Hazel tries hard to get validation from them. However, she believes that her issue of seeking validation from every person she meets is over and done. The crazy woman wants to please our parents so much that she is going to suggest they call collect to her cell phone. Not me. Up until a few months ago, I could only pay for my basic data and unlimited call package. Maybe we can email each other. My goal for this trip is to tell them how I feel. I want to explain that their abandonment, and the absence of a routine, rippled my brain, leaving the emotional side of my mind exposed and frail. As I discussed with my therapist, and later with Hazel, I don’t have any expectations of them. Not for them to believe a word of what happened to me, nor to patch the bridge they broke with their permanent absence.
The plane takes off, and I keep my mind busy . . . or at least pretend I’m not aware of Hunter. It’s impossible. I can feel the caress of his eyes, hear his low voice, while updating Fitz about the last client he visited before coming back home and the law firm they want to merge with in London, along with the one in Tokyo.
“I don’t mind traveling twice a year,” he continues.
As he says that, I lift my chin. Not only me, but everyone else stares at Hunter.
He rubs the back of his neck with one hand, smiling. “There’s nothing wrong with what I said. You’re all looking at me like I’m a stranger.”
“Surprised you’re willing to travel,” Fitz adds.
“It’s a different side of you,” I dare to say, looking into his eyes. Seeing the complete calm in them, the same he has when he’s in his room—his fortress. The safe haven I have enjoyed, but disappeared once we left his home.
“Different bad?” His eyes remain on me.
“Good different.”
When the pilot announces we are free to roam around the cabin, Hunter stands up. His eyes don’t leave mine. I stare at him wanting him to take me along but hoping I can breathe when he leaves and beg him not to go.
Why am I reacting like this? Feeling vulnerable around him. Maybe it’s because no matter how much I think I have everything under control, I’ll always be in this shaky world of insecurities. Everything is a swirling typhoon of anger, passion, sadness, or happiness. For the rest of my life, I have to stop for a second or two to get ahold of my heart, my mind, and sift through the feelings until I find my balance.
“Fitz, we have the video conference in twenty minutes. After that, I’m officially on vacation.” Hunter’s voice has an urgency to it.
“You’ve been on vacation for a long time,” Fitz jokes, punching him lightly on his shoulder, and saunters toward the hallway.
Hunter stops right in front of me, bends lowering his head close me. His breath caressing my cheek. His lips almost touching my ear. “I want us to talk, but when you’re ready.” He kisses me lightly on my neck. “I missed you.”
My entire body melts with the mixture of his words and that low-bedroom voice.
I missed you, too.
Twenty-Seven
Are we there yet?
Enjoy the journey as much as the destination. ~ Anonymous
Harrison warned us, but I didn’t want to believe it. This was a long trip. We arrived almost twenty-four hours after leaving New York. It took us two planes, three stops, a few hours of sleep in a hotel in Sao Paolo. Then, four hours on the road and zero sleep. We arrived at Olho d’Água do Casado at noon local time. The town is a maze. Crooked roads and not many street lights. The buildings are a jumble of different styles. The architecture has no symmetry. The streets are either dirt roads or paved roads with more craters than the moon. A gust of dry wind breezes through the ancient houses. Some have a few shattered windows; other have rotten boards. It has the feel of a ghost town. The children playing soccer in the streets are the life support that keeps the town standing.
As we approach a one-story, teal house, Harrison gets his arm outside the window and signals the Jeep that’s following behind us. He finally changes the gear and shuts the engine off.
“This is it,” Harrison says opening the door. “Anderson, along with Tiago our security details. They rented this house. It’s a three-bedroom house with a kitchenette. Be aware there’s no indoor plumbing.”
The driver of the other car walks to meet Harrison, and they begin to unload our belongings from the roofs where they had secured them. Everything Harrison requested we bring was shoved into backpacks or tied next to each other. We were here to camp.
“Princesses,” Harrison says sarcastically, helping us out of the coverless Wrangler. “We are not in New York anymore.”
“You seriously think we have never been outside of New York, don’t you, Everhart?” Hazel sneers at him. “I’m from Santa Cruz. We drove to similar towns that are close to Tijuana all the time.”
“What do you mean you drove to Tijuana?” I snap at her, shaking my head. “How many times did I tell you not to go there? You were underage.”
“That was a long time ago.” Turning to Harrison she points her finger at him. “That was your last shitty comment about being a rich girl. I’m not.”
He lifts his hand. “It was a joke. I told you to bring coffee.” He looks at Fitz. “She needs caffeine and snacks, did you bring the emergency kit?”
They weren’t joking. Harrison included on the general list a one month provision of protein bars for Hazel. It wasn’t necessary. She only gets grouchy when she spends all day in the office and skips lunch.
Hunter comes up behind me—I can feel his body. His breath tickles the sensitive skin of my neck. “Can I talk to you for a moment?”
I swallow, pressing my lips against each other and controlling my reaction to the low voice. “Now?”
“Don’t you think it’s best if we clear the air now?” Entwining his fingers with mine, he starts walking and pulls me behind him.
“What kind of air?”
