by Adriana Law
“Its seven fucking a.m., come on people, I have a hangover!” I roll off the side of the bed and land on my hands and knees. Disoriented, I bypass the whole getting dressed part, stumble down the stairs wearing a pair of boxers, praying whoever it is they have one hell of an excuse for waking me up so early on a Saturday morning. Narrowing my eyes against the early morning light pouring in the many windows downstairs, I feel my way to the front door, jerk it open; one hand scratching my nuts, the other wiping at a piece of sleepy caught in the corner of my eye.
“Yeah, what is it!” I snarl.
“Are you deaf? We’ve been knocking for over fifteen minutes,” my cousin Sawyer says.
“Saw, what are you doing here?” My mouth falls open and immediately I’m wondering exactly how much I drank last night if I’m seeing three relatives that live in Los Angles standing on my front porch at seven in the morning, wearing clothing fit for a wedding or a funeral. My gaze rakes over Uncle Bentley, Sawyer, and Sterling: chicks dig the dark and mysterious vibe they have going on. It creeps the hell out of me. Reminds me of the grim reaper.
Leaning lazily against the door jam, arms folded over his chest, Sawyer flashes his legendary smile. He removes the dark shades shadowing his eyes.
“I take it we’re the last people you expected to see?” he drawls out.
That’s when I see it … Uncle Bentley’s long face. He never really is a happy man, but this long face is bad, even for him.
“We should probably take this little reunion inside. Mind if we come in, son?” He asks.
“For God sakes, it’s fuckin’ hot out here.” Sterling plants a palm on the door shoving it open wide, his shoulder bumping mine as he passes. His polished shoes make contact with the tile floor in our entry way. He’s followed closely by Sawyer and Uncle Bentley. The three of them take in their surroundings, silently appraising the inside of my parent’s house, their expression saying they’re not too impressed. I’m not surprised. You could fit my entire house inside theirs five times and still have room to spare. But then again my parents don’t own one of the largest modeling agencies in Los Angles. What most people don’t know is they’ve made most of their money off of oil. Gas stations. Money—the Bentley’s have got it coming out the yin yang.
The three of them stroll toward the living room, their polished shoes hardly making a sound. Leather sighs as Uncle Bentley and Sawyer have a seat on the couch. Sterling dumps himself on the arm rest not smiling (this is not unusual for him, the fucker never smiles) unlike his younger brother, who is always open and friendly. Sterling is a broody, arrogant snob and I can’t stand his ass. Unlike Sawyer who has this laid-back relaxed way about him Sterling always gives off this ‘I don’t really want to be here’ vibe. Word is Sterling takes after his father Uncle Bentley, but I say no way he’s an asshole all on his own.
I stand there under their heavy gazes, my nipples pebbling from a chill and my nuts still itching.
“Dude, stop scratching yourself and go put on some fucking clothes.” Sterling shoots me a disgusted look.
“Oh. Right. Sorry.” With that I’m charging up the steps, taking them two at a time, my face steaming from embarrassment. Something about my relatives has always made me feel like a scrawny stupid son of a bitch. We visited them. They have never visited us, which is why my mind is doing double time trying to figure out why the hell they’re here.
Five minutes later I’m back wearing black gym shorts and a white T-shirt. I see Sterling has already found the liquor cabinet and poured a glass. Sitting on the armrest again, his dark eyes study the original artwork on the walls. It’s colorful, light, probably nowhere near his gothic taste. Uncle Bentley and Sawyer are sitting forward, elbows braced on their knees, exchanging words in hushed tones. A board in the floor creaks under my weight and they both look up wearing grim expressions. Suddenly I feel close to puking and drop into the oversized chair opposite the couch, bracing for the worst. I rub my sweaty palms over my kneecaps.
“What is it?” I ask.
Sawyer clears his throat and hangs his head, shaggy hair falling into his eye, the muscles in his biceps flexing. He is usually a happy guy in comparison to the rest of the Bentleys. Not today.
Uncle Bentley chest rises and falls with a long sigh.
