Begin with You

by Burgoa, Claudia

  While growing up with her, I was an advocate for the less fortunate—like she was. Grandma didn’t have much, but she shared whatever she could.

  “Why don’t you save for us?” I asked her once.

  The selfish part of me wanted to go on vacations to the beach or at least occasionally eat out at a restaurant.

  “I save enough. We have food and a roof over our heads. Everything else is a luxury we don’t need,” she explained. “And I hope that if you or I ever were to need the mercy of a stranger, someone would show us compassion because when we had money, we gave to those in need.”

  “Doesn’t that defeat the purpose of being charitable?”

  “No, it’s Karma. You get back what you’ve put in,” she said winking at me.

  Since she died, I’ve asked myself what I did to be on the receiving end of my mother’s mistreatment. I shudder, wondering if these people are going to ask me for something in return.

  “I have to warn you,” he continues, and I close my eyes waiting for his threat. “Mom can be a little overwhelming, but she means well.”

  What does that mean?

  We reach the second tier of the house, and he turns toward the right hallway stopping in front of the first door. He opens it and gives me an inviting smile. It’s not creepy just … nice. The room is almost the size of the living room and dining room of my grandma’s house combined. The walls are gray with pink and lilac accents. There’s a big bed with a soft pink comforter on top and gray pillows. A comfortable looking sofa with pink and gray cushions sits under the big windows covered by plantation shutters.

  The framed pictures mounted on the wall are black and white with a few pink and red accents. This is beautiful; a chamber fit for a princess. I’m guessing that I’ll be sharing this room with their daughter. Do they have a daughter? Ms. Graves didn’t mention how many other children the Aherns have. Well, it doesn’t matter, either way. As long as I’m in a safe place, I’m content. The little couch whispers my name. It should do for as long as I live here.

  “This is the closet.” He opens one of the two doors in the room. “As I mentioned before, Mom already bought you a few things, but she’ll probably take you shopping soon.”

  I peek at the closet, curious about his sister’s things. But there are only a few dresses hanging, two pairs of shoes, and the shelves have a few folded pants and shirts. I march in, trying to guess what things belong to me.

  “They are all yours,” he says as if reading my mind. “The room belongs to you.”

  I look around, mesmerized at the space. This is mine, just mine? This is unrealistic. There’s no way these people are giving me a room that’s bigger than some apartments. What do they want in exchange? My stomach tightens as fear ripples through me.

  “In case you need anything.” He walks toward the main door and points to my left. “On the other side of the stairs is my parents’ suite. Right across from your room is the green guestroom. The door after it is Sterling’s room—my younger brother.”

  I frown at the mention of a brother. This guy seems nice, but what about the other people who live here?

  ‘You don’t have to worry about him,” he says, as if responding to my question. “He’s in college. My room is the one at the end. I’m living here just until I find a place. Soon enough it’ll be just you and my parents.”

  I hug myself, hoping that his parents are as nice as they sound.

  Weston continues the tour by showing me the bathroom. I follow behind him, staring at the posh carpet and wanting to take off my sandals to feel the softness under my feet. But before that, I want to take a long shower. Wash away the memories. The pain. Or at least try to, although I know that they’re seared into me like a second skin.

  “It’s hard to get used to a new house and new people,” he says using a low soothing voice. “I understand what you’re going through.”

  He draws in a long breath.

  You have no idea what happened to me, rich guy, I can’t help but huff.

  “I too have a story,” Weston says softly, his handsome face sags. “A story that I don’t particularly enjoy talking about. I came here when I was five. Filthy, malnourished, and needing a haven.”

  My ears perk; my gaze finds his. Those blue eyes contain a hint of the pain and sadness that I’m all too familiar with. My heart begins to ache for that poor five-year-old. I want to take his hand, reassure him that he’ll be fine, even if I don’t believe it myself. But I don’t break my silence.

