by Pike, Leslie
It wouldn’t be the worst for me, but it would for them. The thought of my siblings’ broken hearts is the only thing holding me back lately. That and the fact you can’t commit suicide if you’re already dead.
My gaze moves to the picture always left face down. It would be a mistake to see his image without first steeling myself. Every day it’s the same thing. I pick it up and turn it towards me. Joy and unspeakable sorrow mix to make this feeling I’m well acquainted with. People say grief changes into something new. Not gone, but something palatable. Really? Five years later I’m still waiting.
This is the one image of him I allow myself to look at. All the others are on flash drives stored in a safe deposit box at the bank. Precious unbearable memories. As soon as I can look at the one I allow myself and not fall apart, then I’ll look at the others.
I smile a bit at the expression on his face. Turning the picture over, I read the familiar words. Redondo Beach 2008.
He was just three.
I run my finger over his face as if it can be considered touching. In the image he’s got ahold of my hands and we’re about to jump the tiny wave that rolls toward the shore. Can’t remember who took the shot. Must have been my mother.
The moment’s frozen forever. You can tell he thinks the wave’s huge. But he’s giggling because he trusted me. Daddy would save him from every danger and all the monsters. My shoulders droop with the thought of how wrong he was.
Muted voices carrying from the beach bring me back to the present. When I lift my head, I see Sam Boy and his female companion walking this way. Not sure what’s being said, but Boy’s getting agitated. His index finger points in my direction. What the hell’s that about? Then his hand’s in the air making some kind of frustrated point.
The woman’s demeanor matches his. She was calm at first. That’s changing. They’re both talking at once. Then in a gesture of what looks like pent-up anger, the kid picks up a rock and throws it as hard as he can in the direction of the sea. She looks stymied as to how to respond. Hmm. I can use that bit. Besides, it’s none of my business. I’ve got writing to do.
I jot down a few key words on my pad next to the computer so I’ll remember to include it in the next novel. A glimpse of body language that says more than words. I’m a collector of bits of human nature gleaned while watching walkers and runners and occasional fog worshippers. Many have shown up in my Daniel Dustin series. The private detective lives on a beach I pretend isn’t this one. My own loner tendencies have become his. And he’s just as fucked up as I am. The fans connect with that. Readers love a flawed character.
Chapter 2
Scarlett
“Cut me a break!” I call to the departing figure. My obvious frustration with him escaping in a high-pitched voice.
This damn sand. Running after someone on it isn’t the easiest thing. His young legs are outdistancing me. Even when you’re in your thirties, thirteen has the advantage. To add to the picture, my boobs are bouncing like two rubber balls. An imaginary drumbeat sounds somewhere counting out the rhythm. Where did I pack the sports bra? I look like a goon wobbling my way forward.
Montana’s big sky has never been missed so desperately. This scene, this spot on earth, seems to be the polar opposite. Contained and all in grey tones. Maybe I’m judging it too quickly. But this friggin place is depressing. My bad attitude this early in our new normal isn’t a good sign.
It’s possible I may have lost some of my credibility with Sam as well. I can’t picture my sister or brother in law having to chase their son and beg him to listen. They were always good at communicating and in charge. They wouldn’t have put up with this behavior. Never did I see Sam have attitude with his parents. Well he’s got one toward his Aunt Scarlett. That didn’t take long.
Can it really be only ten in the morning on day two? Besides that, it’s cold as shit and I stepped on a broken shell a few minutes ago. Is that blood? Fuck my life. There. I admitted to myself what can never be said aloud. Not without me sounding like an asshole.
Sam turns to face me and his blue-eyed gaze doesn’t blink. You don’t have to be psychic to see the kid’s angry and at the same time incredibly sad. I get it. I am too. Neither of us asked for this. Who do I rail against?
“I’ll go get it myself,” he says harshly. “I don’t need you.”
Turning away, his voice trails off with the last declaration, knowing he hit his mark.