“Hunter, you can’t go far without one of us,” Harrison orders, pointing at himself and then his two very tall, very buff, and slightly scary looking friends. I haven’t met the third guy yet. His forest green eyes study Hunter and me, and I swear it feels like he is about to shoot us if we don’t follow instructions. “I mean it.”
“Is my presence making you uncomfortable?” He doesn’t wait for an introduction to the subject. Hunter hits me with the question. “Because I can leave, just say the word.”
I hunch, instinctively I squeeze his hand. The memory of feelings soothed by those hands fills my soul with whatever it has been missing—which I hate for the first few seconds. I’ve worked hard to be independent, to be the one calming myself. How dare he, still have this kind of power?
How, when he decided to leave because he couldn’t be the one handling the fucking mess inside my head? I don’t want him to be near me, and yet I do.
“It’s okay, Willow. Knowing you are safe here is enough, I can go home.”
“What difference does it make to you?” I frown. “To know I’m safe?”
He scratches his chin, scanning the area. “You’re important to me, Willow.” He takes my other hand. “So fucking important, I had to fix my shit before I could come back to you. That’s why I had to make sure you arrived safely. Being here while you face your parents. I want to hold your hand while you process everything that happens for the next few weeks.”
“I’m a successful, independent woman,” I repeat my mantra. The one I say as many times as needed. Successful is a big stretch. My dream is starting to take shape. It looks nothing like the one most actors and actresses I admire have. My career is specifically designed by me and for me. I don’t expect to win an Oscar because I don’t plan on going to Hollywood anytime soon. My goal is the Tony awards. The applause of the public and most importantly, being part of productions I’m in love with. All that complemented by the cable show I record once a year. “Depending on a man isn’t part of the plan.”
“Willow, you’re not depending on anyone.” Hunter holds my hands with one of his and lifts my chin wi
th his free one. Those eyes, full of emotion, grasp onto my soul. Oh, how I missed them. “I just want to hold you, no matter how painful it gets.”
“You shouldn’t be talking about us as if we . . .”
“Willow.” His voice is low, a whisper loud enough only I can hear it. Or I’m imagining all the words he continues to say. “Relationships are complicated. Waiting for the right time is impossible. When is really the right time?”
I blink a few times. “Relationship?” My lips part, those words undo me.
“Grant, look the girls are here!” A feminine voice shouts. I take a step back as I lift my gaze toward my parents approaching us.
“Can we go home?” I whisper, but it’s too late.
Twenty-Eight
Meet The Parents
You don’t choose your parents, that doesn’t mean you can’t change your last name and fake not being home when they visit you. ~ Anonymous.
My parents hold hands as they approach us. Mom looks almost the same—she’s petite. So thin, I fear she might break. A straw hat covers her dark braid that falls to the side. Dad wears an old San Francisco Giants cap. His eyes are as green as mine. It’s the Beesley eyes. He has a big, strong nose that matches his long face. He isn’t as tall as I remember him. His tanned arms are still strong. As they approach us, my heart beats faster. By instinct, I search for Hazel who is right next to Harrison. Her eyes find me, but she’s shaking her head. I’m not sure if she’s telling me no, bad idea or not, we are staying.
“It’s okay,” Hunter releases one of my hands, wrapping his arm around me and holding me tight to his side. “If you guys want to leave right now, we will make it happen. You don’t have to do anything you aren’t ready to do.”
The panic only lasts seconds, erased by the reminder that I want to be here. Mother releases my father’s hold. They split, she walks to Hazel and Dad walks toward me.
Once he’s in front of me, he studies me. Then, he glares at Hunter and hugs me. “It’s so nice to see you, my little whimsical Willow.”
“I haven’t been called that in a long time.” I hug him back, reminiscing about my wanting to be Glinda, the good witch of Oz.
Maybe this can help me remember the good memories from my childhood. I’m sure there’s a lot more than seeing my parents leaving us behind. The knots inside my stomach loosen since at least, I have a memory. A question pops into my head. What if my parents were great at home? What if I have been too hard on them? I have so many questions. Now more than ever, I want to know what’s real and what’s not. The foreign feel of my father’s hug is at least the first indication that I have forgotten what it was like to be around them.
My fingers don’t let Hunter’s go. We remain connected for the few breaths I’m attached to my father. The good emotions are replaced by waves of anger, resentment, and sadness riding freely inside my blood. Those unanswered questions come back with things like, because they hate you. they never cared about you. I want to cry, yell, run. This is what my therapist meant when he said that working through every emotion I felt was essential. If I allow them to stay in my head without discerning them, I will always lose my mind. The way it used to happen.
“When you said you’d be joining us for a couple of weeks, I couldn’t believe it. And best of all, you brought man power with you.” My mother who can’t contain her excitement speaks. “This project might be done before September rolls in, Grant.”
Mom marches to where I stand, Dad releases me and goes to Hazel who looks a little lost.
“Look at you, Willow. You look so much like your grandmother.” She grabs my face with both hands, studying me. “There’s no denying that you’re a Beesley.”
“Good to see you too, Mom.”