  A silence as thick as the mood oozes between us. Something about his expression urges me to speak. I lower my gaze, biting the inside of my cheek.

  “You’ll be safe with my parents,” he reassures me. “They are the best.”

  He moves into the bathroom, and I follow behind. Weston explains how the shower works. I can adjust the temperature on the panel next to the glass door. There are multiple showerheads mounted on the wall, and I can choose if I want them all or just one. All kinds of toiletries cover the top shelf. There are loofas, and under the sink are stacked clean towels. This bathroom is spotless, spacious, and has a big window covered by the same beautiful white shutters as the bedroom.

  “This is your sanctuary,” he continues. “No one will come in unless you invite them. In here, you’re safe. We’re here to listen if you need us or to just to be around for support.”

  There’s something in his gaze I recognize. It’s more than the sadness and the pain. It’s the look of someone who’s lived through hell and is still here to tell their story.

  “We have a lot in common,” he says, shoving his hands inside his pockets and looking down at the floor. “I’ll help you, the same way my parents helped me.”

  This guy is delusional. He might have suffered the same fate, and on that level, we’re equals. But, for the sake of that five-year-old, I hope not. We’re not the same though. He’s a survivor, I’m a casualty. Yet, his strong personality calls to me. What if I hold onto him while I weather the storm? What if he were my lifeguard? Then I wouldn’t drown.

  I’ll hold onto his promise, at least for today, in hopes that I can make it through this alive.

  2

  Wes

  Abby Age Eighteen

  Family reunions aren’t my cup of tea. Mom loves them along with parties. She finds any and every excuse to organize one at least twice a month. Abby’s graduation is no exception. She sent invitations to our family and her closest friends. She also demanded my brother’s presence. Sterling, who has only met Abby twice, refused to come until Dad threatened him.

  I’m still not sure what it was this time, but it’s obvious that Dad and Sterling’s relationship keeps breaking apart. After two years away from home, he’s changed a lot. His light brown hair is longer, and he sports at least three new tattoos that I can count. He’s becoming everything my father hates from the outside; I hope he’s doing this for himself and not just to piss off dear old dad.

  “Are you sure we have to go?” Sterling asks as he runs a tattooed hand through his hair.

  “Yeah,” I mumble, checking the time. “Mom will appreciate you joining us—without whining.”

  Mom left an hour earlier with Abigail, who’s graduating from high school today. It’s a bittersweet moment for my parents. Their two sons are adults and their last foster child is leaving the nest. This time, nothing will sway Dad’s decision. He said this will be the last time they’ll foster a child no matter the circumstances. They are too old to deal with children.

  Abby wasn’t an easy kid. She didn’t trust any of us at first and her night terrors still keep us up at night. However, after a year of our support, she’s ready to go to college. Today, we’re celebrating another milestone. Mom likes to reassure her that she’s part of our family. That’s why she insisted on having Sterling come. My parents want to celebrate this day as a family.

  “Of course, you have to go,” Dad scowls at Sterling, handing him one of his ties. “We said formal, Slugger.”
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  My brother frowns at his childhood nickname.

  “I’m old enough to vote, Dad,” he pauses glaring at him. “Maybe you should start calling me Sterling instead of Slugger.”

  He hangs the tie around his neck and slumps his shoulders. “Can you help me fix this shit, Wes?”

  I can’t help but laugh at the irony.

  “Your mother pampered you too much, Slugger,” Dad sighs, exasperated.

  “Maybe you should save your allowance and buy one of those clip-on ties.” I laugh while working on his tie. “They sell them in the children’s section.”

  “Fucker,” he growls at me.

  “That’s all you can come up with, Sluggy.” I let out a laugh that echoes through the great room.

  “Boys!” Dad’s aggravation stops our childish argument.

  “Yes, Dad,” I say finishing the knot.

  “We artists don’t need a dress code,” Sterling defends himself.

