by Tara West
“Mom,” I groan as I slump against the mahogany door. “I’ve got a hangover.”
I guess I should be happy she doesn’t seem to know about the breakup, but I’m in no mood to go anywhere with my mother.
She turns up her chin while sweeping a hand over her auburn coiffure, as if she’s checking to see if a single strand has fallen out of place. Not likely with the heavy duty can of hair sealant she sprays on her head each morning.
“Do you know what day it is?” she asks me pointedly.
I heave a frustrated breath. Of course I know what day it is, but I refuse to acknowledge her question, because then I’ll have to acknowledge him when all I want to do is climb into bed and sleep. She’s still glaring at me, so I choose a response that will add a bit of color to her cheeks.
“The day after my birthday?” I bat my lashes, feigning stupidity.
She plants both fists on her hips while rolling her eyes. “Don’t be so selfish.” Her tone drips with guilt, a technique that is second nature to her. “We’re going your father’s grave. “
I push off the door and fold my arms across my chest. This can’t be happening. The man plagued me in life. Is it too much to ask that I not have to put up with his bullshit now that he’s dead?
“Mom, you know I hate cemeteries,” I say, regretting the whine that slips into my voice. Whining never works on my mom. If anything, it makes her more determined to get her way.
“I don’t care. You’re going.” Her eyes bulge but the rest of the tight skin on her face barely moves, making her look more frightened than angry. “All of the sacrifices he made for you, the least you could do is show him this little bit of respect now that he’s dead.” Her lips twist into a scowl, and I wince because I know what’s coming next. “Considering how you treated him when he was alive,” she adds.
Brava, Mother. Nothing like a heaping spoonful of cream and a few cherries to go on top of that guilt-trip sundae.
“Fine.” I brush past her and march upstairs to my room.
“Take a shower,” she calls. “You smell like booze.”
I imagine her words are a verbal knife, and she’s having a fun time twisting the blade into my back as I walk away.
* * *
“Andrés, what are you doing here on your day off?”
Andrés sets his toolbox down and smiles at his auntie as she wraps him in a tight hug. He still can’t get over how much she’s changed during the four years he’d spent overseas. After a lifetime raising four boys, cooking, cleaning, and taking care of everyone but herself, she’s finally put some of the family money to good use and hired a housekeeper and a personal trainer. She’s had a bit of surgery, too, though Andrés pretends not to notice. She’s had the lines around her eyes minimized and the loose skin beneath her chin tucked up a bit. Not so much she looks like a piece of warped plastic, like some of the other wealthy older women he’s seen.
Still, whenever she smiles up at him and cups his chin in her hand, he’s reminded she is the same sweet auntie, or Tia, as he likes to call her. This woman has been more than just an aunt to Andrés. She’s been his mother, too, having raised him after his own mother died of a drug overdose when he was only six. Though he’s never known his father, Tio has been more than a father to him. Andrés couldn’t have asked for a better family and a better childhood, which is why he still feels guilt over his rebellious teenage stage. This is why he has to do whatever it takes to make it up to his family , considering all the sacrifices they’ve made for him.
Andrés kisses his auntie on the cheek and then picks up his toolbox. “Tio said your shower isn’t working.”
She wags a finger and clucks her tongue. “You worked twelve-hour shifts all week. You must take a break.”
Andrés represses a groan. Ever since he’s gotten home, his family has been coddling him, thinking if they push him too hard, he’ll need to go back to that military shrink. What they don’t understand is when he stays busy, he doesn’t have time to dwell on the past.
He shrugs, trying his best to plaster on an impassive expression. “I don’t mind. Besides, I’ve got nothing else to do.” For some strange reason, an image of Christina’s pretty green eyes flashes through his mind. He would have had something to do if she’d stayed. Damn. He has the feeling he’ll be thinking about her all day. He struggles to put memories of her out of his mind. He’ll probably never see her again, anyway, so no use dwelling on the past. She’s just another one of life’s casualties.
