you see that guy standing outside a long building scowling at it?

  That’s me. I’m never stepping foot inside that hell-hole again. Worst thirty days of my life.

  I’m just kidding. It wasn’t the worst. Two years ago, I spent a week in a jail in Tijuana. I have no idea how I got out, just that I did. But just so we’re clear, there is absolutely no difference between criminals and cops in Tijuana other than the cops have badges and can do whatever they want without fear of reprisal. That’s a story for another day though, and as a matter of a fact, probably one I won’t tell you.

  Grunner finds me. “It’s about time you left, asshole.”

  I smile and run my hand through my hair. “You’re gonna miss me.”

  He turns, raising his middle finger in the air. “The fuck I will.”

  A horn honking draws my attention to the pull-thru drive.

  I’m released on a Thursday. I was born on a Thursday and for a while, I hated Thursdays. Maybe I still do, but it all comes back to one woman. Do you know who I’m talking about? I don’t mention her much, if at all, because my mind wants to forget.

  I learned a few things in rehab. Forgiveness. They say you’re supposed to let go of all negative emotions and memories from your past and move on with whatever positives remains. If nothing remain, then the relationship was all negative—abusive, even if invisibly so.

  For longer than I’d like to admit, I punished myself for my mom walking out. For not choosing us against alcohol or drugs, or men. I had guilt of failure, the weight of my own let down had left me in a living nightmare.

  Did I want to forgive her? No. I didn’t.

  My brothers don’t know I saw her, years later. I was eleven when I knew the truth. That she’d left my dad for Rod Mulin.

  Shade and Scarlet pick me up from rehab. It’s the first time I say to him, “I met our mom. She was fucked up at the time and I told her I hoped she overdosed. She also had an affair with Rod Mulin. It’s why I hate him.”

  Admit it, even you weren’t expecting me to admit all that, were you? Hell, I don’t think I was either. It just sort of came out.

  Scarlet stares at me, then Shade. He raises his sunglasses, sets them on the dash of his truck. “Hey to you too, bro.”

  I breathe out, my stomach tight with nerves. “I just needed to get that out before anything else.”

  “Anything else?” He tips to Scarlet beside him. “Did you fuck him? Is that why you like him so much?”

  She gasps and smacks his head. “Stop that. I’ve never had sex with him.”

  Leaning forward, I reach over the seat and pull Scarlet’s hair. “Ah, Northwest, tell him the truth. He deserves to know about us.”

  Laughter erupts in the cab of the truck. Shade knows the truth. He thinks. For a minute. Then reaches for his sunglasses and then starts the truck. “She’s dead, isn’t she?”

  “Our mom?” He nods. “Yeah. I think she’s buried next to her parents in Montebello.”

  “Have you ever been there?” Scarlet asks, twisting around from the front seat and looking at me.

  “No.” I haven’t. I’ve never even been to my dad’s grave and it’s in the same city I’ve grown up in. I don’t know why, probably out of fear.

  Shade pulls out of the parking lot.

  “Take me there,” I tell him. His eyes find mine in the rearview mirror, then he slips his sunglasses on.

  We drive to Montebello.

  It’s an hour drive and then we’re standing in front of a grave. I stare at the weathered stone time has forgotten with overgrown grass. The sky’s bright, the air cooler as fall begins. Everything dirt brown and in need of nourishment.

  A mother should love you enough. Willa did. She appreciated there was more to me. Loving a child isn’t just a feeling, or something you should do. It’s a decision, a judgment, and a promise. One she couldn’t give us growing up. I don’t know why she couldn’t, but I don’t think about it anymore. I won’t.

  Cynthia Sawyer, I won’t think of you.

  My jaw clenches, words stall, but then I say, “We were your kids. How could you not fight for us?”

  Once I say it out loud, I realize how trite that sounds. Pot meet kettle, right? Either way, she left an imprint on my life, for better or worse. Some people can bury the past, hide it, run from it, whatever you chose, but for whatever reason, I couldn’t with her.

  Are you surprised? Don’t be.

  Shade doesn’t say anything, but he’s strangely focused on the ground. “Feel better?”

  I shrug. “I guess. You?”

  “I don’t remember anything about her. Not a goddamn thing.”

  I kneel, brush away dirt and dried leaves from the headstone and I look at Shade. “It’s not even her grave.”

  He laughs. “Oh well.”

  We leave. Scarlet drives and Shade tells her he’s going to have her license revoked. I can’t say I disagree. In a state full of asshole drivers, I can honestly say Scarlet is one of the worst.

  When Shade’s at a meeting with Red Bull and Honda, talking about the upcoming X Fighters season, Scarlet sits in the truck with me. I smoke, and she tells me to stop.

  “Honda wants you to attend the final round of After Dark in Vegas in two weeks. Are you going to do it?”

  I think about her question and sigh. I thought about competing a lot during those three weeks. When I’m on a bike, it’s the only true sense of freedom I’ve ever felt. I defy gravity, logic and sanity and essentially, I come to life when airborne. That feeling, the rush it gives me taunting disaster, it’s about being free and doing what you want with no idea how it’s going to end. If only for a second, my mind is nowhere else.

  I can’t give them up. For me, that’s why. If only for seconds, I’m free from everything else. The sponsors, the brand of me they’re creating, the women, the other riders. In those seconds, I’m alive only for me.

  “Yeah,” I finally answer, laying my head back against the seat, enjoying the coolness of the fall air. “I’m planning on it. Wasn’t sure if Honda still wanted me.” Given my drug-addled, hate-filled past, I behaved in ways that caused the industry shame. I wouldn’t have blamed my sponsors for dropping me after the way I acted. It wasn’t right, and I can’t even tell you why I did it
other than rebelling. But still, they didn’t drop me. They covered, blamed my disappearance on my shoulder injury and hyped my return.

  “What are you gonna do?” Scarlet asks, handing me my cell phone I didn’t have with me in rehab.

  I stare at it. Sixty missed messages. None from her. “With what?”

  She pauses, takes a drink of her iced coffee and stares at me. I say nothing. She rolls her eyes, hanging her hands on the steering wheel. “You know what. Amberly. River. Her birthday is in three days.”

  I shrug, having no real plan of action. Other than groveling like a goddamn fool and hoping she finds pity on me. That could work, couldn’t it?

  Probably not. “I don’t know.”

  She twists in the seat, knocking her hand to my knee. “Well, in the books I read, the hero does something courageous to win the girl back and prove he’s worthy.”

  “I can do courageous.”

  Scarlet gives me that look. The one that screams, dude, you’re an idiot. “I said courageous, not stupid.”

  I laugh. “Is there a difference?”

  “Yes. Yes, there is.”

  “Nah.” I shift in the seat, uncomfortable. Scarlet hands me an invitation.

  “Are you going?”

  It’s the invitation to River’s fourth birthday party. And while I don’t think I should go, I doubt anyone in attendance wants me there, I can’t not go.

  “I need the flower from Beauty and the Beast.”

  Scarlet raises an eyebrow, never looking up from her phone. “The enchanted rose from the movie?”

  Of course she knows the name of it. River and Scarlet cried together at the end of when we watched it. All fifty times the three days I had her. “Yeah. Is that possible?”

  “Not unless you plan on stealing it from Disney.” And then she looks at me. “Dude, no.”

  “Fine. Can you get one like it?”

  “Why?” Check out her face. She’s excited, isn’t she? She thinks this is me being courageous. I guess it might be, huh?

  My nostrils flare and I close my eyes. “Fuck, because I asked you to. That’s why.”

  “Is it for a girl?”