  My little brother is a sculptor, a painter, and sometimes, an actor. He lives in New York City and attends Parsons School of Design. A place Dad swears isn’t a college, but a very expensive recreation center. Which is unfair. Sterling is talented. He goes to one of the most prestigious art schools in the world. Our father doesn’t understand my little brother and doesn’t even care enough to try.

  Sterling has fought Dad’s rules since we were children. Everything between them is a battle. His church attire, when to do his homework, and his bed time. When my parents weren’t home, he’d use the staircase and the furniture to skateboard. At thirteen he was stealing their cars, and at sixteen he raided the wine cellar.

  “Buy yourself a suit,” Dad orders.

  Sterling’s jaw twitches, but he doesn’t say anything. When my brother moved to New York, he donated all his suits. Hence, he’s wearing one of my jackets that’s a couple of sizes too large.

  “That career isn’t going to pay your bills.”

  You do, Sterling mouths, chuckling at his own joke.

  “Weston, you should talk some sense into this kid,” Dad puts on his jacket. “Are you two driving with me?”

  “No, Dad. We’re going in my car. Abby’s taking her driver’s test right after the ceremony,” I remind him.

  Abbs and I are celebrating today before the big party. I promised to take her to lunch and then for her driver’s license test. We have a lot to celebrate. She was accepted into Berkeley, and though she hasn’t declared her major, she’s excited about college.

  “What about the party?” Dad says gruffly.

  “It’s not until six.” I check the time. “We have to leave now, or we won’t make it to the ceremony.”

  “Do you want to drive my car?” Dad shows Sterling the key of his Bentley.

  “Nah, I’m riding with Wes to get some time in before he ditches me for Abby after the ceremony.”

  I give him an inquisitive look but say nothing. Once we’re in the car, I ask, “Why are you avoiding Dad?”

  “I just …” he trails off, unable to say a thing. “This isn’t where I want to be.”

  “You could’ve stayed in New York,” I mumble.

  “Dad’s disappointment is enough. I wouldn’t want to add Mom’s,” he growls. “And even if I had stayed away, he’d call to remind me that if I wanted, he could get me into the business program at DU. Dad can’t accept me, my career, or the fact that I’m not going to take over his little empire along with you.”

  He groans, shaking his head.

  This ongoing argument creates friction between Sterling and me too. Dad hopes that his art is just a hobby and that he’ll grow out of it, the same way I grew out of my programming obsession.

  He doesn’t know that I continue working on the side. I love to create apps, develop new software, and fidget with all kinds of gadgets. The fact that I’m focused on his business doesn’t mean that I’ve forgotten what I want to do in the future. I’m not planning on taking over his company either; I just haven’t told him yet.

  “You should quit,” Sterling suggests. His voice chirps through the car. “If you don’t do it now, you’ll be sharing his fate.”

  I shake my head. He better not start giving me shit about my life and my future. What do I expect? That’s what this family does best, meddling and pointing out one another’s faults or the fact that we’re not reaching our full potential. He’s not Dad, but he sounds a lot like him. Sterling never misses a chance to tell me that I’m fucking up my life by doing what Dad wants.

  I’m biding my time, learning the business world while doing what I love on the side. One day I’ll have enough experience to set up my own company.

  Once I start the engine his mouth quirks up into a half-smile. “You’ll become Dad.”

  Fucker.

  I turn on the music and decide to ignore him. In less than five minutes, we’ll arrive at the school.

  “There’s nothing wrong with our father,” I say when I park and turn off the engine.

  “You refuse to see the real guy behind that suit. He’s cold. A modern Ebenezer Scrooge,” he continues. “The man works during holidays too.”

  I leave the car before we begin to argue. Our parents are giving. For years, they took in children who needed shelter. They provided them with love and a roof without questions. How can he refer to our father as a cold-hearted cheapskate?

  Slugger is becoming someone I don’t like. An overprivileged playboy who judges everyone around him. I worry about him and his future. When he turns twenty-five, he’s going to be living on his trust fund. Hopefully, Dad set it up so that Sterling can only withdraw a certain amount per year, and it lasts him a lifetime.

