by K. A. Tucker
I can’t help but smile on my way past them.
When I found out I was pregnant, I didn’t tell my parents. I wasn’t talking to them anyway, and it was just one more way their elder daughter had disappointed them. It’s not like I was going to move home. It made more sense to find my own apartment and apply for government assistance and Medicaid. As a single eighteen-year-old pregnant girl, I was pretty much a shoe-in for it.
I was about six months along and unable to hide my swollen belly behind an apron when they finally learned the news from a neighbor who had seen me at work. I’m not sure what infuriated my mother more: the fact that she heard they were going to be grandparents through third-party whispers or that she actually had to ask who the father was.
My mother showed up at Diamonds, berating me for yet again dragging the Wright family name through the mud.
There wasn’t much I could say to ease her anger, and I had no interest in doing so. With more than a touch of spite, I admitted that her first grandchild was conceived in the back of a Volkswagen van, thanks to countless Solo cups’ worth of beer and heartbreak. That I had no plans of including the father in our lives. That I could do this alone.
That she could leave because I considered myself an orphan.
That I hated her.
All I wanted to do was hurt her, after all. Just a fraction of how badly she had hurt me.
I didn’t hear from her again until after Brenna was born, when she showed up at Diamonds, demanding to see her granddaughter. I refused. I’d survived the hardest months of my life alone—with the help of Misty, Lou, and Keith—and I wasn’t going to give her what she wanted simply because she wanted it. I might have given my dad some leeway—he was just going along with whatever his wife insisted on—but they were a package deal, and if I’d inherited anything from my mother, it was her stubbornness.
She even showed up on my doorstep once. I called the cops. It was enough to make her never try that again, the experience too embarrassing in a town where souls thrive on gossip.
That was definitely a low point in our relationship.
I basically hid Brenna for years. From this town, from my parents. We’d play in our backyard on weekends and go to the park and library only during weekdays. I’d go to the grocery store on Monday mornings. I kept to myself and avoided anywhere I thought my mother might be. She’s a regimented person—weekly shopping, gas, library every Saturday morning—and she sticks close to home when she’s not working. Aside from the few times I passed one of their cars on the main street, I was successful.
My little brother, Jack, is the force that finally pulled us back together. He and Brenna, really. Almost six years younger than me, he was twelve when I left, and fourteen when he rode his bike to my house after school to see me for the first time, unbeknownst to my mother.
He held Brenna before anyone else in my family even saw her.
He and I are much more alike than me and Emma, who in many ways is a mini version of my mother. But he also has a healthier relationship with my parents than I ever did—maybe because he’s the baby, or maybe because he’s the boy, or maybe because things changed once I left. After nearly two years of secret visits to my house, he confessed to them that he was in contact with me and with his niece. He even showed them pictures.
Brenna was getting older. She was becoming a little person. A smart little person. She was starting to ask questions: “Where does Uncle Jack live?” “Do I have grandparents?” And “Why don’t we see our family on Christmas, like the families on TV?”
She met my parents for the first time just days before her fourth birthday, on the same front-porch steps I’d stormed away from years before, her little hands grasping for the American Girl doll my dad held out for her. Anyone could see the elation on her face, that her world was expanding beyond just me and Jack.
That’s when I finally realized how selfish I’d been, withholding her from them. I wasn’t just hurting them. I was hurting her.
A silent understanding passed between my mother and me that day—a truce of kinds. We’ve never actually talked about what happened, but communication has always been a problem for us anyway. I’d call what we have now “civilized.”
That they dropped everything and rushed over here to take me to the hospital today? This is far from normal for us.
It takes me twenty minutes to get ready, the struggle with the most mundane tasks of pulling a shirt over my head and brushing my long hair beyond frustrating given my handicap.
When I emerge, my dad is still glued to the news. “It’s over. We’re finished for the season. Probably for the next five years,” he grumbles.