“Come on,” his aunt says. “Tio was supposed to fix it weeks ago.”
Andrés follows her up the winding staircase with intricately carved cherry oak banisters, a recent addition to their two-story sprawling ranch home. Though his aunt and uncle can afford to build a lavish mansion, his auntie has refused, saying she’d never tear down the home where her children were raised. Instead, they remodeled and expanded, until this once-modest house on six acres became a large manor on four hundred acres. Over the years, Tio built a pool and horse stables where he bred prize racing studs. They’d even added a pond and cattle. Yet, despite all the changes, Andrés never feels more at peace than when he comes home to the same two loving people who raised him.
He follows his auntie into her bedroom. A huge four poster bed sits in the center. Light filters into the room from twin French doors that lead to a spacious patio overlooking the beautiful Texas hill country. Even from the second story, Andrés can see the tops of the shady oak trees that surround the house like a fortress.
Double doors lead to his auntie’s oversized bathroom. He walks across the earthen Spanish tiles and past the centerpiece of the bathroom, a marble Jacuzzi, toward the shower. He suppresses a laugh when he sees the door is off its hinges. He’s heard the story from his cousins; Tio was so angry after stubbing his toe in the shower, he’d taken it out on the door.
“Tio at work again?” Andrés asks as he puts down his tools and examines the shower door. The hinges were ripped off the slate, but he can fix it. He’s almost positive his uncle has extra tiles in the garage.
“Yeah.” She heaves a groan and rolls her eyes. “Always at the paint shop. Another artist quit yesterday. I’ll be glad when he retires and turns all these shops over to you boys.”
“I won’t.” Andrés winces. His family has been bringing up Tio’s retirement more and more lately. For some reason, his uncle has decided he’s going to split up all twenty businesses between Andrés and his three cousins. Andrés can’t help but feel guilty over taking his uncle’s offer. He’s tried to argue with his family, but his aunt and uncle, and even his cousins, insist he receive an equal share of the inheritance. Andrés only hopes when his uncle does finally retire, he’ll be able to live up to his family’s expectations. Five successful businesses, plus a large bank account to support them seems overwhelming to a guy who has just come back from war and is still dealing with the loss of his best friend. Besides, Andrés still doesn’t know if he deserves to be rewarded.
“Don’t worry.” Tia squeezes his arm and looks up at him with soft brown eyes. “You just got home. Give yourself some time. You’ll learn the ropes. After you fix the shower, we’ll have lunch. How does that sound?”
“That depends.” Andrés smiles playfully at his aunt. “Will there be tamales?”
“Of course,” she says with a note of awe in her voice before cupping his cheek in her hand. “Anything for my hero.”
Andrés’s chest tightens as he watches his aunt walk out the door. He hates how they always call him a hero, especially when he doesn’t feel like one. Heroes are supposed to save the day and get the girl. Because of Andrés’s carelessness, his best friend is dead, and Andrés can’t even make a girl breakfast without scaring her away. No, he is definitely not a hero.
* * *
It takes me less than a half hour to shower, do my makeup, and get dressed, which is obviously still too long of a wait for my impatient mother, who is huffing and puffing when I come down the stairs.
Ironically, she has no problem making others wait two or more hours while she performs her daily ritual of primping, plucking, and concealing.
I’m aggravated because I think my mom’s whole mourning thing is total bullshit, a way for her to get sympathy as the grieving widow. My mom never cared about my dad when he was alive. Why is she so concerned about him now?
The car ride takes forever. We have to stop off at three different flower shops until mom finds the right bouquet, one that truly captures my dad’s essence.As if his corpse cares what the damn flowers look like. It’s not like he’ll get a chance to smell them in hell.
I drank a few too many beers last night. I rest my head against the passenger window and try to take a power nap while she drives, but my mom keeps going on about some country club friend of hers whose husband was caught sleeping with a twenty-three-year-old intern. I don’t care how the divorce proceedings are going or how much of a settlement this woman is entitled to. All I care about is this throbbing vein above my temple and a growing need for my warm, cozy bed with Egyptian cotton sheets.