“I don’t know much about taking care of a kid,” I call following him, “but I know not to let a thirteen-year-old go to a house of a man who passes out drunk on the beach!”
“You should have thought about that when you gave away my blanket.”
Little shit head. We reach the steps to the drunken man’s home and I place my hand on Sam’s shoulder. He stops.
“Wait. Come on. We’re both on edge. Let’s take a breath,” I say trying a calmer tone.
He softens the scowl, and a deep sigh seals our shaky truce.
“What about I buy you a new blanket? A better one. That one was kind of worn,” I offer.
A veil of sadness falls over his sweet face and with it a frustrated shake of the head. What did I say wrong?
“Mom gave me that when I was little. I just wanted to keep it.”
Oh, shoot me now. Crap.
“I’m sorry, Sam. I didn’t know. Of course you want to keep it.”
“Then you’ll get it back? Because if you don’t, I will.”
The kid’s got balls.
Looking up the stairs to the man’s front door, I hesitate for just a beat.
“Yeah. Okay, I’ll try. But you stay here.”
Sam saves any further argument for another time. He made the most compelling one anyway. I climb the stairs and try coming up with a sound plan. I’ll introduce myself and just tell the truth.
How can any reasonable person deny a boy his deceased mother’s gift? Yeah that’ll work.
Sam’s sure he saw the guy dragging it back to his house. Hope he didn’t chuck it already. I should have thought ahead and brought gloves or a plastic bag. The poor man could have pissed on it and now I’ll have to touch the thing. Who knows what kind of bacteria I’m going to be dealing with? Has anyone ever gotten a sexually transmitted disease from touching urine? My luck I’d be patient zero.
The narrow deck is nearly bare, except for one well-used chair and the patina-colored metal table beside it. It holds an ashtray filled with crushed butts. He misses it often enough to litter the deck. I count at least six half smoked Marlboros strewn across the wood, none of which have been stepped on. Some have long ashes still attached. It’s as if they fell from his hand while he passed out.
This guy has a death wish. Cigarettes, booze. Sam said he’s slept on the beach a few times, but that becoming unconscious is a new thing. New or not, his habits will eventually put him out of his misery. Whatever that may be. I’ve got my own problems to obsess about.
As I approach the door, the faint outline of a tall male figure is visible through the darkened glass. He’s standing to the left of the entry. Details aren’t sharp but there’s someone there, and he’s looking my way. Yikes. There’s something long and baggy on top, but I don’t think he’s wearing pants because I can make out an outline of his calves.
The more I stare the surer I am those are bare legs. Good ones but unadorned. Oh great. Am I about to be greeted by a half-naked man? Figures it would be the important half. He stands perfectly still, watching as I ring the bell. Creepy. I take one step back.
There’s no movement or reaction to the sound. He watches while I decide what to do next.
“Um, hello?” I call through the door.
Nothing. I raise my voice.
“My name is Scarlett Lyon. I’m Sam’s aunt and I just moved in next door. I don’t mean to bother you, but I need to ask for that blanket back. I left it with you last night. My nephew has informed me it’s very important to him. I’m sure you can understand.”
; Nothing. Now he’s pissing me off.
I wave to the ghost behind the glass. He steps back. “I can see you standing there. Is there a chance we might talk?” I say pointedly.
There’s a pause then he slowly moves closer. The door opens, but only enough for me to see one bloodshot brown eye framed by a thick dark eyebrow and half a face peeking out. The body’s hidden. Wow. Half’s enough. Shocking really. Drunken mess of a man’s handsome, with a wet head of thick black hair. Not to mention the sexy stubble. I suddenly recall my weakness for flawed men.
Watch yourself, Scarlett.
In any other circumstance I’d be plotting how I was going to get him to notice me. Right now I’m wishing I wore something other than this unappealing gray sweatshirt, black sweatpants and generic ponytail. For the first time in my life I forgot to brush my teeth and skipped the deodorant. Great timing.
