by Tia Souders
“I wish I had that much confidence,” I said, exhaling a long breath. “Why can’t it just be an interview with me? Instead, they insist the parents be there. I can’t have my dad there for obvious reasons. The meeting would be over before it started, which leaves my mom. She’s not much better, but she’ll have to be good enough. If I can keep her sober, maybe I’ll have a shot.”
Considering recent events, I wasn’t feeling optimistic.
The sound of my ringtone—“Brown Eyed Girl”—trickled through the kitchen from my messenger bag on the floor by the door. My face flamed as Tad pushed back from his chair and raced toward it. I hurried after him, as my own chair crashed to the floor in my haste, but I was too late. He beat me there and held my phone in his hand.
One glance at the caller ID and he guffawed. “Oh. My…” He hooted, twirling around the room like an idiot, laughing. “You have Laird’s ringtone set to that!”
I chased after him, snatching toward the hand holding my phone and coming up with nothing but air. He clutched the still-ringing device over his chest. “Aww, isn’t that sweet,” he said, batting his eyelashes.
“Give me my phone back or I’ll rip your arms off.”
“No problem. Wouldn’t want to keep you from lover boy. You know, it’s kind of weird, don’t ya think? Neither of you have brown eyes.” He gave me the phone back, and I ripped out of his hands more harshly than necessary.
“It’s an inside thing,” I snapped but smiled at Tad’s responding frown. He hated being left out of anything.
The song may have been unbelievably cheesy, but it reminded me of the first time Laird and I went out. I made a mental note to change the ringtone later though. I needed to save myself at least a bit of the mortification to come. Tad would undoubtedly mention it to Laird.
I pressed the answer button and put the phone to my ear. When he picked up, I sat back down at the table with June and a sobered Tad who commenced wolfing down his bacon.
“What’s up?” I said.
“Nothing. I’m just doing my rounds at the hospital. Just routine stuff…”
The tone of his voice said otherwise, but I learned through experience the best way to gain information was not to pry.
“Oh, yeah? How’s it going?” I asked.
“Good. Um, you know how I was going to check up on your mother this morning?”
“Yeah?” I sucked in a breath, as the hair on the back of my neck stood up. Tad must’ve noticed. He stopped chewing and turned his gaze to me, blinking behind his glasses.
“Well, I was with a nurse who gave her meds and asked me to mark it in her chart. I know I shouldn’t have, but I glanced at her previous medical records. I don’t even know why. It’s like something was nagging at me, and I had to look.” He paused. “I skimmed through her history and I found something weird.”
“What?”
“In both the patient history form from your mother’s last visit and the hospital records, it has her listed as only ever bearing one child. There’s only record of one childbirth.”
I rubbed my temples, sorting through what he told me, but confusion muddled my thought process. “That’s not possible. I was there when she had Michael. Dad and I went to the hospital. I saw his body after he died and went to his funeral. I was there when she was pregnant.”
He said nothing, and my head swirled at his silence.
Oh.
A cold sweat coated my back as I waited for him to say something.
“I know. Sam, the birth they don’t have a record of is yours.”
* * *
“It probably wasn’t her whole file or something. I’m sure it was a mistake.” Even as I said it, I knew what he had to have been thinking. My mind flashed back to the scene last night and the words I had heard millions of times during my mother’s drunken rants over the past ten years—I wasn’t her child. But none of it made sense, and the more I thought about it, the more I assured myself the missing records were a mistake.
Tad sat next to me, uncharacteristically quiet, while June stood and left the table. I continued to ramble, needing to fill the silence.
“I’ve even seen pictures of my mother after she had me in the hospital.”
Or had I? My memories of the old photos I recalled all of sudden seemed less clear. Muddled. It had been so long since I cared to go down memory lane.
“It must be some sort of screw up. My mother has had a long medical history. She probably has multiple files.”
“Sam, you okay?” Tad asked, breaking his silence.
