Salvage

by Tiffany Aleman

  Married?

  It’s not a word I’m uncomfortable with. But right now, it’s a word that’s not in my future. My grandparents were strong on the bond and values that marriage represented. When they said ‘til death do us part’ they took that phrase seriously. When my grandfather passed seven years ago at the ripe old age of eighty, my grandmother never remarried. The thought never crossed her mind. My grandfather was the love of her life, and his death affected her terribly.

  As my car coasts to a stop in my parents’ circular driveway, I throw it in park and shut off the engine. My hands grip the steering wheel in a white-knuckle grip. This is the last place I want to be, but I need to talk to my mom about this. She’s the lesser of the two evils when it comes to my parents. Though my respect for her has waned considerably, she’s still my mother and I do love her.

  Awkward would be the accurate word to describe what it feels like as I push the door open and walk into the foyer. Nothing about this place has changed. Even though it’s filled with works of art and flowers, it feels as empty as it ever has.

  I shove my hands into my pockets as I call out, “Mom?”

  Seconds later, the sounds of her heels click and clack against the marble floor. I’m not surprised when I see her come around the corner, a glass of wine in her hand. An easy smile highlights her cheeks.

  “Brayden,” she says with affection. “You’ve come home.”

  “No, Mom. I haven’t.” I shake my head at her and offer her a sad smile.

  She spreads her arms out to her sides. “Well, can I have a hug at least?”

  I walk up, my arms cocoon around her, and her arms wrap around my waist. Her signature scent of Chanel No. 5 and hairspray wraps around me and I realize I miss her. We’ve never been close, but we were closer than my father and I ever was. “I miss my boy,” she murmurs.

  “I miss you too, Mom.” I squeeze her once more before we drop our arms from around each other.

  “Are you staying for dinner?” She takes a sip of her wine, looking at me over the rim of the glass.

  “No. I just came by to ask you some questions.”

  “Is this about the inheritance you were left?”

  “Yeah.”

  Nodding towards the sitting room, she says, “I’ll try to answer what I can.”

  I follow after her and when she takes a seat on the sofa, I sit in the wing-backed chair opposite of her. I recline back, cross my legs at the ankles, and rest my folded hands on my stomach.

  “Did you know Gram and Pop put a stipulation on the inheritance?” I begin.

  My mom looks away from me to the framed picture of my grandparents on the bookshelf. “I did, but your father doesn’t know about it.”

  “Why? That makes no sense.”

  Her eyes find mine again. They look sad, and I can see tears on the verge of falling. “It was my suggestion.”

  My eyes widen in shock. “What?” I sit up and lean forward, my elbows on my knees help to support my weight.

  “You know how close I was to them Brayden. It tore my heart out when your grandfather passed. Then to have to see your grandmother go through so much turmoil after his passing, I can’t even imagine what she went through.”

  “Why would you make a stipulation like that?” I ask.

  “I know that I haven’t been the best mother to you. Regardless of what you think, I do love you, son.” When her chin trembles as she tries to contain her sobs, I get up and move to sit next to her. “I will never have a love like theirs.” She waves toward the photograph again. “But I want you to.” Her voice breaks on the words and my arms wrap around her again. “You’re not like your father. You’ve lived a hard life, and I did nothing to stop it. But I hope by doing this you can forgive me. I want you to be happy. Money won’t make you happy, son, I should know. Love is all that matters.”

  My mother pulls back and my arms drop from around her. She wipes at the tears that have now left black stains on her face. She’s right. Interfering with my beatings would have caused her own. I can see where she’s coming from in a sense. It’s still no excuse for what happened to me. It’s still no excuse that she didn’t come to my rescue. But in her defense she was just as much as a victim as I was.

  She’s right though, I may have no money or a leg to stand on, but I am happier than I’ve ever been. Even when I was making my own millions my life was dull and empty. There was no one to go home to. No one that I could share my life with stood on the sidelines of my games to cheer me on. When I wanted to sit at home and watch a movie, no woman of significance sat beside me.

  “What are you doing here?”

  My back tenses and my mother does the same. Her shoulders square and she looks straight ahead, a dead stare in her eyes. And just like she admitted she’s not been the best mother to me, I know that’s not going to change now.

  I twist in my seat and look up at the man whose blood runs through my veins. The same man who should clap me on the shoulder and tell me ‘long time no see son’ with a smile on his face. Instead, his words are laced with venom and his body is rigid. With his feet planted shoulder width apart, his arms crossed over his chest, and his shoulders squared he stares down at me from the threshold of the sitting room.

  “Just came by to check on Mom.” I shrug half-heartedly. I try for indifference, but deep down inside I’m trying to keep that little boy who’s intimidated by him at bay. I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of watching me shrink into myself.

  “How’s life going with the trailer trash bitch you moved in with?”

  He stands there looking smug. With his hands in pockets, rocking back on his heels, and a smirk on his face.

  My stare hardens at his words, and I can feel every muscle in my body strain to keep from punching him in the face. Slowly, I stand from the couch while Mother finishes off her wine in one long gulp.