“I know you realize we wouldn’t be here unless it’s bad.” He places a hand over his mouth. The wide gold band on his finger catches my eye. “Give me a second,” he chokes out. He gets up and goes over by the French doors staring out into the back yard. Uncle Bentley is a tall man with broad shoulders. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him in anything other than an Italian suit and I’d bet a hundred bucks he flew here in his private plane and there’s a limo parked out in the drive. But, hell, Uncle Bentley all choked up? WTF! I sit forward, wringing my clasped hands, swallowing as hard as a fagot. The tension in the room is strangling me. I wish someone would just…
“Your parents were killed in a plane crash,” Sterling throws out.
Sawyer shoves his brother’s shoulder almost knocking him off the end of the couch.
“What the hell, Ster. You have about as much sensitivity as a damn rock! Sometimes I think you have ice ruining through your veins.”
“It’s better to rip it off fast,” Sterling returns with a shrug.
Sawyer smacks Sterling on the back of the head and gets the look of the death from Sterling. “He’s not a fucking Band-Aid!”
“I know asswipe.” Sterling rakes a hand through his hair.
It’s as if I’m surrounded by glass walls, locked in this tiny suffocating box all by myself. Outside my glass enclosure both my cousins continue to bicker, swapping punches. Uncle Bentley sullen-faced, paces by the hearth.
It’s not fucking fair.
I haven’t done anything to deserve this kind of heartache.
I hear strangling sounds and wonder where the sound is coming from, then freak when I realize it’s me.
“SHUT UP! SHOW SOME FUCKING RESPECT!” Uncle Bentley roars and both his sons go silent. “Can’t you two see the boy is hurting? Have a little compassion. He is family.”
He shoves a thick finger in my direction. My gaze locks with onyx colored eyes.
“How are you?” he asks, his expression softening dramatically.
Fuck.
This can’t be happening.
“I don’t know,” I answer my mind not fully working. Leaning forward I rake both of my shaking hands through my hair, grab handfuls of it, exhaling all the air I’ve got in me. I force out, “In shock, I think. It all seems so surreal. Like I’m dreaming.” Deep breath. “Are you sure there hasn’t been some kind of mistake? I mean, I just saw them yesterday?”
At that moment, Sterling stands, and I’m very much aware of how much I despise the guy and his sketchy ways. I’m tempted to lunge at him and bloody his nose or give him a black eye. It would feel really good to pound something or somebody right now. The guy can’t be in a room for more than a half hour without acting like a caged animal with rabies. I don’t know what the hell his problem is, but…
“Here.” A glass of amber-colored liquid is held in my line of sight. I don’t reach for it. Refuse to. I don’t want his help.
“Take it. It will help numb the pain,” Sterling orders.
I reach out, my unsteady fingers circling the glass, because shit, I’d do almost anything right now to not feel like I do. I glance up at Sterling before draining the contents of the glass. He shrugs a shoulder as if his single act of kindness isn’t a big deal. I don’t have time to over think what just happened, before Uncle Bentley demands my attention.
“A Boeing 737 crashed yesterday while approaching Resolute Bay Airport, Nanavut, Canada, killing 12 of the 15 passengers on board. Your parents were two of the 12. I know this is a major blow. It is for all of us. Your father … well, he was a good man. And your mother was like the sister I never had.”
I scoff. Well yeah. My father was a good man, too bad you barely knew him, s
ince you’ve been absent for most of the last seventeen years. And my mother? The sister he never had? Bullshit. All of it is bullshit.
“Why wasn’t I notified first?” I ask.
“You’re still considered a minor. The airline and the authorities thought it would be better if you heard the news from a close family member. Being your father’s only brother … I’m the closest family member you have right now. I know it’s probably the last thing you want to do, but we need to discuss funeral arrangements. We only have a window of a day or two to work with.” He cast a worrisome glance over at Sawyer, who rolls a shoulder.
“You’re going to have to tell him,” Sawyer advises.
There is more. I’m not so sure I am ready to hear more.
