by Cecy Robson
He motions toward Carson, the gesture barely perceivable like most of Emer’s ways. It’s only then I raise my chin. “Daddy needed you. We all did. But maybe you’re not our brother, after all.” He meets me square in the face. “A real brother wouldn’t have left us like you did.”
“You have no idea what you’re saying,” I mutter, my rage and disappointment slicing my veins like a blade. “The hardest thing I ever had to do was walk away and leave you behind.”
“Then why did you?” Emer asks. “I get that you needed a few days, weeks, maybe even months to process what Daddy said. We would’ve given you that. Years, Hale? Who the hell do you think you are?”
“I don’t know who I am,” I answer truthfully. “But I can tell you who I became, a man without a father, trying to live a life that wasn’t a complete lie. Everything I thought I was, I wasn’t. And everyone I knew to be real was furthest from the truth.”
“Except your friends, right?” Emer asks. “Mason, Sean, Trinity, and let’s not forget her brother, Landon, and their folks.” He looks like he’s ready to break me in two. “And then there’s Becca. Sweet as sugar, gorgeous as the rising sun, Becca.” He shoves a finger at me, not quite touching me, yet hurting me all the same. “It was okay to stand with them. Be there for them when they needed you, wasn’t it? But God forbid you stand by those who called you their own.”
“Don’t bring my friends into this.” I was already pissed when he dragged my posse into this conversation, but when he mentioned Becca . . . that was a whole lot of rage I could’ve done without.
“Why not, Hale?” Carson drawls.
My head whips in his direction. I thought for sure he’d passed out on the lawn by now. “I would think we’d be worth as much as them. Then again, we’re the ones who were never good enough. For you or for Daddy.”
He rises from where he sits near the grass on wobbly feet. It’s only when I see how red and swollen his eyes are that I realize he’s been crying. Damn. I can barely recognize him. A beer gut has formed over abs that were once as flat and rigid as mine. The muscles on his arms are nothing more than loose skin and fat.
Carson was the brother with more notches on his bed post than seemingly possible. Young women would turn on each other for a chance to be his, if only for a few hours. Now look. He had his choice of women only to have the one he married leave him and take his kids with him.
“Daddy wasn’t supposed to love you,” Carson says, repeating Emer’s words like I hadn’t heard them. “But he did. Just like the rest of us. Just as Momma did from the start. You were our brother, Hale. Our blood. And you up and died on us. You think we lost our father that day in the hospital? And our momma soon after that? Well, we did. But I guess we should have dug another hole beside them, because we lost you, too.”
Carson stumbles across the lawn, tripping over his own feet. “You think watching you on TV, reading about you in the paper, seeing pictures on the Internet of you beside whatever woman you were fucking was enough? It wasn’t.”
Carson stops short near the bottom of the steps, his face purple and his veins popping with how loud he yells. “Goddamn you, Hale. You should have been there for us.” He chokes on a sob. “We would’ve been there for you.”
My eyes burn as if dipped into acid and I’m not alone. Emer, our leader, the reasonable one, the one who never showed a hint of his emotions, looks away before the first of his tears can show.
“I’m sorry,” I say, my voice cracking with how much I mean it. “I’m so fucking sorry.”
I didn’t come here to apologize. Knowing what I know about my family, I expected to fight, to yell and roll around the dirt as my brothers laid into me. It’s what I’ve expected for years and maybe what they expected, too.
Except here we are, three tough as nails men, fighting back tears like three little boys. Boys that spent years running around this property, scraping their knees, climbing trees, and overall pissing each other off.
But maybe loving each other, too. No matter how much we all tried to fight it.
The wind blows again, scattering more leaves and bringing a fresh stream of ocean air. For a moment, I’m that young man again, tasting salt from sweat on my lips, carrying planks and hammering boards into place to make the porch what it became.
