Dylan (Wild Men)

by Melissa Belle

  “Oh.” She thinks for a second. “I guess. I’ve always been a bit of a saver. Don’t like to throw stuff out.”

  Really? You seemed to have no trouble getting rid of me.

  My mother awkwardly takes a seat in the armchair across from me. She crosses her legs slowly and then begins to shake her foot in the air. Over and over again.

  “So,” she begins. “How have you been?”

  I can’t take my eyes off her shaking foot.

  “I’ve been okay. Working at an ad firm in L.A.”

  “Oh, nice.” She nods. “And are you married?”

  “No.”

  “Oh. Well, me neither.” She takes a deep breath. “Look, Jasalie, this is rather awkward for me.”

  For you? What do you think it’s like for me? I’m the one putting myself out there. I’m the one who has to worry about being rejected.

  “I just don’t interact with people real well,” she says. “You know that.”

  “No, Mom, I don’t know that. How would I?”

  “Well, we did know each other once. It was a long time ago, but…”

  “Mom, I was four!” I stare at her. “Seriously, what do you think I remember? Other than the fact that you abandoned me?”

  “I did not abandon you, Jasalie.” She says it firmly like a therapist helped her reach this decision. “I gave you up for a better life.”

  “You sent me to social services with hundreds of other kids. I became part of the system.” I didn’t realize I was still so angry about it, but my shaking voice gives me away. “It’s not like you helped to hand-pick a family for me.”

  “I did the best I could. I even moved us away from Tucson and out to L.A. for what I thought would be a better job. Turned out to be a hoax. And after that…I didn’t have a choice. I really didn’t.”

  I stand up. “You always have a choice, Mom. Always.”

  “Jasalie.” Her voice shakes. “I’m sorry. I loved you. I still do.”

  “You don’t let go of people that you love. Not unless they ask you to. And I didn’t ask.”

  “I couldn’t be a mother,” she says. “I tried. I’m just no good.”

  “That’s not even why I came here,” I say, searching for that place of calm I had on the drive. I reach into my purse and pull out the envelope with her name written across it. “Here.” I hand it to her. “This is for you. I hope it will help you to keep your home. Before I met you again, I thought…” I shake my head. “I don’t know what I thought. That we could heal each other. And I appreciate you wanting to leave this house to me. I think it’s a beautiful space. But it’s yours, and what’s in that envelope has nothing to do with me. I just wanted you to be happy and to feel safe. Because I know far too well what it’s like to feel the opposite of safe and secure, and I thought maybe giving this to you would help break the cycle.”

  Once I’m done speaking, I’m not sure what to do next. Now that I’ve met her in the flesh, I can’t imagine what helping my mother could do for me at this point.

  “I hope you feel better,” I say as I turn to go.

  “Won’t you stay a little longer?” My mother still hasn’t glanced at the envelope in her hand. Her eyes are filled with tears. “I’d like to try again.”

  I shake my head. “It’s too late.”

  “It’s never too late.”

  “No,” I say. “Sometimes it is.”

  It’s not until I quietly shut the door behind me and run to the car that I see my keys nicely settled inside on the front seat.

  Crap. I use my cell phone to call roadside assistance.

  An hour later, my mother and I sit at her kitchen table with cups of tea while I continue to wait for my car to be unlocked. My very emphatic “see you later, Mom, thanks for nothing” was made far less powerful by the fact that I couldn’t get into my getaway car. Yes, I could have asked Dale for help. But when faced with the choice of sitting with my biological mother who abandoned me versus having Dylan potentially find out I needed his security team to help me out of a jam, I chose option A. I know Dale swore about privacy and all that, but I didn’t want to take the risk.

  “Do you have a boyfriend?” my mother asks me.

  She touches my shoulder, and I smell it then.

  “You still wear that perfume,” I say.

  “Ruby XO,” she says.

  “I remember.”

  “Really?” She smiles now.

  “Yep. That and Malibu.”

