by Claire Adams
"Can't think of anything I'd like more," I said with a fake bright smile. My mother gave us both a warning look and then went into the kitchen to pour the milk.
"After the funeral, we'll meet with the lawyer and settle this," Lincoln said.
"And once that's over, I'm out of here for good," I said. "I want nothing more to do with the mess that man created."
"So, you're going to leave us behind again?" Lincoln said. His face showed anger, but his eyes were deep wells of pain. "Great. Just fucking great."
"Gamma! Daddy said a bad word!" Joey yelled.
"I'm sure your daddy didn't mean to say a bad word, did he?" my mother said as she carried a tray of full milk glasses into the dining room and set it on the table. "Did he?"
"No, Mother, I certainly did not," Lincoln said bowing his head slightly. I caught Jessie's disapproving look out of the corner of my eye and knew that there was something else going on.
Lincoln took a glass of milk and one of the cookies my mother offered, and shot me a look that let me know this was far from over.
*
After Lincoln and Jessie and the kids finally left, I said goodnight to my mother and went up to the room she'd assigned me. It had once been the room that Lincoln and I shared, but after we'd gone to college and moved out, my mother had renovated and turned it into a permanent guest room.
I hated the room. It reminded me of an ice cream parlor, with the peach striped wallpaper running halfway up the wall ending in cream wainscoting. The upper half of the walls was painted a frothy peach color, which matched the bedding and all of the accessories. The room made me feel like throwing up.
I lay down on the bed and closed my eyes, trying to conjure the image of the room before its makeover—back when Lincoln and I had still been close.
We'd begged my parents to paint the walls navy blue so that we could hang bright, space-themed posters on the walls. We had ordered glow-in-the-dark stars from the back of a comic book and wanted to fix them to the ceiling. My father had ignored the requests until we finally drove him over the edge. He'd taken off his belt and punished us for having annoyed him then told us to take our request to our mother.
My mother's mouth had formed a thin, grim line when she saw what Father had done to us with his belt. She agreed to have the bedroom painted a dark blue. The painters came the next week and laid down tarps before they coated the walls in darkness. Lincoln and I had watched from the hallway as they worked, discussing the various ways we were going to arrange the posters and mapping out a pattern for the stars. The punishment had happened almost two weeks before, but Lincoln was still limping a little from it.
"You okay?" I asked as we descended the stairs in search of snacks in the kitchen.
"Yeah, I'm good," Lincoln said over his shoulder. "I just forgot not to stiffen my legs when he hit. It'll be fine in another few days."
I nodded and wondered why our father felt the need to punish us so severely over things that seemed so trivial. Once we'd gotten our snacks and taken them out to the patio, I worked up the courage to ask Lincoln.
"Why do you think Pop does what he does to us?" I asked as I took a bite of a peanut butter sandwich and followed it with a swig of milk.
"Dunno," Lincoln mumbled through his sandwich. He chewed for a few moments, swallowed, and said, "I think he's stressed out about something, and we're the way he works out that stress. Either that, or he's one sadistic son-of-a-bitch."
"What's sadistic?" I asked earnestly. As my older brother by two years, Lincoln was both my encyclopedia and dictionary.
"It means you like seeing other people in pain," he replied as he took another huge bite of his sandwich.
"Oh, yeah, that makes sense then," I said. "But he doesn't seem to be happier after he punishes us. Does that count?"
"It's not that it makes people happy, dummy," Lincoln said with a full mouth. "It's that he likes it."
"That's just weird," I said, popping the last bite into my mouth and chasing it with the last bit of milk. I liked it when things evened out just right.
"I didn't say it made sense," Lincoln said crossly. "I'm just saying …"
"Boys," my mother called from the kitchen window. "Did you leave this mess here for me to clean up, or were you planning on coming back and doing it yourselves?"
"We'll do it, Mother!" I yelled. "We were just really hungry."
"That's what I thought," she called. "I knew you didn't want your father to come home and discover your carelessness."