  She pushes to her feet, her voice small and weak as she says, “It was nice to see you dear but if you’ll excuse me.” With her head down, hastily she makes her escape, turning sideways to slink past my father. He doesn’t even spare her a glance. Some things never change. I shake my head at the thought as I cross my arms over my chest and wait until she’s out of range before I say anything.

  “It’s going great, actually. Thanks for asking.” I tilt my head to the side and smile.

  “So are you going to convince her to marry you so you can get your money and then hit the road?”

  The way he says it so matter-of-fact floors me. I may be an asshole, but not even I would do something so callous. Even I have some fucking tact. Unlike him, I have a heart.

  “You amaze me, you know that, right? The things that come out of your mouth…”

  The smug look disappears off his face and in its wake anger takes hold. His gaze hardens and he takes a step in my direction. I watch his hands disappear from his pockets and clench into fists.

  I nod at them and ask, “You going to hit me again, big man?” I smirk because though I’ve never hit him back I’m not opposed to defending myself either.

  In two long strides, he stands toe to toe with me, his finger an inch from my face as he points at me.

  “You look here you piece of shit, you think you can walk in here and disrespect me? This is my house,” he bellows, the veins bulging out from his neck do little to hide his barely suppressed rage.

  My body begins to shake from my own anger threatening to send me over the edge. But I stand here not backing down from him.

  “I didn’t disrespect you. I stated a fact.”

  His voice becomes eerily calm as it drops an octave. “That money never should have been yours. It should have been your sister’s.” As soon as the words leave his mouth an all-consuming guilt threatens to swallow me whole. “Because of you, she’s dead. You killed your sister. How do you live with yourself?” He sneers, disgusted.

  As many times as he’s blamed me for her death, you would think I’d be immune to the shame that comes from he
aring those words but I’m not. Maybe if it weren’t for me, she’d still be alive. Maybe my mother wouldn’t be a drunk and my father wouldn’t be a bitter man filled with hate. Those are the same thoughts that echo through my mind as I shoulder past him, knocking him off kilter. But his final parting words solidify my need to be numb as I hear him yell from behind me that I should have been the one to die in the car accident, not Trish.

  I jog down the steps off the porch as fast as I can, jump into my car and peel out of the driveway. Tears blur my vision. Pain lances my heart into a million fissures. It hurts so fucking much. My hands shake with the need to get drunk and the need to hit something. I have no idea why I let him affect me this much. It’s not like I’ve never heard those words spewed from his mouth. No matter how many times his venom has seeped through my thick armor, it’s moments like this I wonder if this world would be a better place if I were gone. I wonder if my parents would be happier. I wonder if Karmen would be able to truly let go and move on from our past.

  Trish was my older sister by four years. A green eyed blonde beauty. She lived too short of a life. I never had the privilege of meeting her. I didn’t find out she existed until I turned four. My mother had been sitting in an empty room, a box next to her side. In her hands, she clutched a picture. I remember tears streaming down her beautiful face and whispering words that only she could hear. She didn’t hear me enter the room. She was lost to a memory that only she had knowledge of. When I looked over her shoulder, I saw the picture and was surprised to see the little girl. When I asked who she was, my mother answered through hiccupped sobs that the little girl was her heart, her angel. I asked where she had gone. My mother reached out, took my hand in hers and said one word—Heaven. When I asked how she got there, she said in a car accident. Later that day, I found out my mother’s heart was really my sister. When I turned ten, I learned I was the one responsible for her death. I was responsible for the car accident that took her life. All because it was the day I was born. She died when my parents were involved in a car accident on the way to the hospital to have me. Rationally, I know her dying isn’t my fault. But when years of blame are etched into every fiber of your being you tend to believe it, accept it.

  I’ve asked myself the same question over and over throughout the years: If she had lived would my life have turned out different? Would my mother be nurturing and loving? Would my father have been happy? Would Trish and I have gotten along? Would she have been my best friend? Would we have been a happy family? And the only answer I can come up with is, I’ll never know because she isn’t here and this is my fate.

  I’m so lost in my own despair I’m unaware that I’m parked in front of Brownbag, the local liquor store. I get out of the car, enter the store, and roam the aisles aimlessly until my eyes land on a bottle of Vodka. I don’t say a word to the cashier. I’m afraid to. I’m afraid I’ll break and nothing, not even a bottle of alcohol will be able to repair the damage. As soon as I’m back in the car, I unscrew the cap, place the glass rim to my lips and tip the bottle back. It’s not my favorite liquor, but it’s tasteless and odorless. The burn that fills my stomach and scorches my throat begins to take the focus away from the pain in my heart. After a few more gulps, the numbing sensation begins to take hold. When I pull the bottle away from my lips, I look to see that it’s only a quarter gone. Even though the pain in my heart has subsided, the painful truths of my father’s words still ring loud and clear in my ears. I take a few more swigs before I’m finally numb to the point that everything in my world feels right again. My heart doesn’t hurt. I no longer hear my father telling me I should have died. The air in my lungs finally returns and I can breathe again. After twisting the cap back on the bottle, I pop in a piece of gum from the pack in the cup holder and head over to Karmen’s.