But come on. Am I really critiquing myself instead of the guy? I shouldn’t forget I know too much about the man, and it’s more than a minor flaw. It’s a deal breaker. My line in the sand. Literally. I should take a stick and draw a line around his property. I’ve got enough self-respect to know that much.
Contradicting me, a lock of hair falls over his eye.
“Yeah, no problem. The blanket’s in the wash, but I’ll leave it in your mailbox sometime today,” he says in a raspy response.
A seductive voice, too? Or am I admiring booze-ruined vocal cords? I’m being tested. I must really be stressed out to be turned on by the guy who I thought was half-dead from alcohol poisoning not eight hours ago. This is proof positive being horny fries your brain cells.
I’m suddenly aware I’ve gone off on a fantasy tangent, and the guy’s staring at me.
“Yeah. Great. Sam will be happy,” I say. “Hey, what’s your name? If we’re going to be neighbors, we should at least know each other’s names.”
I don’t get a smile or really any sign of neighborly hospitality.
“It’s Parish. I’m sorry, I’ve got someone on hold. I’ll make sure Sam gets his blanket. Goodbye.”
And then the door’s shut in my face.
For a few seconds I’m not sure what to do, but when I see his outline recede I turn and make my way down the stairs thinking about that awesome name. It’s a crying shame this hunk of man is so thoroughly messed up.
“Where’s the blanket?” Sam hollers.
“He’s going to wash and return it today.”
“Good.”
Stepping back onto the sand, I throw and arm around his shoulders. He shakes it off. Okay. Rule number two. Don’t touch without asking. Rule one was, don’t give his possessions away.
And that’s the end of our conversation. He runs ahead and all the way to the house with me struggling to keep up. Maybe it’s our new thing.
This whole dynamic is virgin territory. We’ve been close ever since he was born. From afar anyway. The fact we were in different states made no difference. Our long-distance conversations and each family gathering I’d fly in for went smoothly for us. When he was little he’d always want to sit next to me. I’ve prided myself on being the favorite aunt. No matter that I’m his only one.
He was showered with gifts from Auntie Scarlett. Baby clothes to teen favorites. Kids toys, to surfboard. Even trips to Florida’s Disney World for the two of us. Living on my own, single and free, gave me disposable income. My travel agent status provided perks I could share with my family. I contributed to his school projects and encouraged his scholastic goals. It was fun. Being childless afforded me the opportunities to spoil him and not worry I was creating a little monster. My sister and Jim watched out for that.
But as I think about all that came before, the reality of what we’ve been to each other creeps in. To love when you have absolutely no responsibility is an easy kind of affection. And for him to love me back the same. When your only exposure can be measured in hours it’s a different animal altogether.
I made no sacrifices. I had no responsibility to make him a good person or calm his fears. I didn’t worry if he wasn’t doing well in math or feel bad if another kid was mean. Not because I didn’t care, but I never knew if or when those things happened. It was good to be blissfully unaware of the minutia of his life. And he only knew the good parts of me. I was fun Aunt Scarlett. That relationship dynamic is a distant cousin to what’s starting now.
I didn’t choose to be a mother. Never yearned for the experience. But it’s chosen me. When my sister told me all those years ago that I was their pick for guardian in case of death, I thought it was an awesome compliment and a remote possibility. I didn’t think at all.
By the time I’ve climbed the wooden stairs leading to our wraparound deck, I’m sweating balls. It’s only forty-two degrees and the sun’s been hiding behind the fog all morning. Doesn’t matter. All the stress put me in a hot flash. Maybe I’m going into premature menopause. Can that happen at thirty-five? Bad start to the day. I vowed it would be our real new beginning after a rocky first night back in the house. A dark mood’s beginning to form in my mind. How will we ever make a go of this?
He’s left the slider wide open. By the time I get inside, Sam’s nowhere to be seen. I follow the path from the great room, past the kitchen, to the hallway. Things look so different. It’s not just the pictures that are missing, it’s the happy. This used to be a house filled with love and laughter.