Lincoln and I looked at each other wide eyed as we quickly grabbed our dishes and headed inside to clean up the mess we'd made. By the time we were done, the painters had finished with our room and were cleaning up.
We surveyed the job in a state of awe as we looked at our plans for decorating the room. It was overwhelming to think that our vision of the room was about to become a reality. Lincoln stuck his hand out and touched the wall. When he drew it back, there was a print on the wall the size of his hand and his palm was covered in dark-blue paint.
With fear in my eyes, I looked at my brother who shrugged and stuffed his hand in his pocket.
"Dad's gonna kill you if he sees this," I whispered.
"Then we need to figure out a way that he doesn't see it, don't we?" Lincoln said in a way that struck me as oddly defiant. Up until then, we'd been partners in punishment, but Lincoln seemed to be rejecting that narrative. It seemed risky to me but, since he was the older wiser brother, I followed his lead and helped him plan how to hide the handprint.
Our plan had ultimately worked, and no one had been the wiser. However, Lincoln's pants had suffered the consequence of him shoving a handful of wet paint into the pocket, so he'd buried them in the bottom of his dresser drawer. We never spoke about it again.
Now, 20 years later, I opened my eyes and looked over at the wall where Lincoln's handprint had been and wondered how many layers of paint it had taken to cover the memories in this room—and how long it would take for me to leave the memories behind.
Chapter Eight
Leah
After the wake, I headed over to the office to take care of a few orders that were pending in our warehouse. I knew I didn't have to work. But I also knew that, death or not, customers were still waiting for their orders. Our ability to survive the loss of our leader was dependent on the rest of us doing our jobs. I waved to a few of the warehouse workers and handed over the orders that were waiting to be filled.
"Get this out as soon as you can, okay?" I said to the shift manager. "I know they know about Mr. Yates, but let's keep the orders rolling out as close to schedule as possible."
"Will do, boss!" Burt nodded as he took the paperwork and surveyed the order. "How was the end of the wake?"
"The usual: lots of crying and mourning and gossip," I said.
"That's how it always is, isn't it?" John said. "The rich go out rich, and the poor get tossed in a pauper's grave."
"I don't know about that," I said shaking my head. "I mean, Mr. Yates came from nothing and worked his way up, you know."
"Sure, but he had all the money in the world to go out on," Burt said as he checked off boxes on the order, making sure he had everything in the warehouse. "His family is going to be just fine, but what about the rest of us? Who's going to lead the company now? Are we going to lose our jobs when the new guy comes in and decides that what we've been doing no longer works?"
"Let's not get ahead of ourselves, shall we?" I said, trying to stem the concern I heard in his voice. "I'm sure Mr. Yates had a good plan in place in case something like this happened. Let's give it a few weeks before we start to panic."
"I'm just saying that I've seen it before, and it doesn't end well for those of us on this end of the equation," Burt warned.
"I promise I'll let you know what's going on as soon as I hear something," I said, turning to go back to my office. I couldn't show it, but I was worried too.
I'd started working at Baby Steps in high scho
ol, and over the past decade I had worked my way up to warehouse manager. Mr. Yates had been a mentor and a father figure to me as I'd made my way through the ranks. I was now making a good living managing the warehouse. But I wondered how that would all change if a new CEO came in and took over.
I said goodbye to the warehouse staff and headed home to make dinner for Riley. When I got to the house, I found Mama asleep at the kitchen table with a half-empty bottle in front of her and a lit cigarette in the ashtray. This was getting dangerous, and I needed to do something about it.
"Riley!" I called up the stairs. "Are you home? What do you want for dinner?"
"Up here, Leah!" Riley called down. "Pizza!"
I grabbed the phone and dialed the pizza place around the corner and ordered a large to be delivered. Then I shook my mother awake and helped her to her bedroom.
"Mama, you have to get help," I whispered as I tucked the blankets in around her. "You can't go on like this."
"I'm fine, girl," my mother slurred. "The last thing I need is you nagging me about something you know nothing about."
"Mama, it's not safe anymore," I said as she looked at me with watery eyes. "I can't leave you here alone, and Riley is too young to take care of you. We have to change this."