  “The beach.” She nods. “Gorgeous there. When I first saw Malibu, I thought maybe dreams really do come true. But I was a single mother, and it was very difficult. You were beautiful on that beach, though. You still are.”

  I swallow down the lump in my throat, and we return to an awkward silence.

  “So is there a boyfriend? Someone special?”

  I shrug. “There was.”

  “Really?” Big smile.

  “Why do you care?”

  “Because I want you to be happy. Just because I couldn’t figure it out doesn’t mean you need to carry on the gene.”

  “Well, some habits are hard to break.” I stare down into my tea.

  “Try,” she urges. “Because pain isn’t worth wallowing in. Believe me.”

  “There was someone,” I find myself saying. “He was the best.”

  “And he’s gone?”

  “Yeah.” I look out the window at my car.

  Is Emergency Roadside Care ever going to get here?

  “What happened?” she asks.

  I quirk an eyebrow at her. But she seems genuinely curious.

  “We just broke up.” I make a face. “Until he dumped me, he found it all so easy.”

  “Found what easy?”

  “Love. Sharing. Giving. All that stuff.”

  She starts to cry. “I’m sorry. I screwed that up big-time. I wasn’t any good at love. I was in a lot of pain back then.”

  The longer I listen to her cry, the more I truly feel for her. Because she really didn’t know how. And that means somebody must not have showed her, either.

  “It’s okay, Mom.”

  “Really?” she says.

  “I’m not sure. But I don’t want to keep hating you for this.”

  Because staying angry with her is doing me no good anymore. Whatever sort of self-survival and self-protection hating my mother afforded me in years past, I realize in this moment that it’s doing me shit right now.

  “I’m glad.” She smiles at me and finally looks down at the envelope, which has migrated with her to the kitchen table. “So what’s this about?”

  I swallow. “Why don’t you open it and find out?”

  She takes forever to cut open the top of the envelope and even longer to pull out the check.

  Her face is unreadable as she looks at it. Finally, she furrows her brows and looks up at me.

  “My name is on this.”

  I nod. “Yes. It’s for you. Twenty-five thousand dollars. What you need to pay off your gambling debts so you can keep this house and start fresh.”

  She was already weepy; now she’s downright sobbing.

  Scared she’s going to soak the check, I reach over and gently take it out of her hands, placing it at the other end of the table.

  “You’ll pay off the debts with this?” I say. “If not, I’ll write it out to the people you owe the money to instead.”

  She shakes her head. “Not necessary. I went to gamblers’ anonymous and quit the habit.” Her wet eyes focus on me. “But why? Why would you want to help me out after the way I treated you?”

  I fidget with my hands in my lap. “Like I said to you earlier, I want to break the cycle. I want you to feel empowered again or maybe for the first time in your life. And I would like a place to call home, somewhere I can come to visit. Not to live,” I add firmly. “But to visit. My apartment is in L.A.”

  Twenty minutes later, my mother has stopped crying, and she’s even placed a call to the casino and set up an appointment for
tomorrow morning so she can make the payment in person.

  “You’re a generous person with a huge heart,” she says to me, and I catch the pride in her voice.

  And yes, that means something. Having my mother approve of me means more than I’d like to admit.

  “I hope that man you care about so much appreciates you,” she says.

  “He did once,” I say, wanting to kick myself for the slight tremble in my voice. “Far more than I deserved. But we’re finished.”

  She rests her chin on her hand. “I thought I loved your father. But really, I barely knew Cort.”

  I stare at her. “You know his name?”

  “Of course I know his name. He’s the father of my only child.”

  She grabs a pen and pad of paper and starts to write. “He lives in Los Angeles now. Works for an insurance company.”

  “Does he know I exist?”

  “I wrote him about you. Dropped the letter off in his mailbox. I was too scared to tell him in person.” She shrugs. “We weren’t together anymore when I found out I was pregnant. I felt all alone. He called me. Offered to be a part of it. But I knew his offer was half-hearted at best. He’s a good man, but a very nervous person.” She hands me the piece of paper. “I just looked him up recently myself. You know I was curious. I didn’t contact him, but I know this is him.”