Now I just see furniture, meaningless accessories and walls. There’s no sign people actually live here. Tears well up and it’s hard to control them. I quickly wipe away the evidence and continue my search.
He’s not in his room, the guest rooms, or the office. But down at the end of the hallway comes the sound of stifled crying. Shit. He’s in the master.
“Sam?” I give him a warning.
Coming to the open door I knock and peek in, looking for what I already know I’ll find. But it’s worse. There he sits atop the bed, holding one of the pillows against his face. Kristen’s side of the bed shows it’s hers. It muffles the sight and sound of crying the body language gives away.
“Oh, Sam,” I say taking a seat next to him.
Tears are streaming down my face too. Fuck rule two. I put an arm around him and pull him close. This time there’s no resistance.
An idea passes through my mind. It’s going to get me kicked out of the Mother’s Guild, but I think the situation calls for something unusual.
“You cry all you want. Meanwhile, Auntie’s going to say a bad word, because sometimes it makes me feel better. Just this once. Think you can take it?”
He nods into the pillow.
“Fuck me,” I say it quietly. Then louder. “Fuck me.”
He lowers the pillow and looks up. Oh. His eyes and snotty nose are red. But he’s stopped crying for a moment and he’s slightly amused.
“Shall we both say it?” I offer.
He looks surprised at that one. But I get a nod.
“Okay, on three,” I say pointing at him. “One, two, three.”
“Fuck me!” we yell in unison.
His voice calls out in anger and sadness. In frustration. But the words have never sounded so innocent. It’s poignant. They’re followed by a half smile.
“I know I feel better. What about you?” I say.
All I get is a blank look. Feeling better was too much to hope for, but at least he stopped crying.
“Where’s all the pictures?” he asks, nostrils flared.
“What pictures?”
“Mom and Dad’s. They had them all over the house. Even on the refrigerator. They’re gone except for the one in my room.”
Oh shit.
“There’s none in here anymore. Not one,” he says shaking his head. “And the big jar of sea glass. Dad and I collected them on our walks. Where is everything?”
It doesn’t take me long to see he’s right and know we’ve made a mistake. Jim’s gone, Kristen’s gone, and every stripped shelf and table reflect their absence. It looks like no one
has ever lived here. I start talking, spitting out the words in a stream of consciousness.
“It’s just that we had your uncles come for a few days and get the house ready for us. I’m sure they meant well. I think they thought maybe you’d be upset seeing so many, um, memories. But everything’s in boxes in the garage. Nothing was thrown away. We can look for them when we come back from meeting with your teacher. What do you think?”
Silence. Then a barely there nod. He wipes his nose with his sleeve, takes the pillow with him and walks out of the bedroom.
* * *
Turning the black Mercedes SUV I’ve inherited from Seacliff Court, we drive away from our neighborhood. Sam’s middle schools only a few miles from here. I take in the unfamiliar sights.
“There’s a lot for me to learn. You’re going to have to be my navigator for the first few months, you know,” I say, attempting to start a conversation.
“Why are we gonna talk to Mrs. Clark?” he says ignoring my statement.
“Because I want to introduce myself before you go back to class. There may be things I need to know as your guardian.”
“Oh.”
“Did you bring the papers I signed? I left them with your backpack.”
“Shit. How was I supposed to know? I didn’t bring anything,” he says angrily.
“We’ve got to go back. And don’t start saying shit because I do.”
Making an illegal U-turn, I head back. Sam makes an odd sound. It’s a huff. A puff of disgust. The kid’s schooling me.
“What?” I say, pretending I haven’t a clue.
He remains quiet at first, then I see him press his lips together.
“I checked. No one was coming,” I add in weak defense.
“That was against the law.”
“How do you know?”
“Dad used to say that to my mom when she’d do it.”
“Oh. Well, he was right.”