I glanced at him and nodded. “Listen, Laird, I have to go. I’ll call you in a bit, okay?” I pulled the phone away from my ear and turned it off.
June appeared from the hallway. “Tad, I’m tired, so I’ll be in bed,” she said, shooting a lingering look in my direction before retreating back into the hall.
I watched her walk away, wondering if I was right about her health, then turned to Tad, in need of a distraction from Laird’s phone call. “What are your plans the rest of the day? Since we had breakfast and I got distracted, I haven’t gotten any playing time in. Do you have to get home any time soon, or can you stay and help me?”
“When do I ever have to go home?” Tad pursed his lips. “I have to admit, though, I’ll be happy once your auditions are over because I’m kinda sick of classical music. It’s great, and you’re amazing and all, but I’d really like to hear something from this century.”
“All good music stems from classical. But I know. I like contemporary too. I’ll mix it in today, sound good? You can play with me when I do.”
“Cool.” The freckle next to his eye disappeared into the wrinkles around his eyes as he smiled. “Did you know June used to play?”
“The guitar?”
“Yep. She’s the one who got me into it. I’ve only heard her play a couple times. She can’t play anymore because of her arthritis, but from what I remember, she was pretty good. She gave you her guitar. At least, I think it was hers.”
I glanced down at the guitar by my feet. It was an antique and after a quick search online, I discovered, rather valuable.
A pang of guilt hit me. “You should probably have it, then. You have more rights to it than I do since it was hers.”
He shook his head. “No, she gave it to you. June doesn’t do things for nothing. She always has a reason. If she wanted you to have it, there’s a reason why. Besides, with the way you play, it’s like you were meant to have it.”
Something about what Tad said didn’t sit well with me, but I wasn’t sure why exactly. “I can drop you off at your house later tonight, if ya want.”
“Nah. I’m just going to stay here. In fact, I think I’m going to stay here permanently for a while.”
I narrowed my eyes at him. “Won’t your mother care?”
“She’ll barely notice. And even if she did, she’d be happy to get rid of me. Sometimes I think since my father died, she wished she didn’t have me.”
“Come on, Tad. I’m sure that’s not true.”
“No, it is, but I’m okay. I weigh her down. Honestly. But it’s never really mattered because I’ve always had June. From the second my dad got sick, she’s been there.”
The way he said it was so matter-of-fact, I wondered whether I would feel the same way had June not turned her back on me so long ago. If Tad’s father had never gotten sick and taken June away from me, would I be less affected now by my parents’ behavior? In many ways, she was a surrogate to Tad.
“Well, I’m glad you have June then,” I said.
I reached out and clasped Tad’s hand in mine, squeezing. Weren’t we the pair? Two misfits, with nonexistent parents and an undying love for the guitar.
Only one thing separated us.
I sighed, wishing, despite my circumstances, I could be more like Tad. His positive outlook on life never wavered. And I could use a little of his glass-half-full right now.
17
My eyes widened at the sight
of my father sitting at the kitchen table waiting for me. I had hoped if I spent enough time away, he’d forget about needing to talk with me, which was part of the reason I spent more time than intended with Tad. I practiced all my pieces for the Juilliard audition, including “Five Bagatelles,” one I still struggled with. But I played them well.
I clomped over the tile, letting my displeasure be known. As I drew closer, the smell of fried chicken among other dishes brought me to a halt. My father hovered above several takeout bags, and at the sound of my entrance had begun to unload them.
Something was up. It had been eons since we ate dinner together, much less something edible. Usually, I ordered pizza from the cash jar he kept on the counter or made myself a sandwich and ate alone in my room.
I glanced through the kitchen, performing a quick assessment to see if anything else was amiss. The counters had been wiped clean, the black granite gleaming in the light. The huge stack of dirty dishes piled in the sink were gone, and the faint sound of the dishwasher swished in the background. A pile of sour dishcloths had disappeared, and beneath the smell of the fried chicken and other takeout, a lemon scent lingered. Dad had cleaned.
