Beneath the Shine

by Lisa Sorbe

  She sighs like I’m just the worst, and suddenly I can’t take it anymore.

  Maybe it’s my therapy sessions with Barbara. Maybe it’s finally reclaiming my power. Whatever it is, I’m seeing this situation in a whole new light and…yeah…I’m done taking this shit.

  “Wow,” I say, pushing my plate away from me and propping my elbows on the table. I press my palms together, prayer-like, and rest them against my lips, taking a moment to compose myself. And I’m not doing it to keep up a front or to not draw attention to us. I’m doing it for me, so I can say what I have to say without stumble, without backing down, without crumbling under her stare. “How,” I say calmly, “would it benefit me in any way to take a path that you’ve already carved for me? Or, for that matter, to go through life with only second-hand knowledge, gleaned solely from your experiences alone? You don’t grow from someone else’s mistakes or accomplishments. You grow from your own. Life isn’t supposed to be smooth, Mom. Without stumbling, how can you ever learn to pick yourself back up again?”

  She snorts. “Now you’re just being ridiculous. You act like life’s a game and if you make a mistake you can just stop and do everything over again. Well, missy, life isn’t a game, and I learned the hard way that mistakes are permanent.”

  “No mistake is permanent.”

  She shakes her head, her smile a sneer. “Says my coddled daughter.”

  I glare at her, because this is what our relationship has turned into. “You have never coddled me.”

  “You have no idea,” she says, and her laugh is as cold and hollow as a deep dark well. She pauses, like she’s struggling to decide whether or not to continue. “When I was younger, oh, about sixteen or so, a friend and I made a very stupid decision to get in a car full of boys who’d been drinking. Of course,” she says stiffly, “so had we.” There’s so much hate in her face while she tells this story, so much anger, and she directs it all at me. Like somehow, even though I wasn’t even born yet, what happened was all my fault. Maybe it’s because I’m the only person here for her to unleash this burden on to, or… I don’t know. Either way, I’m seeing my mother real and exposed for maybe the first time in my life. Her beautiful face, always so composed, is twisted with a memory that belies the self-possessed calm she normally exudes.

  “It was spring, and it had just started to rain. That…car,” she spats, “hydroplaned, careened off the road, and smacked right into an old cottonwood tree. My best friend…” Her stony expression slips, and her lips wobble as she clears her throat. But she recovers quickly and lifts her chin, as if to spite the barely noticeable display of sadness that managed to break through her armor. “My best friend died because of a stupid, reckless decision that I made.”

  And now I realize… My mother isn’t hollow. No, not at all. She’s filled with so much anger and guilt, so much self-loathing, and she’s been pushing it all down for years, then covering it up so no one could tell. And, possibly without even knowing it, she’s been channeling that energy, all of that darkness, into the people she loves. Into the pursuit of perfection. A perfection that, on some level, perhaps an unconscious level, she feels will wash away her sins.

  I don’t know what to say. Nothing I can think of would even be close to adequate. Yes, this mistake contains permanency (death) and life-altering effects (hers), but it isn’t one she should still be carrying with her. One of the lessons I learned even before sitting down with Barbara is that forgiving ourselves is just as important, if not more so, than others.

  If we don’t forgive ourselves for our own imperfect moments, how can we ever forgive others for theirs?

  She directs her next words to her folded hands resting in her lap. “Do you know that your grandmother drove me to that tree every Sunday morning until I graduated and went off to college? Made me walk right up to it every time and put my hand on the bark, made me feel the splinters from where the car crashed into it. That’s how she wanted me to start my week, remembering what I caused. What I allowed to happen by making the wrong choice. Your grandmother never let it go. And she was right not to.”

  No, she wasn’t.

  But I don’t say that. The thought of my mother, so young at only sixteen, having been forced to relive the horrible death of her best friend every single week like that? For years? It makes me sick.

  “Mom,” I say, and I can’t help the disgust that creeps into my words. “That’s horrible.” And I don’t mean the accident. Because while that in and of itself was awful, what followed, the punishment my grandmother doled out for years, made everything so much worse.

  I don’t think my mother and I will ever see eye-to-eye. She’s been steeped in guilt, in shame, for so many years that nothing I say right now will pull her out of it. Recovering from a trauma like that—years and years of agitating the wound, allowing it to fester and grow—can’t be cured overnight. How deep the hole must be on a lesion like that! To be continually ripped open again and again and again for years, never once allowed to heal in the way that it should have been.

  This bit of insight, as awful as it is, does help me to better understand my mother. I mean, it has to be a big part of why she is the way she is. And though I don’t agree with her, or with my grandmother’s sadistic method of punishment, I do feel sorry for her. Sorry that she was never able to distance herself enough from her mother’s toxic behavior to see that she had a choice…the choice to forgive herself, even if her own mother never could.

  Now she sits silent, almost meditative, as she must have been every time she visited that damn tree.

  I pick up my purse, root around in it, and pull out Barbara’s card—knowing even as I do that I’ll probably regret it. But if there’s even a chance that she’ll use it, it’ll be worth it.