Emer isn’t crying. He’s too busy sawing wood. Carson isn’t drunk, he’s flipping through the blueprint, making sure we’re following it to a tee and talking about heading into town to fetch more lumber. Daddy is reaching for the tray Momma hands him, topped with sandwiches and large glasses filled with the best sweet tea this side of the island.
I look toward the front gate, almost expecting Mrs. Stevenson to pop out of her brand-new Lexus with her basket of peaches. But Mrs. Stevenson died a long time ago. And my Momma. And my Daddy. And so should the bad memories.
“Let’s go,” I say.
Almost as fast as they arrived, Emer’s tears stop.
I motion toward the house. “Inside, if that’s all right.”
Carson looks to Emer. Emer keeps his attention on me. He’s wondering what I’m up to. I don’t know myself. All I know is I can’t leave them again. Not like this.
“We can order ribs from that barbecue place Daddy liked,” I offer. “The one with the fried corn and homemade coleslaw.”
Neither replies. “We don’t have to,” I add. “I just . . . I’m not ready to say goodbye is all.”
“Brisket,” Emer says. “Momma liked the brisket.”
“The fried pickles, too,” Carson agrees.
They don’t flat out say yes, but they don’t argue with me, either. We wait for Carson to walk up the steps. He gets to the door and plows through it. Emer follows quietly behind him.
I wait, unsure what to do. It’s only when Emer holds open the door that I know I’m welcome.
And that maybe I always belonged.
Chapter Nineteen
Becca
It was hard waking up without Hale beside me. When I read his note that he’d gone to see his brothers, it was hard not to follow and make certain he was okay. But the hardest thing of all was leaving Hale’s bed to return to my childhood home.
Momma didn’t give me a choice. “If you ever loved me, Becca June, you’ll come and tell your daddy goodbye.”
That’s the call that woke me from sound sleep and the last thing I wanted to hear.
My Mercedes rolls to a stop. I climb out, slowly, my heart heavy and chills racking my spine. I look up at the grand estate. I don’t feel what I feel because my father is dying and the hours he has left are few. The cold taking up residence deep within me is due to fear. Fear of what he’ll say and what his words will do to me.
At thirty-two years old, I’m still afraid of my father. It saddens and disappoints me, but it sickens me more than anything.
I ring the doorbell beside the heavy door that marks the entrance to my childhood home. The door looks new. It’s not. It’s a door capable of keeping a giant out and secrets and screams locked tight within. Momma has a thing about keeping up appearances with things looking fresh, no matter how badly they’re falling apart on the inside.
The door was recently sanded to perfection. I slide my fingers over it, feeling the slickness of the wood as I wait. She chose a dark stain this time. It goes nicely with the ornate ironwork that decorates the windows. I wish I could tell her I liked it. I wish I could tell her a lot of things. But like the feelings stirring deep in my gut, my conversations with Momma have never been sweet ones.
Even as a child, I noticed the strain between us. I wanted to connect with her as easily as Trin and her momma so effortlessly did. Once, when I was nine and my birthday was just a few days away, I tried to mirror Trin to see if Momma would respond like Miss Silvie.
Momma pulled away, frowning. “What are you up to, Becca June?” she asked.
“I want to be close to you,” I admitted. “Like the Summers are. Trinity and her
momma hug all the time when she comes home from school, in the kitchen while making supper, anywhere, really, they hug all the time.”
“Sylvie Summers?” she asked, her voice judgmental, as if seeing more than what was there. “Didn’t I tell you she refused to hold the Confederate flag during our annual picnic last year at the club? Sweet heavens, you’d have thought we were asking her to hold up the building itself.”
I knew that flag was offensive, even then. Miss Silvie herself had told me why. She was teaching Trinity and I how to make cranberry cookies. She explained why the flag was special to some and why it hurt so many others. She didn’t judge, but she did make us understand. But me talking to Momma wasn’t about what Miss Silvie did. It was about what she and Trin had that I really wanted.
“Momma, I want us to be close,” I repeated.
“To spend time together?” she guessed. “Maybe go shopping?”