My chest tightens. A strange noise comes from my throat. Oh, hell no. I will not cry like a sissy! Not in front of them. I come up out of the chair and pace. This is too much, too much to process at one time. Oddly, Sterling’s earlier words make a lot of damn sense. “It’s better to rip it off fast.” I wheel around, give Uncle Bentley a level stare, square my shoulder, and clench my fist by my sides saying, “Okay, I’m ready. Tell me the rest.”
“There were no bodies to bring home for the funeral.”
My legs go to shit and I feel myself going down. Within seconds Uncle Bentley and Sawyer are surrounding me, huddled around me, holding me up while I sob uncontrollably into Uncle Bentley’s wide shoulders. A large hard pats my back. I believe it is the first time I’ve ever cried and just as luck would have it, the three most in control men I know are there to witness it.
A firm hand clamps down on my shoulder. “We’ll stay to help you thru this, son, but after, you’ll come to Los Angeles to live with us. Family takes care of family.”
Left Out
Victoria
I sneak into the brick building behind our house and fall asleep in the same spot I use to hide in as a child; curled up on a sleeping bag under one of the dusty work benches. The building is plenty large enough that it could have easily been turned into the perfect shop. I’d wanted to make my carvings out here. There are windows for light and fresh air, power and plumbing.
But my mother turned it into a storage building long ago.
Boxes are stacked to the ceiling now, long forgotten.
Christmas decorations fill a corner: reindeers, a nativity scene and snow men for the yard collecting cobwebs. Sunlight creeps into my corner on the floor, finding me under the bench and forcing my eyes to squint against the bright light. My back is stiff from sleeping on the cold concrete floor, the thin sleeping bag not doing much to prevent it.
I can’t hide out here forever. Sooner or later I’ll have to go inside to eat. My stomach rumbles confirming it. Pushing up from the floor I roll the sleeping bag up and lay it on top of one of the boxes. My gaze is drawn to the box beside it, open.
Inside are books.
I need a distraction, an escape from my shitty reality. Digging through the box I skim the titles, choosing a few of my favorites.
My hand stops on the black leather bound bible.
Beverly Hamilton is embossed in gold in the bottom corner. My grandmother. A sadness consumes me as I collapse down on one of the five gallon buckets of paint. My fingertip grazes the gold letters.
“I miss you,” I mutter. “Things would be different if you were here.”
I flip open the cover, turn pages until I come to my grandmother’s handwriting.
My daughter Olivia Grace Anderson accepted Jesus as her savior on March 2, 1998.
Olivia Grace Anderson - baptized on April 2, 2005.
Birth of my first granddaughter Victoria Rose Anderson - August 12, 1983 “From birth I have relied on you; you brought me forth from my mother’s womb. I will ever praise you.” (Psalms 71:6)
There is an entry added at the bottom of the page, away from all the others:
Olivia hopefully one day you will forgive me.
That’s it. No explanations. No date. I’m not even sure my mother has ever seen it.
The door to the building creaks open. ‘You finally awake?” my father asks. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“It’s okay. How did you know I was out here?”
“I saw you sneak out here last night.” Dimples show. “Figured you wanted some time alone or you would’ve came inside.” His gaze drops to my bible open on my lap.
“I found grandma’s bible in one of the boxes,” I tell him. “She’d kept up with the dates of when mom and I were saved and baptized.” My gaze connects with his. “But you’re not in here?”
He leans against the doorjamb in his usual lazy manner. “Yeah. Your grandma wasn’t too fond of me back then. She thought your mother could do better. It took her a while to realize I wasn’t going anywhere.”
“Are you saved, dad?”
“Same day as your mother. I think you were like three. We’d started going to this little Baptist church.” His smile widens. “Your mother and I both really liked the pastor. It always seemed like he was speaking directly to us.”
“Pastor Steve?” I ask.
“Yeah. Pastor Steve baptized us both and you … when you were old enough to decide for yourself.”
“I remember. I was ten.” I study my grandma hand writing. “Grandma obviously loved mom.”