  “What’s this?” my mother asks as I slide the card across the table. She pinches it between her finger and reads the words, wrinkling her nose. “A therapist? Really Betsy?” She looks up at me, confused. “Why do you even have this?”

  I take a deep breath. “I’ve been seeing her for the past six months, actually. Once a week, at first. Though now I’m down to every other week.” I feel like I’m talking to a child, a child whose temper tantrums and crude observations are more amusing than cutting. “She’s really great. Has a very holistic approach, so it’s not at all like going to a shrink. She uses hypnosis and works with crystals. It’s all very calming, really. She’s also an intuitive, which is cool.”

  She lifts her brows and huffs. “She sounds like some woo-woo charlatan to me.”

  I shrug. “She’s helped me a lot. I like her.”

  “She’s helped you?” She purses her lips and tosses the card back onto the table. “What reason could you possibly have for seeing a therapist?”

  It’s sage advice to pick your battles wisely, and coming clean about that night at Josh’s house and the rape and the fact that Taffy left me at that party and locked the door behind her when she got back to my grandmother’s house just to be ornery would only make things worse. And right now, I don’t want worse. Right now, I’m searching for better.

  I pull a twenty from my wallet and grab my phone which, much to my dismay, has been silent throughout our conversation. “Why do I see a therapist?” I toss the twenty down on the table between us, right next to Barbara’s card, and rise to leave. “Maybe someday I’ll tell you.”

  She just stares at me, shock falling over her features, and for the first time in my life I’ve rendered my mother speechless.

  Before I go, I lean in and kiss her cheek.

  Because no matter what, everyone deserves to be loved.

  It’s been two days, and still no word from Adair. I have no idea if he’s in town or if he left or…or what. But I don’t call again, because chasing after a guy is something I refuse to do. And yes, some would call that just being plain stubborn. But I call it keeping my dignity intact.

  Tomorrow is the Fourth and I’ve decided to go to Humphrey and Elise’s party—with o
r without Adair. And because they have a pool, and I haven’t been in one since I was fourteen, I had to go out this morning and buy a swimming suit since it’s been well over a decade since I’ve owned one. I’m in the middle of trying it on—an emerald green bikini with a halter top—when the doorbell rings. The noise makes me jump, and I snag the ratty t-shirt I wore to bed last night and quickly shrug into it as I leave my room. The only person it could possibly be is the one delivering my pizza, so I scurry into the kitchen and grab the two tens I set out on the table, calling out, “Just a minute!” as I do.

  Gabe, who is usually as quiet as a door mouse, barks excitedly and bolts for the door, half running and half sliding on the slick hardwood floor. He skids into a sit just before I reach for the knob and pull it open. “I don’t know what you’re so excited about,” I say, nudging him gently out of the way with my bare foot. “You’re definitely not getting any—”

  My mouth drops, and a soft oh escapes my parted lips before I can clamp them shut.

  Two brown paper grocery bags fill the doorway, wrinkled and close to bursting with fresh corn on the cob. The earthy smell fills the tiny foyer, like sunshine and fresh air and dirt.

  The man behind them peers over the top, lifts his chin.

  “Hey,” Adair says, flashing me a nervous grin.

  “Hey?” It comes out like a question because, I have to admit, I’m shocked as hell to see him.

  And then we just stand there awkwardly, caught somewhere between the future and the past, until Gabe starts circling our feet, wondering why Adair is still standing outside and I’m standing in here and letting all the cold air out. Apparently Gabe missed him, because he doesn’t act this way around anyone else.

  “And hey to you too, you wee mongrel.” He laughs as Gabe brushes up against his jeans and comes to a sit on his boot. Then he looks at me and shrugs, the bundles of corn shifting in his arms. “I brought you sweet corn.”

  “I see that.” I’m still holding onto the doorknob, my hand sweating as I clutch it tight. In my other hand, the two tens crumple under my grip.

  “So,” he says, “I wanted—” A noise behind him cuts him off, causing him to twist around. It takes a second for me to see what he’s looking at; the white V-neck t-shirt stretching over his shoulders, hugging his biceps and back, momentarily steals my attention, blinding me to everything else.

  When I see that it’s the pizza delivery guy pulling into the driveway, my stomach dances a little jig, growling on cue. Adair hears, swivels his head my way, and smirks. I just cross my eyes and flip him off.

  “God, I’ve missed that,” he murmurs with a smile.

  The delivery guy hauls the pie out of the car and bounds up the stairs from the driveway, the thick soles of his sneakers scraping against the grit on the sidewalk. He falls in beside Adair, a skinny teen with an overwhelming mop of curly black hair, and lifts his chin. “Yo.” The name on the pocket of his shirt says Aiden, and below that, Bob Roe’s Pizza is stitched in cursive-style script. He pulls the slip from the top of the box and holds it up to his face, his nose practically touching the grease-stained paper. “Extra-large taco pizza for…” He squints as he reads it. “Belly?”

  Adair tips his head back and roars, and I have no doubt that if a relationship between us does ensue after tonight, I’ll be hearing that word for as long as I live.