"Get the hell out, and let me get some sleep," she said pushing me away as she rolled over and curled up. "I don't need your high and mighty attitude, missy."
"Mama . . ." I pleaded to her back. I waited but soon heard the sound of her snoring. I knew she'd be out for hours.
I walked back into the kitchen and dropped down into the chair my mother had occupied. The walls were stained a dull yellow from her years of smoking. I knew that if the alcohol didn't get her, lung cancer would. The problem was I didn't know how to stop her.
"I'm sick of this," I said as tears welled up. "I'm sick of being everyone's keeper."
"What's wrong, Leah?" Riley said as she entered the kitchen, holding a sheet of paper. "Are you okay?"
"I'm fine," I said wiping my eyes and trying to put on a smile. Riley was having none of it.
"Gram's a pain in the ass, isn't she?" she said without judgment. "I get sick of her being drunk all the time."
"She's just sad," I said, trying not to unload my personal feelings on the twelve-year-old.
"Oh give me a break, Leah," she said, rolling her eyes dramatically. "Gram is a major downer, and I'm tired of her constantly being drunk. It's embarrassing. Why don't we just throw her in rehab and be done with it?"
"Riley, what's gotten into you?" I exclaimed.
"So, what are we going to do about it?" she asked. Her jaw was clenched, and I could see that she was itching for a fight. Sometimes she reminded me so much of Molly that it hurt. "I mean, this can't keep happening, can it?"
"I don't know," I sighed as my shoulders sagged. I leaned against the counter. "Gram won't go to rehab and I can't make her. She's never going to stop drinking, so I don't know what to do."
"One of the counselors at school gave me this," Riley said as she held out the sheet of paper. I took it and scanned the page. It was a detailed outline of how to stage an intervention.
"Did the counselor say anything about this?" I asked as my face burned with shame. Someone at school knew what was going on in this house, and they were reaching out to a twelve-year-old. How much worse could this get?
"She just said that the intervention might be the last step in helping Gram find a way to get out of her addiction," Riley said. "Can we try it, Leah? We could call Patrick and get him to help, couldn't we?"
"Let me think about this," I said as I thought about how we could bring my brother, Patrick, into the mix. Just then, the doorbell rang. I handed Riley two twenty-dollar bills and said, "Tip the delivery person five—no more!"
"Gotcha," Riley said as she took the money and went to retrieve our dinner.
I read the flyer again. Molly would know what to do with Mama. Molly would have handled this with her usual flair and forthrightness, and she would have made it look easy. Maybe that was the problem: Molly made everything she did look so easy. Maybe things had been a lot harder for her than we thought, and now we were getting a peek into what drove her away.
By the time Riley brought the pizza back into the kitchen, I'd set the table and had decided to call Patrick after we ate.
*
After dinner was over and the dishes were done, I took my phone out of my purse and went into the living room to call my brother. It had been almost two years since we'd last spoken. As the phone rang, I thought about what I would say to him and how he might respond.
"Queen of Peace Parish," a voice answered the phone. "How may I direct your call?"
"Father Patrick Walsh, please," I said. There was a click and the phone began ringing again.
"Father Patrick Walsh," my brother said into the receiver. "How may I be of assistance?"
"Patrick?" I said quietly. "It's Leah. Please don't hang up."
"Leah," he said, and I could hear the suspicion hanging in the air between us. "What do you want?"
"I need to talk to you, Patrick," I pleaded before rushing into the rest of it. "It's Mama. She's not doing well, and I need help figuring out what to do with her. I know you don't want to have anything to do with us, but we need you, Patrick. I need you. I need your help. Please don't hang up on me."
I began crying as the weight of everything came crashing down on me. I needed my brother more now than ever before, but I wasn't sure he'd be willing to help. So much time had passed since Molly disappeared, and none of us had listened to him while we'd still had the chance to help her.
"Don't cry, Leah," he said softly. There was a long pause before he spoke again, "Let's meet at the parish and talk about what's going on. When are you free?"