“That’s what happens when you give young men who already think they’re invincible all that money.” Mom’s head is in my fridge, rearranging the condiments. Brenna’s laundry has been sorted and folded, the worn floors look like someone’s run a mop over them, and the books on my shelf and the shoes by the door are straightened. She moved fast, to get all that done while I wasn’t watching.
I’m equal parts thankful and affronted.
“Stable condition . . . what does that even mean? Why won’t they tell us more? I think fans have the right to know! We’re the ones buying the goddamn tickets and the merchandise that pay these insane salaries! Hell, he could have a dozen broken bones in his body.” My dad isn’t one to say much, except when he’s agitated.
He must be really agitated right now.
He turns to me, a freshly brewed cup of coffee in hand. “What do you think, Cath?” He lifts the mug to his lips before I can warn him against drinking it.
As his mouth twists with disgust with the first sip I cringe, offering a soft “Sorry.” I picked up the single-serve Keurig at a garage sale for ten dollars, thinking I’d scored an amazing deal. Turns out the seller was looking to make a quick buck off trash, and I now have the worst coffee brewer known to man.
Shaking his head to himself, he sets the cup on a side table, dismissing it entirely. “How bad off did he seem?”
“He was pretty banged up.” God only knows what internal damages he sustained.
“Did he tell you who he was?”
“No. He wasn’t conscious.”
My dad frowns. “What about when you helped him get out of the car . . . He must have said something.”
“No. He never woke up.”
“Well, he must have. I mean . . . the guy’s two hundred and twenty pounds of solid muscle and you’re . . .” His gaze slides over my slender five-foot-four, hundred-and-ten-pound frame.
I shrug. “I don’t know. I was pulling on him and screaming, and then all of a sudden we were tumbling into the ditch. I guess he could have woken up just for that second? It was so hot in there, that probably brought him around. You know, self-preservation and all. I mean, he was seconds from dying, otherwise.” The more I think about it, he must have come to and lifted himself out.
“Who was seconds from dying?” Brenna chirps, pirouetting through the space.
I rope my good arm around my daughter and plant a kiss on her forehead, reminding myself that those little ears are always perked. “Can you go and make your bed for me, please?”
My eyes trail her slight body as she trots off, excited to have another task. That should occupy her for at least three minutes.
When I turn back, I find both my parents simply staring at me. They’ve been doing that a lot since I opened the door for them this morning. “What?”
They share a look. It’s my mother who answers, naturally. “We just can’t believe you did what you did. We’re—”
“I know, okay? I don’t need a lecture. It already makes me sick to my stomach, just thinking about it. It was stupid and risky and I should have thought more about Brenna and—”
“Cath!” My dad hollers. He shakes his head at me in disbelief. “She’s not trying to give you grief!”
“I was going to say, that what you did was selfless. And brave.” Then my mom does somethi
ng so foreign, so unlike her—unlike us, and our relationship. She reaches for my shoulder and pulls me into an awkward hug. “You should be proud of what you did.”
I simply stand there, stiff and confused, by both her actions and her words. Do I feel proud? No, ‘proud’ doesn’t seem like the right word. Relieved that I don’t have Brett Madden’s death weighing on my conscience is more like it. And that feels selfish.
“Yes, what you did was crazy and reckless, and we”—she cuts her words off with a sharp inhale, as if she’s catching herself—“you should be proud. We are proud.”
I can’t say when the last time was I heard those words come out of my mother’s mouth. If I had to wager, I’d say that I’ve never heard anything that resembled them.
I feel my cheeks flush. “I guess I am, maybe, a little? I don’t know. I just don’t want the attention this is going to bring. For me and Brenna, and you guys. I’m afraid of what it’ll turn into.” I remember waking up to the sound of glass smashing, as someone threw a brick through the living room window. And how my dad lost his job at the paint factory after his supervisor, a good friend of Scott’s father, cited him on a bunch of bogus infractions. And how Emma wasn’t awarded the academic award when she graduated from eighth grade that spring, even though her marks were far higher than the next-best student. My mother was right—the Philips family practically owns this town, and they didn’t seem to be the type to simply let things go and move on.
