Depths

by Liz Reinhardt

  Told me all about her mom and sister and what made them ditch her dad.

  About how she decided, when she was just in high school, to stand by his side. How it had been sad at first, but okay. How they needed to lean on each other, and that worked.

  Then she explained how things went downhill. How every day seemed to get just a tiny bit harder, just one more pebble of angst and difficulty thrown on her shoulders day after day, until she was being crushed under a metric ton of stress.

  I mopped her face up when she cried and crushed her to me when she told me how badass she had been when she was facing down her father.

  But the first thing she did before heading to work was arrange for a neighbor to check in on him.

  I realize that I could probably convince her to move in with me, but she’d always be giving so much mental and emotional energy to her father. And that seems crazy.

  Maren isn’t used to being taken care of. But I’m used to taking care of people, and I want to do this for her. Even if I’m not positive she’ll be all that happy.

  I have to knock for a while before I hear any noise from the apartment. The bolt trips on the door, and it opens slowly, revealing one bloodshot eye in a waxy, pale face with a giant gray beard.

  “Mr. Walshe? Can I come in for a minute?”

  The eye kind of rolls back and forth, I guess trying to check the hallway through the sliver of open door that the chain lock allows him to peek through.

  “My daughter deals with the bills. If we’re late on something, I’m sure you can take it up with her.”

  I was planning on using my best respectable-guy manners. I really was. But her dad just pretty much threw her under the bus and left her at the mercy of a hypothetical bill collector he’s too scared-as-shit to open the door for.

  Enough is enough.

  “Mr. Walshe, I’m not a bill collector. My name is Cohen Rodriguez. I’m your daughter’s boyfriend.” I say it without a pause, like I’m sure of myself and what I’m declaring.

  I know damn well it’s wishful thinking. For now. But I also know in my guts that, if Maren is willing, this is my chance. She’s my chance. And I’m not going to let some aging rocker with a Peter Pan complex fuck that up.

  “What’s the trouble?” he asks, backing away from the door.

  You, you washed-up bastard.

  “There’s no trouble. Can I come in? I think we need to sit down and talk some stuff through. Face to face?” I advance toward the door, and he pulls back.

  “You got anyone out there with you?” he asks, his eye darting around with nervous quickness.

  “No one but me.” I try to keep the irritated edge out of my voice, but it isn’t all that easy.

  The door closes and I hear him slide the chain lock before he opens it, inch by inch, poking his head out and swinging it left and right before he opens the door the rest of the way.

  “Come on in.” He shuffles into a dingy living room with a disgustingly stained recliner taking center stage.

  The furniture salesman in me wants to run his credit to get him a new chair and see if we can arrange for complementary disposal of that rotten piece of crap.

  The part of me that can’t stand to see Maren shiver in the cold or drop her classes for a dead-end job has to get his rage under control.

  The walls are streaked with the kind of yellow stains that only a truly devoted cigarette addiction can bring about, and there is a ring around the recliner spotted with food stains. The carpet is vacuumed, the kitchen looks dingy but scrubbed down, and there are tiny bright spots here and there; a beautiful painting of the ocean with Maren’s signature on the wall, some hand-made blankets laid over the sagging couch, a pair of bleached-out curtains hanging over a window with parking lot views.

  This isn’t where Maren belongs. And I’m sure as fuck not going to let her sit and rot here.

  “I came here to talk about Maren,” I say.

  I wasn’t sure how I’d put it all out there before I saw this filth. Now I know that I’ll say any damn thing I need to get him to get his fat ass out of her life before he can do any more damage.

  “You wanna drink?” he asks, looking sheepish.

  Weird that his manners still force him to offer me some booze, even when he has to know from the look of disgust I’m sending his way that I’m giving serious thought to breaking the bottle over his skull.

  “It’s not even ten in the morning,” I say between gritted teeth.

  He shrugs. “Habit I picked up back in my days on the road. Guess I never really kicked it.” He throws back two fingers of what I think is whiskey, then immediately pours two more.

  “Maren’s been worried sick about you.”