  I look down at her loopy script in black ink.

  Cort Tinley

  Waters Rowe Insurance

  1400 Salteenoa Street, Los Angeles

  Driving home through the desert is an empty feeling. Dale stays behind me the whole way, but other than him, parts of the trip are devoid of cars, and I can actually hear myself breathe.

  I love being by myself, but it can be awfully lonely. And I’m tired of being lonely. I nearly reach for my cell to call Dylan, and then I remember exactly how he broke things off.

  So I curse him out in my mind instead.

  When I finally get home long after midnight, I crawl into bed but lie awake for a long time. My body’s exhausted, but my brain won’t turn off.

  I get out of bed and go to the kitchen where all my sculptures are sitting in their boxes.

  And then I sit down on the carpet and sculpt one more. Sculpting is the one true way I can trust my heart, and I need to figure out what to make of her.

  When I wake up in the morning, at first I don’t remember. It’s not until I get up to pee and see the sculpture staring up at me from the floor that I flash back to yesterday. Yesterday in Tucson, when I was face-to-face with my mother for the first time since I was four.

  I sink down to my knees and touch her. She’s pregnant, this figure I sculpted. Pregnant and about to burst. And she’s happy. She’s full of hope for the future and for her child. She doesn’t know about the pain that’s to come. She doesn’t know how ill-prepared and young she is. All she knows is she’s happy in this moment.

  I stroke her hair as I realize I have an advantage over this woman. Because I know the effect it had on my own life. And I made a promise to myself years ago that I wouldn’t do it the same way.

  But until yesterday, I didn’t believe my promise. I didn’t believe I really could do things differently. Because sometimes, what you fight you become. I had to see my mother as an adult and forgive her as much as I’m able in order to trust that I can be different.

  Late that night, I walk out of the community college art room with the last box in my hand and get into my car.

  When I get home, I take the boxes into my apartment and carefully set out on the floor all my pieces from the time I spent in Arizona. They’re all fired and permanent. With the way things ended between Dylan and me, the word permanent has a difficult ring to it. It feels like a warning label to “watch your back” and “don’t believe it will last.”

  But as I touch one of the pieces, it’s solid as can be.

  Tucson may become a distant memory, and it may be painful as hell, but it’s a permanent one, an experience I can’t take back and pretend never happened. And as much as it hurt when it ended, I wouldn’t take it back. Dylan Wild changed me, and I’m forever grateful to him for that.

  I always promised myself I’d never give up. Not like she did. And I don’t want to have lied to myself all these years.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  By the beginning of the next week, I have an official website with photos of my sculpture and a gallery owner who needs someone to manage her Malibu gallery for her during the week. Plus, she’s offered me her tiny guesthouse to live in for less money than I’m paying now at my crappy apartment. I go take a look at the guesthouse. It’s super cute and surrounded by nature.

  “This is perfect,” I say to her. “I’d love to live here.”

  “And I’d like to commission you to do a couple one-of-a-kind sculptures for my outdoor garden,” Theresa says to me as we exit her guesthouse.

  I hold back a scream of enthusiasm. “That would be amazing.”

  “If that goes well, I’ve got a lot of wealthy friends who’d love the same. In fact, why don’t we hold a show for your sculptures this week?”

  I stare at her. “Are you serious?”

  “Just something small and casual. I’ll let my customers know today, and you can put out some of your pieces, maybe with a small description above each one. Can you have them ready by tomorrow evening? We could hold a showing at seven o’clock.”

  Now I can’t stop myself from giving her a hug.

  By the end of the month I’ll move out of my apartment and begin to get paid for my art—even if it’s just a start. And someday soon, I’ll be able to quit my job at Apex. I’m both excited and scared out of my mind.