I take a second look at her trying to bring a memory of her. What do I remember about her?
Those summer mornings when she decided to plant flowers around the house. The times we would bake cookies and twirl around the kitchen while we waited for them to cook. Screaming at us if we were noisy. Sending us outside when her head was killing her. Laughing while painting the walls a different color. She loved to change them all the time. No one should stay in one place, she used to say.
“Laila,” she corrects me, kissing my cheek and giving me a hug. I had forgotten that she hates labels. We should always call her Laila, and instead of Dad, we should use Grant. “This is such a wonderful reunion. It’s been ages since the last time the four of us were in the same place.”
You decided to move away from us, I bite back the awful remark and let it slide.
Hazel, on the other hand, says it, “You stopped visiting us.”
“We visited New York last year,” Dad amends. His voice calm and soothing. “These gentlemen received us at the airport.”
“And sent us to our next destination.” Mom smiles at them, then, walks to Scott. She pats his chest. “You seem like a good candidate for my daughters. One of you should step up before he becomes unavailable.”
“Thank you, but I don’t need an arranged marriage,” Hazel protests.
“Who said anything about marriage?” Mom who doesn’t believe in marriage answers. “I just want a couple of grandchildren to spoil.”
“Why would you care about grandchildren when you never did us?” My tongue was faster than my brain this time. My tone is harsher than I intended.
“Mrs. Beesley,” Hunter greets her.
Turning her gaze to Hunter, she extends her hand. “Laila Richardson.” Her voice is forceful, like an unleashed lion about to eat her prey.
“Excuse me. I didn’t know you use your maiden name.”
“Why would you assume I’m married?” She snaps at him, then turns to me. “I see you are as judgmental as you grandfather. That’s why I never wanted you close to those people.”
Watching her anger ignite just by the mention of the wrong last name, I’m reminded of the millions of times she would yell at Hazel for being hungry or at me for making noise and waking up the baby. She reminds me of myself. The days when a simple word shifted my balance. Turning to look at Hazel, I see it. The questions about what just happened. Maybe the end of our visit.
Dad comes near her. “Laila, we have to go back to the orphanage.” His voice is quiet but firm. He redirects her gaze, engaging it with his. “There’s work to do.”
“We will see you later,” Dad says, walking away without turning back.
Like it happened years ago, I have a hole in my stomach and lots of questions. One phrase that I can’t say while I see them leave is, “Please, stay.”
Hazel and I cover our mouths, looking at each other. Is she thinking what I am thinking?
“We can leave at any point.” Hunter remains by my side, murmuring the words.
“You saw it too, didn’t you?” I angle my head, leaning on him as I wait for his answer. He nods. “She exploded. Just exploded out of the blue.”
Hunter looks at me with a worry line etched on his forehead. “Are you okay?”
“What happened?” I ask out loud, but I know the answer.
I have the answer, but I don’t want to say it yet. Like me, she has a mental illness. That explains a lot more about my own diagnosis. Borderline personality disorder has a hereditary predisposition. I knew about the stressful childhood. For years, I suffered the separation from my parents. They neglected me. I had no fucking chance to escape it.
“He knows.” I exhale, finding my internal tools to remain calm.
My insides are churning with anger. My father knows my mother isn’t right. That she’s unstable. His behavior, the way he redirected her and just swept her away from here.
“He fucking knows about it.” My voice drags the attention of my sister and all the guys that came with us.
For a moment, I’m that kid again. Watching my parents drive away as they leave me behind with my little sister. Alone. He’s taking her away. My father is taking my poor mother away. Is he the one who hates me? I shake my head. This can�
�t be real. I’m a grown woman. My therapist cautioned me about this. There’s nothing wrong with feeling undesired, I repeat to myself. Just go back to your special place. Remember who you are and how far you have walked to be standing here. I can stand up as many times as I fall.
Yes, it’s normal to feel hurt. No matter what I do, I won’t stop feeling that unconditional love toward the people who brought me to life.
“What do you mean, Wills?” Hazel approaches me, giving me a tight hug. It’s soothing and needy. We give each other strength because if she’s feeling a bit of what I do, she’s angry and hurt, too. “He knows about your being sick?”
“No, that our mother isn’t stable.”
Every step was premeditated. Our father has a contingency plan. His immediate reaction was to move her away from the area. “His voice became firm. Like he was ordering what she had to do, dragging her attention back from us.”
“You’re right, I’m tempted to say let’s leave,” she comments. “But it’s up to you. I go with what your gut tells you.”
Suddenly, I feel everyone’s eyes on me. I hate to be in the spotlight when I’m not on stage. But I understand it’s up to me if we turn the car around or stay for the full two weeks as we had planned.
Of course, we’re staying. Mom needs us. She did so much for us when we were little. I’m fine. I’m able to help her. We can be together again. Mom needs me. A lump clogs my throat as I think for one second to leave. How can I leave when I see my mother’s struggle? I’m not experienced, but I can do something here. We can find her help. Give her a safe place. She needs a support group and a family who loves her. This is what we all need, to be a family again. I’m so cruel. How can I judge her behavior when I wanted to leave her behind?
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