  I hold up my hand, as if there’s any doubt as to which one of us is Belly. The guy slides his gaze up my legs, lingering where the hem of my t-shirt hits mid-thigh, his mouth hanging open.

  Adair fakes a cough and, with his elbow, nudges the poor kid hard in the ribs.

  “Hey, um, yeah.” He blushes, shuffles uncomfortably. “Fifteen eighty-four, please.” And then, almost as if it’s an afterthought, he tacks on, “Ma’am.”

  I groan. “Oh, kid… I liked you so much better when you were ogling my legs.” But I flash him a smirk as I hand him the cash and tell him to keep the change. Adair glowers down at him and poor Aiden fumbles with the payment before skittering back to his car as we watch him go.

  “You know,” Adair says, turning back to me. “You’re looking for trouble when you answer the door looking like that.” His eyes spark with amusement, and he pretends to peer over the bags of corn for a better view.

  “You’re a dork.”’

  He laughs. “And there she is!” He shifts the bags again, the movement startling Gabe. He scurries back in to the apartment, nails clicking on the hardwood. “So, are you going to let me in or what? It’s hotter than hell out here.”

  “What? You can’t take the heat anymore, McTaggart?” But I turn and make room for him to follow before shutting the door behind him. He tries to act nonchalant, but his steps are slow and measured as he makes his way into my apartment. He’s almost cautious, the way he subtly checks out the living room, the hallway to his left.

  I brush past him, the pizza box hot in my hands. “You can just set those on the kitchen table,” I say over my shoulder, placing the box down on the counter by the sink. And then, “He’s not here, by the way.”

  “Wouldn’t matter if he was. I just didn’t want to interrupt anything if, you know, you had company.” He stares pointedly at my attire, and I realize it must look like I’ve just sprung from the sack.

  “I was just trying on a new swimming suit before you got here.”

  Adair arches a brow. “Well, that’s something I’ve never seen you in.”

  Nope, I want to say. But you’ve seen me in much less, so…

  He’s so formal, so polite, that I sort of want to offer him a drink so he’ll loosen up. Like the old days, where we’d share a shot or two when either one of us was having a bad day, and then spend hours talking, one usually making the other laugh so hard tears were shed more often than not.

  But because what I want to talk to him about is so important, I don’t want either of our minds addled with drink. So instead I pull a plate from the cupboard and hold it up. “You want a piece?” He considers it for a moment, hands stuffed in his pockets and looking like a GQ hulk in my outdated little kitchen. “It’s delicious,” I taunt, waving the plate and shimmying my shoulders a little. I open the box, sway my hips in a dorky sort of dance, and sing off-key. “You know you want some…”

  “Betsy…” He laughs uncomfortably, dips his chin, and reaches up, rubbing the back of his neck. “I think…” He looks up at me from under his brow, his face red. “I think I should be going, actually.”

  I stop mid-shimmy and frown, my body deflating, the hand holding the plate hanging limply at my side. “Oh.”

  He bends down and gives Gabe a scratch under his chin, and the dog’s eyes flutter closed at Adair’s touch. He murmurs to him, stroking his head, his neck, his back. “You be a good lad now, you hear?”

  Then he stands, giving me a curt nod before heading to the door. His strides are long and purposeful across the tiny space, and I have to hurry to catch up. “So, that’s it?” I ask as he reaches for the door knob. I stop and plant my hands on my hips, suddenly pissed. “That’s all you came here for, just to bring me more corn than I can eat by myself? After months of no contact, after ignoring me for the first half of the night at Bert’s, and then…” I’m so angry, I’m vibrating, and it’s reflecting in my voice. “Then,” I say, after a deep breath, “you don’t even return my call. Just pop over for, like, two minutes, acting all stiff and proper, giving Gabe more attention than you do me!”

  His eyes are huge. “Are you mad?”

  I throw up my hands. “Yes!”

  Adair laughs, but it isn’t the merry rolling sound that makes me want to laugh along with it. “What I meant was…are you crazy? You have a boyfriend, doll. What do you want me to do? Ignore that fact? Pull you in and slap you on the back like you’re just one of the guys? Especially when you’re wearing that?”

  I gnaw on my lip as I look away and self-consciously reach down and tug on my t-shirt. When I look back, his eyes are on my hands, on my thighs.r />
  “Hell, I shouldn’t have even come over here at all. But then I saw that stupid roadside stand, and all that damn corn reminded me of you. And how can you even ask for my attention when I have to leave here knowing you’ll be going to bed with some other man tonight?”

  For a second, I’m confused. But then I remember. He doesn’t know… “Adair,” I say. “I’m not… Clint and I broke up.”

  “Last I knew, yeah. But then I come back here and see you two together, and… The guy couldn’t keep his damn hands off you. Like he as marking his territory or something.”

  I press my lips together to bite back a chuckle. “McTaggart, McTaggart, McTaggart,” I sigh dramatically before grabbing his hand and pulling him closer. “You’ve missed a lot around here these last six months.”

  He just looks at me, confusion washing over his features. But he allows me to tug him closer, then releases my hand and brings both of his to my hips while I wrap my arms around his neck.