“This is very different from what happened before.” My dad’s knowing look tells me he hasn’t forgotten it either. He got another job fast enough—on an automotive line, this time.
“I know, but I don’t want to give people a reason to drag that all out.”
My mom sighs. “Well, there’s no point stressing over it now. We got through it once, and we’ll get through it again. At least there’s no shame this time around.”
I purse my lips. The way she uses the word “we,” she makes it sound like we did it together. We didn’t. There was the Wright family, and then there was me.
Now’s not the time to remind her of that, though.
“But you do have to get in touch with this hockey player. Or his family.” My mom smooths her thin sweater over her curvy hips, where she’s beginning to grow thick as she approaches her midfifties. “He owes you a new car. They have plenty of money. I’m sure he’ll be more than willing to replace it. If not, I’ll get Hansen involved.” My mother has worked as a paralegal at Belmont’s prominent civil law firm of Jeremy Hansen & Robert Shaw for the past twenty-eight years, and it has become second nature for her to look for the monetary gain behind every situation.
My shoulders tense. “I am not asking Brett Madden or his family to buy me a new car. And Hansen is absolutely not getting involved.” At one point that bottom-feeder had my mother convinced that they had civil cases against Scott, the school board, and the paint factory where my dad had worked. She would have gone through with suing them all, too, had my dad not promised divorce. He was as tired of the circus as the rest of us.
Given the chance, Hansen will have Brett Madden served with papers as soon as he’s up to receiving visitors from his hospital bed.
“Well, you need a car, Catherine. How else are you supposed to get to work?” The rare moment of affection has passed, and the Hildy Wright I know is back, her arms folded over her chest, that patronizing tone edging her words. That one that tells me she’s about to take control, to harp on the issue until she gets her way.
“Hildy . . .” my dad warns. He’s a calm, quiet man. He rarely raises his voice, and when he does, it’s because he’s had enough of my mom being, well, herself. He and I are much more alike, both introverts. He’s always preferred working his shift and then enjoying a night with a beer and the sports highlights.
“Don’t get offended.” She heaves a sigh. “I’m not trying to manage your life. I’m just thinking about your welfare. And Brenna’s.”
“And I’m not?” I take deep, calming breaths, reminding myself that my mother isn’t evil. That she does care about me. She just shows it in a way I don’t appreciate. “I will tell people about the accident if and when I’m ready, and there is no way anyone is bringing up the idea of replacing my car with Brett Madden or his family. That is my decision to make, and I’ve made it.” I say it slowly and calmly but firmly.
“And we respect that. Don’t we, Hildy?” my father says, again in that warning tone.
“Why do we need a new car?” Brenna chirps, wandering back into the living room, breaking up the tension in the room.
“Mine doesn’t work anymore, sweetie,” I explain. It’s not even worth the deductible I have to pay on insurance. There is no replacement value. I wouldn’t be surprised if I get a disposal bill from the town for it.
“We’ll revisit this conversation later,” my mother promises under her breath. My dad rolls his eyes. After years of bending to her will, he’s finally growing a spine.
“First things, first.” Mom reaches down to grab her purse. “You need to get that wrist X-rayed. It could be broken. You really should think about seeking compensation for that, too.”
I open my mouth, about to tell her that I’ll find my own way to the hospital, that I don’t want her involved because I don’t trust her to respect my wishes, when my dad clears his throat, catching my gaze. In his eyes, I see only concern. “One thing at a time. Let’s just worry about getting your wrist looked at.”
“You can drop me off if you want. I’m probably going to be stuck there for hours.”
“No, we’re staying. Through all of it.” His expression says this isn’t negotiable.
And for once, I’m relieved.
Chapter 5
I spot three news station vans in the parking lot as soon as we pull in. It’s not surprising that they’d choose Diamonds as the ideal place to squat, given that we’ve been voted the best truck stop diner in the state of Pennsylvania for the last ten years straight.