Still frozen, I glanced over at him. Without looking in my direction, he waved a hand and said, “Come on. We need to talk.”
I took a seat at the large table and grabbed a plate. Though the hairs on my neck stood on end at sharing a meal with him, I wasn’t foolish enough to pass up a hot meal in our house.
I loaded a plate with chicken, mashed potatoes, and coleslaw. “You cleaned?” I asked.
“Yeah. I didn’t go to work today.” He ate. Sadness lurked in his eyes, darkening them to a deeper shade. Though it was Sunday, my father always worked. Something was definitely up if he didn’t go to the office.
“So, what’s this about?” I took a bite of chicken.
As if he had expected me to ask, he spoke without hesitation. “I don’t know how to tell you this. And I’m not sure how you’ll take it, but it can’t be avoided.”
The muscles in my back tensed as I straightened, waiting for the blow.
“I’m sending your mother to a rehab facility. I’m just waiting on their call. They’re taking her right from the hospital. It’s a lengthy, very comprehensive program.”
The chicken stuck in my throat, and I coughed in an effort to dislodge it.
A million things ran through my head at once, and a heaviness fell over me. The irrational notion I would never see my mother again hit me, as though once she left, she would never return.
“Does she know about this? Did she consent to it?”
He nodded. “She did. Although she was still pretty messed up when she did, so I’m not sure how she’ll react when they take her.”
I swallowed over the lump in my throat. The image of my mother being dragged away kicking and screaming, created an indelible picture in my head. “So, you’ll take her, just like that?
I glanced at the clock. It was almost six.
He followed my gaze, then cleared his throat and said, “They’ll be taking her within the hour.”
“I won’t even get to see her first!” I blinked at him, incredulous. This was low, even for him—to deny his child the opportunity to say goodbye to her own mother.
“Sam, she’ll be back in six months. I didn’t want to bother you over at June’s—”
“Nice. Real nice.” I cursed the tears moistening my eyes. My hands clenched into fists. “I can’t believe you would do this.” I stood from my chair and glared down at him.
Shame intertwined with my anger, and I felt my face flush. Yes, I was upset at the idea of being unable to say goodbye, but I was more upset my chances of a scholarship were ruined before I even had a chance to fail. I needed her, and as I stared down at him, I realized, deep inside, I felt she owed me. For all the times she spewed something hateful at me in a drunken rage. For all the times I hauled her up off the floor. For all the times I had to go without a mother when I needed one. Her presence at the scholarship interview was the one thing I really needed from her, the one thing that mattered the most, and now she’d miss it. My father had arranged to ship her off without another thought.
He raised his hands. “I didn’t think you’d be this upset. I figured you’d be happy. They even have someone on staff who can help with mental illness. This was a long time coming. I thought you’d be glad to have her out of your hair.”
I gritted my teeth. Did he really think that? Could he be more clueless? No, what I wanted was a parent who actually gave a crap. One who actually took me, their one and only child, into consideration.
“You’re going to do what you want anyway, right? Even if you could call it off so I could see her, you wouldn’t. It’s your way or no way, right Dad? The bank or nothing, right?”
I shook my head, disgusted. Though my mother had done nothing but fill my life with dysfunction, she was my mother. The thought of her going away for an extended period of time scared me. I thought about her locket, the one with no evidence of my presence in her life. Only two things mattered to her anymore—Michael and alcohol. If she left, she would forget me completely. Any connection she had to me would be severed.
Then something occurred to me, and my eyes widened. Wasn’t the timing of this impromptu rehab convenient? Why after almost ten years of heavy drinking would he send her now? She should have gone years ago, and her fall yesterday certainly wasn’t the first time she suffered an injury because of her addiction.
Did my dad know about my upcoming scholarship meeting? I had to have a parent present. It was a requirement. Mr. Fransisco, who ran the scholarship, interviewed the parents. Did he know this?