The annoyance in her tone already told me I was fighting a losing battle. My mother never made me cry like my father. But that day, my tears didn’t want to stop.
Momma raised her small thin brows she’d plucked one too many times, her impatience with me growing at the sight of my tears. She motioned around the room, where the dining room was stuffed to the gills with traditional Southern men and their wives. The clink, clink of meticulously polished silverware tapped against the stark white dishes. “What do you call this, Becca June?” she asked.
There wasn’t so much of a sliver of what I’d hoped for. Instead, there was only confirmation of what I’d always suspected. I was a burden to my mother. An obligation. I wasn’t something to simply love and cherish. “Wipe your eyes, Becca June. People are staring.”
I shake out my hands. These are the type of memories my childhood home stirs. I don’t need them now. I’ve never needed them.
The door swings open, the motion so awkward I know it’s not whom I’m here to see. I was prepared to find my cousin, Kirk, in the kitchen, complaining about liberals and blaming everything on the manipulation of the media, or perhaps in the billiards room shooting pool with my other cousins. I hadn’t expected him to answer the door.
Age wasn’t kind to Kirk. He’s heavier, the little hair he has left thinning at the top. He doesn’t bother saying hello. Neither do I. “Upstairs,” is all he bothers with.
I try to relax my hold on my purse strap. I don’t realize how hard I’m gripping it until I have to shake out my hand when Kirk turns his back.
The air inside the house is frigid, as my father prefers. In another house, all the wood paneling would provide a sense of hominess and small children would slide down the long winding banister. This house has no such things. I wasn’t allowed to be “childish,” even as a child. This is the place where happiness comes to die and where the dreams you have are quickly silenced.
Kirk hops up the stairs in his bare feet. Momma never allowed shoes upstairs. It’s the reason Kirk glances over his shoulder and frowns at my feet.
My mint heels are high, but respectable, and my white cold-shoulder dress sleek, yet professional. “I’m not staying long,” I say, before he can remind me to take my shoes off.
“Suit yourself,” he mutters, caring about as much as I do.
We reach the second floor. Just as I didn’t expect Kirk to answer the door, I don’t expect all the people gathered along the east wing. Matthew is here with his wife, Lynda. Matthew appears relieved to see me and he almost smiles. “Hi, Becca,” he says.
“Hi, Matthew,” I reply.
Brent’s drunk. The tangy smell of Wild Turkey seeps across the space with his sharp exhale. He never married. Neither did Parker, who, like Brent, is only standing because the wall is holding him up.
Both give me the once-over, as if barely recognizing me through their haze. I pass them and Sully, and his wife, Jerilyn, holding his hand, while her free one strokes her pregnant belly. I nod to her. She was nice enough to invite me to their wedding. I sent a gift, but declined the invitation.
I keep walking, my head neither high nor bowed. I try to avoid eye contact with Parker. He’s on wife number four and it shows in every wrinkle on his face. Davey crosses his arms, his long hair covering his eyes as he leans forward. It doesn’t quite conceal him. I know he’s watching me. But like most of my family, he doesn’t say anything.
I was the black sheep of the family long before I left. Nothing’s changed. If anything, there’s another coat of midnight dark wool covering my hide.
Momma waits at the end of the hall speaking quietly to Reverend Ellis. She abruptly quiets when she sees me.
“Hello, Becca June,” Reverend Ellis says, smiling kindly.
“Hello, Reverend,” I reply. “Thank you for coming.”
He places his hand on my shoulder. “I’m here for whatever you need, child.”
I tilt my head respectfully and turn to my mother.
The frigid temperature in the hallway drops several degrees when I look at her. She’s not scowling. People are watching, after all.
I want to cry and it has nothing to do with my father. In my absence, my mother became old, small, and frail, and I couldn’t help her.
My heart clenches. I try to be kind, wishing it wasn’t so much of an effort and praying that awful feeling spreading like wicked wildfire across my chest will cease its torment.