  I’m a drunk, but I’m really fucking great at masking it. Right now I couldn't hide my emotions if I wanted to. The liquor helps me slip back into character. But like a chameleon, I can blend in when needed. By the time I arrive at the apartment, I’ll be the Brayden Karmen sees now to cover every shredded piece that makes me the broken man I am.

  On my hands and knees, I scrub at the baseboards and walls in the kitchen. Rihanna’s newest hit blasts from the speakers within my apartment. I’m singing along, my hips sway to and fro with the beat of the song. Upbeat hip-hop songs are what I listen to when I clean. As soon as Brayden left this morning, I slipped into a pair of bleach stained yoga pants and a loose fitting t-shirt and got to work.

  After our hiking expedition things have been great. I would never have predicted Brayden and me to get along so well, let alone live together. But that’s where we are and it’s left my mind blown. Although I’m still leery of Drew, I am making an effort to get along with him, and it helps that Chelsea and I really hit it off. I invited her out for drinks with me and Tammy tonight. I know her and Tammy will get along just fine. The thought makes me smile. I actually have girlfriends.

  Just as I stand to empty out the dirty water from my bucket the door slams behind me. The sound makes me jump, and I look back over my shoulder to see Brayden’s hands running through his hair. His shoulders are taut as they constrict under the gray fabric of his shirt. The muscles of his arms flex with his movements.

  I turn to look at him, my tone filled with concern. “What’s wrong?”

  His gaze swings my way. He looks at me for a long second. Bloodshot eyes make my breaths catch in my throat. I set the bucket down at my feet. With slow, cautious steps, I approach him like a wounded child. I reach out and cup his face in my hands. “What happened?” My voice is low and soft as I coax him to tell me what’s going on.

  “I hate him, Karmen.” The low growl of his voice sends chills down my spine, coating my insides with ice because I know whom he’s talking about.

  His father.

  “Did you see him today?”

  He nods and takes in a shuddering breath.

  “Did he hit you again?” I’m trying to keep my calm about this situation because if that cruel man laid a hand on him I’m going to lose it.

  “No,” he whispers. “But there’s only so much I can take. There’s only so much a person can be told they’re a joke and piece of shit and how they wish you were dead instead of…”

  His words trail off and my heart breaks for him. He has to believe he’s not one of those things. I tilt his head down to force him to look into my eyes. It’s imperative that he sees the truth. “You are none of those things, and I certainly don’t wish you were...” I force a swallow past the lump in my throat. “Dead,” I whisper.

  “Aren’t I though?” he retorts. Brayden pulls away from me and steps back a few paces like my touch has burned him. In a closed fist, he slams it into his chest. “I can’t even play fucking football anymore, Karmen. Why? Because of one too many concussions. I’m fucking weak.” He snaps his fingers. “In the blink of an eye, I lost everything. People would have loved to live the life I lived.” Spittle flies, veins in his neck bulge, and his face turns an alarming shade of red. “The one thing I was good at, the one thing that got me away from here, broke me and brought me back to my own personal hell. There’s no escape for me. Can’t you see that? Can’t you see what everyone else sees? I’m fucking nothing!” he shouts, his tone filled with agonizing grief.

  I don’t say anything. It’s obvious he needs this. These feelings he’s oppressed have been eating away at him for far too long. Defeat in his eyes stares me in the face. I can feel his hatred as if it were my own. I approach him and wrap my arms around his waist. No words are exchanged between us. I just hold him. Finally after what feels like minutes he returns my embrace, crushing me within his grasp. He buries his face in my hair at the crook of my neck. With deep, even breaths in and out he mumbles, “I don’t want to feel like this anymore.”

  Tears well up in my eyes at hearing the anguish in his voice. Deep down underneath that cocky smirk and arrogant attitude is a man with a good heart, a sense of hum
or, and so much love to give. And he doesn’t see it. He hasn’t been allowed to see it. He’s been beaten down with words of hate and fists of fury. His soul has been tortured with self-loathing. His spirit blasted into shards of nothing. He has no clue who he is or what he can become.

  But I do.

  With my arms still around his waist, I squeeze him tighter. “You know what I see?” I listen as he inhales deeply at my question. “I see a man who is a fighter. I see a man who can atone for his wrongdoings and seek redemption. You’re courageous, Brayden. You’re strong, and you have a good heart. After everything we’ve been through I can see the man you’ve become since the kid you once were.” I pull back and so does he, but our arms remain embracing the other. He rests his forehead against mine. His eyes are screwed shut tight as if the words I’m speaking have pained him. “Look at me.” My voice is barely above a whisper. His green eyes find my brown ones. I need him to see that I mean what I’m about to say. “I don’t know the ins and outs of you and your father’s relationship, but know that I am here for you. And if anything, I believe in you.”