Maybe the timing was not a coincidence. Maybe he had stumbled over a piece of mail regarding the scholarship, just as he had with my Juilliard audition letter. If so, he knew that without my mother’s presence, I was screwed. It left him as my only option.
I swallowed over the growing lump in my throat and turned for the door, his weak protests trailing behind me. Throwing my shoulder into the door, I pushed it open and slammed it behind me, then headed down the sidewalk, taking the slab of concrete in long strides and wondering why nothing ever seemed to be easy. My father, my finger, my friends, and now, not only did I question if I’d ever see my mother again, but my chances of a scholarship had gone from promising to zero in a matter of minutes.
“No sunshine and rainbows here,” I muttered and moved faster.
* * *
I should’ve known my mother wouldn’t go down without a fight. The drunk in her was far too strong, and she wasn’t giving up her wasted life at home for an attempt at sobriety. I was there when he received the phone call from Williamsburg Regional Medical Center to come get her. Apparently, when the representatives from Sunnyside Rehabilitation came, she refused to leave with them. Having no reason to keep her in their care, the hospital discharged her and called my father to pick her up. Because Mom was only ten minutes from our house, he’d be home with her soon. Having seen my mother in the pangs of withdrawal before, I stayed in my bedroom, desperate to avoid the sight. I only emerged once in an effort to grab my clean jeans from the wash for school the following day.
I padded down the hall on bare feet when the front door opened, and I froze. There was no hiding, and it was too late to sprint back up the stairs. She walked into the foyer, my father gripping her arm for support. Sure enough, she moved on shaky legs. The broken capillaries across her nose and cheeks somehow seemed more apparent, brighter and harsher than before.
A fresh sheen of sweat dotted her pale skin as she glanced up at me and attempted a smile, but her lips fell flat.
My father’s gaze met mine. “I’m going to take your mother upstairs so she can rest.”
I said nothing. I watched them as my father walked next to her up the stairs, his shoulders slumped slightly in defeat while my mother gripped the oak banister with trembling, bony hands. As they disappeared, I wondered how long it woul
d be until she took a drink. Probably an hour, tops.
As I guessed, thirty minutes later the sound of the front door opening and closing, followed by the sound of my father backing down the drive, resonated in the quiet house. Not twenty minutes later, the telltale squeak of the bathroom cabinet and the slamming of the bureau doors in my mother’s room broke the quiet.
I lay in bed and pictured my mother, undoubtedly searching for the stash of minis I discovered she hoarded long ago. Tomorrow, she would sober up long enough to drive into town and stock up on something more substantial, and we’d all ignore it.
18
“So, do you still think your father knows about the scholarship meeting tomorrow?” Laird asked.
The sun shined over his sandy hair, giving it a more golden appearance than usual. Though the afternoon had been fairly warm, a crisp edge to the air had come on the wings of a soft breeze. A chill shook me then passed as I peered at the large colonial homes to my right.
Motivated by the sunshine and my need to get out of the house, Laird and I met at Colonial Williamsburg after I finished school. Even though he handled the event with my mother last week well, I was apprehensive about him picking me up at home. The last thing I wanted was another unpleasant scene. Who knew how much he would take until he finally decided my family was too dysfunctional for him.
“There’s a good chance he might. Even if he doesn’t, I just have to hope that he won’t stop home for any reason. It’s bad enough having to rely on my mother.” I paused in front of a low, white picket fence and stared out into a modest yard. Beds of soil marked the spot of summer gardens. A large white century home with black shutters and a grand entryway flanked by pillars abided over the plot in front of me.
“I just have to pray she’s having a good day, and I can keep her sober.”
Laird stepped behind me and hugged me to his chest until my tension melted away.
“It’ll go well. And if for some reason it doesn’t, we’ll figure something out. We’ll find another way for you to get the money.”