The sheets were a gift from Jackson’s step-mother, the only sane person in his family and the only family member of his I’ll miss. One thing I know for certain, I won’t miss Jackson. The more I think about this breakup, the more I realize it was a long time overdue.
We pull into the cemetery, and I shudder when I see a funeral is taking place just beyond the gate we’ll need to pass through to get to Dad’s tombstone.
We make a hasty entrance. I follow Mom’s lead, trying not to look at the crowd of mourners. Just my luck, it’s starting to mist again, and I feel like the gloom from the overcast day settles inside my chest like a thick haze. I really don’t want to be here. Lots of people are crying, and I don’t know why, but it breaks my heart. I don’t even know these people. I shouldn’t have feelings for them.
Mom hangs back and walks beside me, nudging me in the ribs. “Did you see the widower?” she asks. “He’s not bad looking.”
I roll my eyes. “Mom, I’m pretty sure this isn’t the right time to be shopping for your future husband.”
She shrugs and continues walking. Honestly, there are days when I wonder if I wasn’t adopted, or maybe sired by aliens and switched at birth. If so, I hope my alien parents will come get me soon and save me from this hellish life.
We finally come to my dad’s plot, and I glare at his tombstone, wanting so badly to take a hammer and bust it to pieces. Nobody consulted me when they decided to engrave the stone with “Beloved Father,” because if I had been asked, I would have added a few choice modifiers to his name, like asshammer, douchenozzle, pedophile, and rapist.
My mom places the flowers on his grave, bows her head, and whispers a few words. I can’t hear what she’s saying and I don’t care. I just want to get the fuck out of here. The mourners from the funeral are still sobbing. I can tell whomever they are crying over is worthy of their tears. I assume the person who died was nothing like my father.
Damn, I hate visiting my dad’s grave.
My heart swells with regret when I think of him. I’m not so upset he had a massive heart attack the day after my eighteenth Birthday. I’m more upset he never got a chance to apologize to me for what he’d done.
I’d have to carry those painful memories from that fateful night for the rest of my life, wondering why he did it, why he blamed me, and then why he went on about his life like nothing happened.
And now it’s too late to ask him why, because he’s dead, hopefully rotting in some dark shithole. If I could travel back in time, I’d tell my dad to think about the consequences before deciding to sneak into my room in a drunken stupor. I’d tell him nothing could undo the emotional and physical scars I now carry with me after he took my virginity when I was only fifteen.
But I can’t travel back in time. I can’t undo what he’s done, so I scowl at his tombstone while my mother silently weeps beside me. Out loud, I tell my dad to rest in peace. Inside, I tell him I’ll never forgive him.
Never.
* * *
“So what did you and Jackson do last night?” Mom is dabbing her eyes with an embroidered kerchief while clutching the steering wheel with her other hand.
“Huh?” That “huh” was a knee-jerk reaction. What I really mean to say is, “Mind your own damn business.” Honestly, I don’t want to talk about what went on between Jackson and me, not now, not ever. But because Jackson and my mom have this strange little friendship, namely, they like to call each other and complain about all of my flaws, I know she’ll find out eventually, and I guess I’d rather she hear it from me than him.
“Did he take you out to that nice Chinese restaurant?” Mom asks with a dreamy sigh in her voice.
I glare at her. “You knew about the restaurant?”
She sets down her handkerchief and flashes her best condescending smile. “He called me yesterday and told me his plans.”
Okay, now I’m pissed. “You know I hate Chinese food.”
“Oh, pshaw.” Mom waves me away with a flick of the wrist, as if nothing I say matters. “Did you see the prices at that place? Easily a hundred a plate. For that much money, you can learn to like it.”
I blow out an exasperated breath. I’ve been thinking of the best way to break it to my mom, but suddenly I don’t give a shit about her feelings. It’s not like she cares about mine.
I turn up my chin and flash my own condescending smile. “I broke it off with Jackson.”