Still . . . I’m not sure what those reporters know. Keith’s words from last night have kept cycling through my mind all morning, making me skate around every answer I gave the doctors and nurses at the hospital, making me eye everyone through a suspicious lens.
It’ll be fine, I tell myself.
“I just need to grab my paycheck. Two minutes.” I reach for the door handle, hoping to make the stop quick and painless, wanting desperately to get back to the safety of my tiny home.
“I’m hungry. Aren’t you hungry?” Mom’s eyes narrow as she takes in the sign that sits atop the diner. At least a dozen of the flashing red bulbs that outline the diamond-shaped appendage have burned out.
“Chicken fingers and french fries!” Brenna hollers from next to me in the backseat. “I want chicken fingers and french fries!”
Mom turns to me, her gaze rolling over the beige binding that the hospital wrapped around my wrist to help support it while it heals. It only took four hours at the hospital to tell me it’s a bad sprain. “It’s been a long morning. Why don’t we have lunch here? Our treat.”
True to my dad’s word, they stuck by me the entire time, entertaining Brenna in the waiting room while I had X-rays taken and saw a doctor. And, surprisingly, my mother made no more comments about Brett Madden buying me a new car or compensating me for lost work. It could have been the whispered words exchanged between my parents as they lagged behind us in the hospital parking lot. Whatever it was, I’m grateful.
But I don’t know that sitting in Diamonds, where people know me and are bound to ask questions about what happened, is the best idea.
“Please, Mommy! I’m starving! And we haven’t eaten here in forever!”
Brenna’s dramatic flair—and her pouty bottom lip—ends any possible protest from me. “Okay.” I sigh. “But I need you to do me a favor and not repeat anything you may have heard me and Grandma and Grandpa talking about today.”
She peers up at me with wide, serious eyes. “Like what?”
<
br /> “Like . . . Just, anything.” The last thing I’m going to do is give my five-year-old a rundown of everything she isn’t supposed to talk about. Hopefully she’s already forgotten. She’s pretty good at keeping secrets, I’ll give her that.
The buzz of voices envelops me the second we step inside the busy roadside restaurant, and I can’t help but begin calculating how much tip money I’m losing by not working my shift today. My electricity bill for the month, at least. And because I left them one waitress short at the last minute, Lou’s working the floor, apron on and cheeks flushed.
“We’ll grab Number Fifteen,” I tell Jessica, the sixteen-year-old Lou just hired as a hostess, and she leads my family to a corner booth where the sun beats through the window. After such a long, cold winter, all of us could stand some warmth.
Brenna runs toward Lou instead, wrapping her arms around my boss’s thighs in a hug. For better or worse, Diamonds is her second home. She has spent plenty of time watching me wait tables when a babysitter fell through or when Lou was short staffed and begging me to cover a busy dinner hour at the last minute. In many ways, Lou filled the role of grandmother in the early years, plying my daughter with enough hugs and ice cream sundaes to win her eternal love.
By the tight brow and small sniff of discontent coming from my mother, I can tell that the special bond between the two of them hasn’t gone unnoticed.
“What are you doing in here today, Miss Busybody?” Lou sets her tray of ketchup bottles on the counter so she can reach down to ruffle Brenna’s hair.
“Mommy was in a car accident so we had to go to the hospital but now we’re here with Grandma and Grandpa and I want chicken fingers and french fries because I’m starving.”
“Car accident?” Lou’s eyes flash with a mixture of worry and suspicion as she looks first to me, then to my bandaged wrist, and I can almost see the wheels working inside her head, replaying the voice message where I said that I fell.
Clearly, I was wrong and should have specified exactly what Brenna wasn’t supposed to repeat. I fight the urge to groan. “I’m so sorry about leaving you in the lurch like this. It’s just a bad sprain, at least. I should be back to normal soon.”