Lines of confusion form between his brows. “Off course she did.”
“Then why did they always fight. Why was there always this undeniable tension between them?”
The sunlight from a nearby window lights his features. “I don’t know, probably because they were both very strong willed opinionated women. Both of them wanted control, neither wanted to give in. Sound familiar?”
I snap the bible shut, stand, placing it back in the box. “I’m nothing like her.”
“Are you sure about that?”
“I’m positive,” I return, slipping past my father in the doorway. He pulls the door to and both of us cross the yard together.
“What are your plans for the day,” he asks.
“Sleep,” I grin.
“What, you didn’t find the concrete floor of the building comfortable?” he chuckles.
I rotate my neck, a faint cracking noise coming from the action. “Nope. Next time you see me sneaking into the building make me come inside to sleep in my own bed.”
“Alright, will do,” dad says, slinging an arm around my shoulders, pulling me into his side. He suddenly stops and draws my cell phone out of the pocket on his shirt. “Oh, I forgot. This is why I came to find you … I believe you have several messages.”
I take it and check my voice mails, a frown creeping in.
“Anything important,” dad asks.
“No. It’s just Colton.”
I try the front door to Colton’s home expecting to find it locked. It’s not. Pushing it open wide I hesitantly step inside, feeling an instant chill. No. Chill is not the appropriate word, more like an Antarctica glacier slams into me. Is it my imagination or did the temperature just drop a good thirty degrees? My hands go to my arms which are covered in goose bumps, vigorously rubbing flesh to generate some heat. I kick off my flip-flops by the door, and then scold myself as my bare feet touch the freezing cold tile in the foyer. It was Colton’s mother who’d enforced the rule, ‘no shoes on in the house’. With her gone there isn’t anyone to scold me. A great sadness envelops me. I can still picture her sitting with my mother on the sofa, both of them with wine glasses in their hands. What do you say to someone who has just lost both of their parents? I remember how I felt right after grandma died. Nobody could make it better.
Standing there in the foyer I get an overwhelming sense I’m where I’m meant to be
“Colton. Where are you?” I call. No answer. Only silence. Stairs stretch up in front of me, stairs to the second floor, where all the bedrooms are located. To my left is the den, to my right a formal dining room. My toes curl into the carpet on the stairs creaking under my weight. I s
eriously think I can see my breaths, it’s that cold. At the top of the stairs I take several deep breaths, preparing myself for the first time I’ve seen my boyfriend since the accident. Errr says his bedroom door, swinging open on its stiff hinges.
“Colton?”
The room is dark. Shades are pulled down over the windows to block out the sunshine. Colton is there, under a mound of heavy blankets, shivering. I go over and take hold of his limp hand. His eyes are open. Black. Void of emotion, staring out into nothingness.
I clear the sudden lump that has formed in my throat seeing him this way.
“What are you doing? Are you trying to freeze yourself to death?” I whisper.
No answer. He doesn’t even acknowledge I’m in the room. Should I call someone. A doctor?
“I’m going to go cut the heat up,” I tell him, my teeth actually chattering.
“No. Don’t,” is barely spoken. “Don’t leave.” He folds back a corner of the blankets and moves over to make room.
There’s this incredible weight in my stomach and on my shoulders, both impossible to ignore. He is still my boyfriend. I sure as hell can’t break up with him now. That would be majorly screwed up. We graduate in a couple of weeks. I want to see him happy, not suicidal.
“Okay.” I climb in, burying my feet under the weight of the covers. I settle down on my right side, hands clasped and tucked under my cheek resting on the pillow. He scoots forward, sliding his arms around my waist. We are spooning. The tip of his ice cold nose trails over my neck causing the fine hairs along my arms to rise. This is ridiculous. It is 85 degrees outside. Sunny. Daytime. I think this qualifies as losing it.
“I’m glad you’re here,” he says after a few minutes, his breath warming my shoulder.
“Me too.”
“I guess you got my message?”
“Yeah. I got it. Colton, you don’t leave a message like that and then not pick up your phone. I was worried.”