Mom’s hand flies to her chest. “Pardon?” she says in a breathy voice, looking as if she’s about to pass out. “I didn’t hear you.”
She must have taken her foot off the accelerator because the car starts to slow down.
I fold my arms across my chest and center my gaze out the front window, watching other cars speed past us. “I broke up with him. Gave back the ring.”
The car swerves, and I grab the door handle, praying that all the airbags in mom’s luxury car still work.
“Christina Marie, that is not funny.”
But her eyes just about pop out of her head when she looks down at my bare engagement finger. The car swerves again, narrowly missing a pickup truck beside us. The driver lays on the horn and speeds up.
Even though my stomach has practically launched into my throat, I hold my ground. “I’m not joking.”
She angles her body, her eyes more on me than on the road. “Have you lost your mind?”
“No, but you have. Pay attention to where you’re driving!” I holler.
She gasps and faces forward, but not before I witness a look of horror in her eyes. I know what she’s thinking. How could my darling, obedient girl use that tone of voice? She’ll probably need several extra weeks of therapy after my outburst.
We ride the rest of the way home in stony silence, which suits me just fine, but as we pull into the circular drive of our two-story upscale home, a lead ball settles in the pit of my stomach, because this silent treatment is just the beginning of something far worse. I’ve seen the extent of my mother’s wrath when other people have angered her. Up until this point, I’ve always done what I’ve been told. I cringe when I think just how far she’ll go to make me pay for my defiance.
* * *
I wake up to a blinking cell phone. No surprise there. I had turned off the volume because I knew my friends wouldn’t let me get any sleep. I stretch a cramped arm and pick up the phone, surprised to see it’s already six o’clock. I’d slept almost the whole day, although considering my wild night, I know I needed the rest. I scroll through my messages. Five voicemails from Karri’s mom and three texts from Jackson. I ignore the texts. Whatever the hell he has to say, I don’t care.
Karri’s mom, on the other hand, I can’t ignore. The woman is a saint, the kind of mother neglected, unloved kids like me have fantasies about. It pisses me off that Mrs. Peterson is Karri’s mom. Karri doesn’t deserve her. She deserves a mom like mine, one who is selfish and spiteful, just like Karri.<
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The first few voicemails, Mrs. Peterson asks if I know when Karri is coming for Tyler. She sounds concerned because she has church at eleven and Karri isn’t answering her phone. The next two messages, Karri’s mom says she took Tyler with her to church and he cried during the service. Would I let Karri know she has bridge club at six-thirty and she’d like to spend time with her friends? The final message, Karri’s mom actually sounds frantic. Do I know if Karri is okay? She hasn’t heard from her daughter all day. She goes on about all the weirdos in Karri’s apartment complex and how she fears for her daughter’s safety.
The images of two particular weirdos flash in my mind, Karri’s greasy fuck buddies, and probably her drug dealers as well. Karri has to be back on meth. That would explain why she doesn’t have the funds to change the oil in her car when she makes good tips bartending, especially considering the tight tank tops and pushup bras she wears on the job.
Poor Mrs. Peterson. She deserves a better daughter. Now she is stuck with Tyler, when I’m sure she needs a break. The woman isn’t in the best health, and I know Tyler can be a handful. He’s just learned how to crawl and is into everything.
I dial Mrs. Peterson, not surprised when she answers on the first ring.
“Karri, is that you?” she cries into the phone.
I’m fairly certain Karri’s mom has caller ID, but she doesn’t know how to use it.
“No, Mrs. Peterson.” I sigh. “It’s Christina.”
“Have you seen Karri? Is she okay?” Even through the receiver, the woman’s fear is palpable.
“I saw her last night,” I say, hating to be the one to tell her the bad news. Mrs. Peterson has already taken on so many of her daughter’s problems. “They had to tow her car. The engine blew up.”
“Oh, damn.”
Wow. Karri’s mom rarely swears, and I feel terrible for upsetting her.