“Hello, Momma,” I say, bending to kiss her cheek.
She clutches my face gently, a gesture of tenderness she’s never demonstrated before. It’s brief, but it’s there, a minute effort that took a great deal from the woman who gave me life.
I take that moment and tuck it away, deep within that space in my heart reserved just for her. She may not like me, and I may never have meant as much to her as I would’ve hoped, but she’s still my Momma and I love her.
“You look well,” she says.
“Thank you,” I say, my voice strained and delicate enough to barely be more than a wisp of air. “You do too, ma’am,”
I meant what I promised myself all those years ago, that I’d never return to this house again. But my father is dying. By the way everyone has gathered, today might very well be the day.
That little piece within my heart I reserve for my mother always hoped she’d reach out to me in kindness. It prayed she’d someday find the courage to tell me that I’d made it, and that she was proud. But that would have gone against my father’s wishes. Sick or not, she believes he rules and decides for the family.
It hurts. In many ways, I remain that little girl in the dining room packed with people, desperately trying to connect with a woman more concerned about what others would see than with the child who desperately needed her.
“Thank you for coming,” Momma says. “He’s been waitin’ on you to arrive.”
He has . . .
I follow her inside their bedroom. This was a place I’d only ever seen from the hallway. We weren’t allowed in my parents’ quarters. To them, it was sacred, not a place for nosey children with dirty hands and tendencies for destroying things.
One Christmas, my cousins and I dared each other to go into the room and retrieve one item as proof they’d been fearless enough to enter. Kirk made it out with my mother’s silver hair brush. It was the same brush Daddy beat Kirk with when he caught him. He’d never officially adopted the boys when my uncle and aunt passed, but he disciplined them as he saw fit.
Dark, parquet wood covers the floor. More paneling covers the walls. The room is huge, the four poster bed near the window practically swallowed by its massiveness.
I look in the direction of the bathroom. I don’t see my father buried beneath the thick burgundy and gold paisley comforter. But, apparently, he’s there.
“He can’t get up anymore,” my mother says, guessing correctly that I didn’t see him. “The medicine the doctor gave him robbed him of his appetite and he’s lost some weight. But he’s there.”
“Is that Becca June?” A hoarse and
unrecognizable voice calls to me from the confines of the bed.
I knew he’d call me by my full name. Still, the name pokes through me, swimming through my veins like a river of glass.
“Yes, darlin’,” Momma replies, her voice louder than she would usually allow. “She’s come to see her daddy.”
For her to address him as such does a lot to me. None of it’s good.
“Tell her to come closer,” he says.
Momma motions me forward and turns to go. She doesn’t wait for me to accept the invitation. She simply presumes that I will, shutting the door quietly behind her and leaving me alone to face my fate.
I no longer have feet; cinderblocks have replaced what my shoes once were. I no longer have legs, just long rods of steel making it hard to bend my knees. I’m sick. It shouldn’t be this way. I should be throwing myself on top of my father, sobbing, begging him not to leave me, telling him to get better—pleading with him to fucking love me.
I shouldn’t be so terrified of a feeble old man. But I am. Once more, I’m that little girl, wanting more than anything to connect with her mother, only for this awful and dark house to close in around me, reducing me to nothing but a fragile, petrified being.
I hate it here. I want to leave. I don’t want to see him. I don’t want to hear what he’ll say or have him use this last moment to cut me down.
A small dining room chair is placed in front of the bed. The seat cushion is thick, black velvet, allowing those who’ve come to pay their respects to be as comfortable as possible. There’re two more chairs by the window. But this seat is reserved solely for me.
I stop short of reaching the bed, stunned by the shell of a man my father has become. The round robust face that would flash fire engine red whenever he was angry is nothing more than loose skin and sunken cheekbones sharp enough to cut me. His wheat-colored hair, once peppered with traces of silver, is all but gone. Fragile pieces of silver poke through scattered places along his spotted scalp. The chemo destroyed everything except the cancer.