  He barely lifts his feet as he drags his ass from the kitchen to the chair, bottle tucked at his side neatly.

  “Sit.” He gestures to the couch, and I’m about to tell him to shut the hell up and listen, but I remember that I’m here to get him out of Maren’s life. If that means kissing some old rocker ass, so be it.

  “Thank you.” I wish I had better acting skills, because I know I’m coming off as pissed and uncomfortable.

  “I love that kid.” He swishes his drink in the bottom of his cup, and his mouth goes soft and wobbly. “Love her. No one in my life has ever stuck by me the way she has. And, no matter how shitty things are, she doesn’t leave. That takes a certain kind of heart.”

  A thousand biting, crazy things bubble up in my mind, but I stomp them back.

  “I know.” I take a deep breath. “She dropped out of school.”

  His nod is slow and heavy. “I guess I figured that. She kept packing her school bag up, but I could tell something was off.”

  Gee, how observant of you, Pops.

  “So, now that you know, what’s the plan?” I demand.

  I like action. I like figuring things out, getting a pattern down.

  Watching her prematurely aged, overweight father rock in his gross chair while he lets Maren collapse every opportunity in her life is driving me crazy.

  “I’m not really in the position for plans right this minute.” He rubs a hand over his disgusting beard. “I told her the other night, I just need six months, and I’ll be—”

  “Six months?” I interrupt. “You realize in six months, it will be mid-semester at her school. Which means she loses another full year of school. Did you know she’s maxed out two credit cards and doesn’t know how she’ll make her next car payment? She told me it might just get repossessed.” Obviously, I’d never let that happen, but I like the way her father’s face sags with self-loathing.

  My goal is to make him so full of guilt, he picks his ratty ass up and leaves.

  “What can I do?” His voice warbles.

  I pick up a stack of pamphlets and toss them his way. “These are three detox programs that have open space and offer services for people who don’t have insurance. They’re pretty good.”

  He rubs a hand with long, dirty fingernails over his face. “I’ve never been big on those programs. Just a bunch of assholes and their psycho babble.”

  Frustration cyclones through me. No wonder Maren feels like she’s on a downward spiral. This guy is stubborn about his own demise. Which is fine; if he crashes and burns, it’s on his head. I just refuse to see him take Maren down with him.

  “Here’s the thing, Mr. Walshe: my sister has some ins at the local college, and she’s helping get Maren back into some of her classes. Her professors agreed to excuse her absences and give her an extension…if you go into an approved rehab and we have documents that say Maren was caring for you during the time before you came in.”

  It’s a half-truth. Cece already told me that if Maren explained her situation, she’d vouch for her at the dean’s office, and she was positive it would work out. Good thing my sister tutored the dean’s sons through high school.

  But why should I make it easy on Walshe? Maren deserves a shot at doing this without having to run back and forth to make
sure he didn’t fall asleep with a still-burning cigarette in his fingers.

  She needs peace of mind.

  “They’ll let her back in if I do this?” he asks, thumbing through the brochures.

  “They won’t let her back in if you don’t,” I say, then get up and hold my hand out.

  Walshe stares at it like he doesn’t know what to do. Finally he puts the pamphlets on the arm of his dirty recliner and shakes, his overlong fingernails biting into my skin.

  “Well, I’ll think about it, Carmen,” he says.

  I swallow back the urge to throttle him. Also, what the hell is so complicated about my damn name?

  “Think fast,” I say. “Part of Maren’s deal is that she’ll live on campus and take a work study job. The rent on this place is paid through the next three weeks, and then you’re out.”

  I enjoy the look of panic in his eyes. I’m not a total asshole, but he’s been making Maren squirm and worry for years. He needs to man up and get his ass in gear, and I’m not above enjoying the show while he does.

  Even Maren doesn’t know this next piece of the plan to get her life jumpstarted. I owe Cece big time for setting things up, which probably means being the male guinea pig for a bunch of terrible gender studies interviews and studies.

  Whatever it takes, even if it means mainlining nights of feminist slam poetry. I’ll do it for Maren.