"I have to work, but I could come by when I'm done," I said. "I'm usually back in the neighborhood by six so I can pick Riley up, and she's usually in bed by nine. Can I come see you in the evening?"
"How is she doing?" he asked. I could hear the softening of his voice as he asked about his niece. "Is she well?"
"She's good," I said. "Growing like a weed and getting to be more like Molly every . . . I need help, Patrick."
"I know," he said, and my fears began to abate. "Come see me this week, and we'll talk."
"Okay," I said as I sniffled and choked back everything else I wanted to say. "I'll call you when I'm on my way over."
"I'll be glad to see you, Leah," he said before the line went dead.
I sat staring at the phone for a long time, hoping that I hadn't hallucinated the call, and hoping that Patrick would actually help me make choices that would be best for Mama, Riley, and for me. Given our history, I wasn't counting on anything.
Not just yet.
Chapter Nine
Jack
When I came down for breakfast the next morning, Lincoln and my mother were sitting at the table with my father's attorney, Gordon Brasher.
"Jackson, it's good to see you, son," he said in deep booming voice as he flashed a smile as fake as the Rolex on his wrist.
"It's Jack," I said as I sat down and waited. A plate of eggs, toast, and bacon was soon placed in front of me, and I ate without saying another word.
"Ah, right. Jack it is, then," the lawyer said with a forced laugh. "We were just discussing the stipulations of your father's will, Jack."
"And this involves me how?" I asked with a mouth full of eggs. I was angry and resentful that I was being included in this ridiculous conversation.
"Haven't you told him?" Brasher asked, looking back and forth between my mother and my brother. "I thought he knew."
"No, we didn't say anything," Lincoln said coldly. "We thought this matter was better left to the professional."
"I see," Brasher said, nervously clearing his throat as he looked down at the papers in front of him. "Well, I guess there's no use in delaying the delivery then, is there?"
"Would someone just man up and tell me wh
at the hell is going on here?" I said impatiently. "I'm tired of this secretive game of ping pong knowledge sharing."
"Jack, your father left a will stipulating that you are to become the new CEO of Baby Steps," Brasher said.
"Well, then he was out of his mind because that's never going to happen," I said matter-of-factly. "Anything else?"
"Um, yes, actually there is," Brasher said nervously. "You don't have a choice in the matter."
"The hell I don't," I replied. "I'm independently wealthy and need nothing from any of you. I owe you nothing, and I'm not doing anything to keep that stupid company alive in the absence of my father."
"Jack, listen to the man," my mother urged as she looked helplessly at my brother.
"Jack, your father’s company is held by Bank of Manhattan, isn't it?" Brasher asked.
"Indeed, it is," I nodded as I stuffed a bite of jam-covered toast into my mouth and chewed.
"Well, the money your dad is paying you has been frozen until you take the CEO position at Baby Steps, and you either decide to run the company or hire someone to run it for you," Brasher said quickly. "You'll have no access to any of the money you invested in the business until you take care of your father's business."
"Are you fucking kidding me?" I exploded.
"Jack . . ." my mother said disapprovingly.
"No, seriously?" I said looking around the table in disbelief. "That bastard stipulated that my assets—the assets I've earned through my own blood, sweat, and tears that I loaned him—will be on hold until his damn business is taken care of?"
"Jack, Pop had hoped that you'd come around and see that the company had a great deal of potential," Lincoln began.
"And you? You had to help him with this fucked up plan, didn't you?" I said, shooting my brother a look that made him avert his eyes. "Why the hell did he pick me? He knew I had no desire whatsoever to run the company."
"Your father believed that you were the one who could best represent the company's interests," Brasher said as he slid a stack of papers across the table. "It's all explained in this document, as are the parameters of the agreement. If you run the company for a year and turn a profit that is within the normal range of what Baby Steps has been doing for the past five years, then your investments in the company will be unfrozen. At that point, you'll be given the option of staying on and running the company or hiring someone to replace you. Either way, at the end of the year, you'll be free."