  “It’s okay, Wes.” Sterling pats my shoulder. “At least one of us respects the man.”

  He walks away. Anger churns in my chest. Sometimes I don’t understand him, and the problem isn’t that I don’t try, but that he doesn’t want to face reality. He lives in a world where Sterling is always right, and if we don’t agree with him, then we’re wrong.

  — — —

  The ceremony doesn’t last long, but it feels eternal. The principal’s speech is beyond annoying. However, it wasn’t as bad as the valedictorian’s address where the kid suggested they all let themselves fall into the abyss. Someone should’ve edited the piece before the poor kid suggested that they’re leaving the best years of their lives behind and what’s to come will never compare.

  “That was interesting,” Mom says as we walk out of the auditorium. “I liked your speech better, Wes.”

  “I forgot that you were the valedictorian,” Sterling says in a mocking voice.

  “Aren’t you tired of being so perfect?” He mumbles under his breath.

  I try to please my parents, but I’m far from perfect. When I graduated, I gave the valedictorian speech because the night before the ceremony, Merritt was arrested for possession. His daddy couldn’t bail him out of jail in time for graduation. As captain of the debate and speech team, I was the only one prepared to speak on such short notice.

  “Aren’t you tired of being a pain in the ass, fucker?” I reply exasperated.

  I don’t wait for his comeback, as my eyes are drawn back to Abby who marches toward us. She’s still wearing the red cap and gown and a bright smile. Taking a few steps forward, I hug her tightly and spin her, lifting her off the ground.

  “You did it,” I say excitedly.

  “We did it,” she responds with a quiet voice. “If it wasn’t for you, I’d be going to summer school, or worse—repeating the entire year.”

  “Pfft, you just needed a little push.”

  Suddenly, she goes rigid in my arms.

  “They’re here?” she gasps.

  Her eyes widen, and I put her down when she struggles in my arms.

  I look around, searching for whoever scared her, but everything seems normal.

  “What’s going on, Abby girl?”

  All color washes away from her face, and she’s grasping my arms tightly, as i
f her life depended on it.

  “I’m here. You don’t need to worry about anything,” I say softly.

  “Sorry, I thought I saw my stepfather and his son,” she whispers, her head leaning against my chest. “Please, don’t mind me. Sometimes I imagine things.”

  “Hey, I get it,” I say soothingly.

  I rub her back counting along with her. The anxiety hasn’t gone away. She still has nightmares at night. The trauma she endured before coming to us continues to drag her into the darkness. I hate that she hurts and how she still closes herself off from everyone when the memories of what happened almost a year ago take hold of her mind.

  “Stay with me, Abby. Today is an important day. You graduated, and you’re going to get your driver’s license.”

  “Linda mentioned a trip,” she says grinning, pretending that the episode has passed.

  It hasn’t. Her chest continues to rise and fall rapidly along with her breath.

  “Are you coming along?” she tilts her head, her eyes hopeful.

  “I wish I could, Abbs.”

  Her shoulders slump.

  “But I know that Dad and I will join you at some point,” I say reassuringly.

  Mom treats Abby as if she were her daughter and never misses a chance to have some mother-daughter time with her. This summer, she plans on taking Abby on a trip around Europe before she leaves for college. She didn’t invite us to come along, but after Dad protested that she’ll be gone for too long, she invited us to join them for a couple of weeks.

  “I’ll miss you,” she says chewing on her lip.

  “Hey, I promise to call every day.”

  “Picture time,” Mom calls out waving her new camera. She’s ready for her trip and if we’re lucky, she’ll take up photography once August rolls around. Mom does best when her mind is occupied.

  “Abby, I need a few of you around campus and a couple with the boys.”

  “How do I look, boy?” Abby smirks at me and adjusts her long brown curls, bringing the purple tips to the front.