  I’d do anything for Maren.

  I turn to leave, and he’s already pouring another glass, the neck of the bottle smashing on the side of the rim.

  17 MAREN“It’s going to be fine,” Cohen says, his big, safe hand clutching at mine as we walk up the driveway to his mom’s house. “More than fine. They already love you.”

  “They ‘work’ love me. I’m a freaking amazing employee, Cohen, and there’s no doubt that I’m an asset to them, but that doesn’t mean they want me seeing their son.” It still gives me a little thrill when I realize that I’m actually, officially dating Cohen Rodriguez.

  “You know what I think about your assets?” he says, raising a dark eyebrow and patting my bum. I lean into him and hope he’s telling the truth. That this is going to be a good day. No complications. But I can’t help but feel nervous about meeting his entire family in one place. “Anyway, Deo and Whit will be here and they’ll like you for sure. It’ll make up for the sharks that my sisters can be.”

  “Cohen!” I swat as his arm with a pleading expression. “You’re not helping.”

  “I don’t get why you’re so worried. It’s just my family. You’ve already met some of them. What’s the problem?” We stop on the porch that’s full of plants near death and a massive stone religious statue that I don’t recognize.

  I want to explain that I know he’s never brought anyone here but Kensley, and how can I replace her? That sisters never like me. That his family is so close that I feel like an intruder. I open my mouth to speak, but he pulls me close and covers my mouth with his. His tongue silences me with its gentle path along the inside of my mouth.

  He pulls away, taps my nose with his fingertip and says, “You’re beautiful. It’s going to be great.” Cohen winks in that adorable/sexy way that makes everything okay in a more personal way than his laugh used to on the other end of the phone. “Ready to get your mexikosher on?”

  We turn toward the door and I smooth my tiny, floral skirt just as I notice there’s an elderly woman standing behind the dark screen.

  “Jesus Christ,” I gasp, jumping back.

  That’s got to be strike one, right?

  Cohen chuckles and pulls the door open. “Hey, Nana,” he says, leaning in to kiss the woman on her cheek. “Way to make your presence known. Maren, this is Nana, my mom’s mom.”

  “It’s nice to meet you,” I say, extending my hand, but Nana tugs me to her, wrapping her arms tight around me.

  “You’re too skinny. But you and my Cohen will make beautiful babies,” she says, grabbing at my hips with warm, bony fingers all decked out in gold rings.

  I choke.

  “Easy, Nana. You’re going to scare her away,” Cohen laughs. “Let’s get inside and meet everyone else.”

  Gulp.

  As soon as we walk through the door, it’s chaos. Chaos that smells like heaven. There are people everywhere, dishes full of delicious-smelling food on almost every surface.

  “This isn’t all for me is it?” I lean in and whisper to Cohen.

  “You’re a big deal. But no, this is every damn week.”

  In the kitchen, a woman with dark, glossy hair leans over the counter to set out yet another dish and catches my eye. I recognize her from photos on the company website. Mrs. Rodriguez, Cohen’s mom. I’ve met his dad before, but never his mother.

  “Maren?” she says, rounding the corner into the living room. She and Cohen share the same nose, down to the adorable little curve in the bone in the middle. She smiles broadly and it feels like this is actually going to be okay based on that look alone. Mrs. Rodriguez clutches at me the same way Cohen’s grandmother did, and it’s warm, welcoming, and feels like family should. “It’s so nice to finally meet you. I can’t believe it’s taken this long. How long have you worked for us?”

  “Ma, she’s not here as an employee,” Cohen says, wrapping a protective, sturdy arm around my waist.

  Mrs. Rodriguez pulls the dishtowel that’s slung over her shoulder and swats at Cohen with it. “I know that, son, I just meant—oh, never mind. Maren knows what I meant.”

  I nod politely. “It’s really nice to meet you, too, Mrs. Rodriguez.”

  “Oh, please, call me Dinah.”

  “And call me Daddy,” a male voice pipes in at the same time I feel his arm slip around me and shove Cohen’s away.