  So scared that other things that would normally scare me senseless don’t seem quite so scary. Instead of driving back to work just yet, I head for the freeway. With Dale right behind me, I give him a friendly wave and push down on the gas pedal harder.

  I don’t give my father any warning that I’m coming by. If my mother didn’t get any, I don’t see why I should treat him differently.

  When I reach the doors of Waters Rowe Insurance Agency, I stop for a moment outside the building and catch my reflection in the glass. My skirt looks wrinkled. And it has a few white hairs on it. That would be Bessie’s fault.

  I sigh and enter the lobby. Thinking of Dylan and how great a risk I took with him in Arizona gives me the confidence to walk up to the desk and ask the secretary how I can reach Cort Tinley.

  “Is he expecting you?”

  I burst out laughing, and she stares at me quizzically.

  “Um,” I shake my head. “No. No, he is most definitely not expecting me. Tell him I know Marianne Gordon.”

  She buzzes him on the phone. “Jasalie Gordon, friend of Marianne Gordon, here to see you.”

  She glances at me. “He’s coughing,” she says, covering the phone.

  We wait in silence for over a minute. The receptionist and I look at each other awkwardly. Finally, she says I can go up to the eleventh floor.

  “Room 1104,” she says.

  My father is standing when I reach the open door of his office.

  I walk in boldly and extend my hand. “Hello. I’m Jasalie Gordon. You are my biological father.”

  I drop my hand when he starts to cough again.

  While he reaches for a handkerchief, I stand opposite his desk and get a good look at him. Mom wasn’t kidding about his anxiety. He coughs nonstop for the next thirty seconds.

  When he finally calms down, he looks straight at me. That’s when I see what must have drawn my mother to him.

  His eyes. They’re a brilliant green.

  My father starts to ramble, nearly stuttering, as he trips over himself in explanation. “Your mother and I were not in love. We were not careful with ourselves or with you, of course. I wanted to be a good father someday, but I am an insurance agent. Not a father. I see you have grown up very well. Your mother did a very nice job.”

  “My mother is
not responsible for most of this,” I say, realizing he’s confused. “She left me at social services when I was four. I did the majority of my growing up without her. On my own.”

  He stares at me and then starts to cough again. I sigh and cross my arms in front of my chest. We could be here all afternoon at this rate. I feel for him, but I’m not in a patient mood. I tap my foot on the rug and take a quick look around the office.

  He and Mom have something in common. My father’s office is a mess. Papers are everywhere, coffee mugs half-drunk are sitting on the heater, and a vase of flowers long dead is placed on the bookshelf. I turn back to watch him breathe. At least I can leave here saying that—for the first time in my life, I got to see my father breathe. That’s something.

  Eventually, he calms again, and we stand in silence.

  I was terrified he’d look like Dylan, be like Dylan, be a former athlete of some kind. Then I’d worry our relationship was based on a daddy complex. But my father’s tall and super-thin with thick glasses he keeps pushing back up on his nose. He doesn’t look like he has an athletic bone in his body.

  I’m pretty convinced he couldn’t handle the pressure of competitive sports, but I test him out anyway. “You a big Cougars fan?”

  “Excuse me?” he says.

  “Cougars. The football team?”

  “I’m not really into sports. Football is especially dangerous. Even going to a game as a fan increases your risk of bodily harm versus staying at home.” He widens his eyes anxiously. “Do you go to those games, Jasalie?”

  “No, I don’t go to those games.” I pause. “But I’m thinking about starting.”

  “Whatever for?” he asks me.

  “I know someone who plays on the team.”

  “Oh, yeah?” He looks at me more closely now and pushes his glasses more tightly onto his face.

  “Yeah.” I stand and fidget a bit in front of him, feeling like a teenager heading out on her first date.

  “And he’s safe”—my father pauses like he can hardly bear to say it—“on that football field?”

  “So far.” I want to scream that he’s the quarterback and that he turned my world upside down, but I refrain. I’ve probably said too much already.