  “Deo, don’t start off being an asshole,” Cohen says, shaking his head. “Maren, this is Deo. My best friend. Apparently, I wasn’t the smartest kid. I picked this one pretty much before we could walk and haven’t been able to ditch him since.”

  “Please. I have the legs of a Rockette. You’d miss them if you ever left me,” Deo says, pulling his board shorts up to expose his lean, tan legs.

  I love him already. I love how he jokes and loosens up the straight lines of Cohen. I love how in the two minutes since I’ve met him, I already know that Deo is just as much Cohen’s family as the rest of the Rodriguez clan.

  Who, I realize suddenly, all have their eyes set on me.

  I channel my panic into smiling widely at the Deo as he keeps speaking. “And this is my much, much better half, Whit.”

  He pulls a gorgeous girl with serious eyes but an easy smile into his side.

  “Hi,” Whit says, ducking out from under Deo’s arm and giving me a small wave. “I’m so glad you came. Deo’s been chomping at the bit to meet the new girl Cohen’s been laying pipe with.”

  I can feel myself turning a shade of red that matches the paint on the accent wall as Cohen reaches over to intertwine his fingers with mine, steadying me.

  “Whit, really?” Deo says, grinning. “Exposing our classlessness the first time you meet the girl? You’ve been hanging out with my mother way too much lately. That’s clear as the awful sex euphemisms in your normal conversations. Apologies, Maren.”

  “Sorry, Maren, but if you hang out with us jerks long enough, you’ll see that’s just the way we are.” Whit shrugs. “And also, I’m so, so glad you didn’t get that douche’s name tattooed on you. And we really, really are glad you’re here.”

  I snort-laugh. “I’m glad, too. For all of those things.”

  “Table! Food’s getting cold!” Mrs. Rodriguez calls.

  The rest of Cohen’s family is charming. I’ve met Genevieve once before, Cece is a doll, exactly the way Cohen has described her and someone who I’d love to get to know better, and Lydia I think will be a completely decent human being once she gets laid. She’s polite, but sort of resembles that damn grumpy cat hating life on all of those memes.

  The food is delicious. Carnitas and rice and
all sorts of things I didn’t even know could be made kosher.

  “Maren, I wanted to thank you for the excellent order of the rugs last week. We sold every one of them and still had additional orders after sell-out. Incredible,” Cohen’s dad says.

  I love how the two of them look side-by-side. Cohen is a taller, younger version of his dad without the neatly combed black moustache.

  “You’re so welcome. Glad I could help.” I can hardly chew around my smile.

  “Pop, let’s not talk shop, okay?” Cohen sighs and squeezes my knee under the table.

  His dad huffs and shakes his head. “I was just saying—”

  “I got a promotion!” Lydia interrupts in a squeal. “I’ve been trying to keep the news in until they wrote a press release, because, then it’s so much more real, and then Enzo didn’t show again today, but I just couldn’t wait to tell you guys any longer! I made junior partner! Can you believe that? The youngest one in firm history.”

  It’s the first time I’ve seen her smile since I’ve been here, and it’s radiant.

  “What? When did this happen?” Mrs. Rodriguez asks. She claps her hands to her face and her eyes fill with tears of pride. Mr. Rodriguez tosses his napkin onto the tabletop, then rounds the table to kiss Lydia on the temple. It’s a beautiful moment. Except for the furtive glances across the table between Cohen and Cece.

  I reach under the table and run my palm across his thigh, and he covers my hand with his. Something is up.

  “Good job, sis,” Genevieve says.

  “Cheers,” Whit says, tipping her bottle of Corona back.

  “Thank you,” Lydia says, smoothing her hair and setting her face back to what I gather is its usual, miserable expression. “I’m hoping with the extra money I’ll be making, I’ll be able to afford to move back closer to you all. I mean, I didn’t fall into a small fortune, so I probably won’t be able to swing a place on the water like some people, but I hope to still be close.”

  I feel Cohen squeeze my hand tighter, but he doesn’t give Lydia the satisfaction of a response to her passive-aggressive dig.