by Mari Madison
“What?” I asked, confused. “What friend?”
“Sorry,” he said. “The little boy you told me about. The one who wants the surf lesson. Would this weekend work for him?”
“Oh!” I cried, shocked that after all that had happened, he had remembered our conversation from the night before. “Yeah. Sure. If you don’t have any other plans.”
“None as important as getting a young man on his first board,” Asher declared.
My heart fluttered. “Okay. I’ll just have to get permission from the housemothers but I think it should be fine as long as I’m chaperoning. What time do you want us and where?”
Asher raised an eyebrow. “You do realize this will take place on a beach, right? We can’t exactly surf on dry land.”
I blushed. In my excitement to get Jayden his lesson I hadn’t really considered myself and my . . . water issues. But what choice did I have? Toby would never be able to take off to take him herself. And I didn’t trust any of the other staff to keep him in line if things didn’t go to plan.
“Yeah,” I said at last. “I’ll be fine—don’t worry about me.”
“Okay then,” he said. “How about seven AM by the Ocean Beach pier?”
“We’ll be there.”
He walked over to his computer and I turned back to my script. My heart thudded in my chest and the words seemed to swim on the page. It’s really no big deal, I tried to tell myself. After all, it wasn’t as if I was personally signing up for a lesson. All I had to do was stand there for an hour, watching from a safe distance away. No one could drown on dry land.
Besides, what choice did I have? This surf lesson meant the world to Jayden. I wouldn’t be able to live with myself knowing I’d let him down, just like everyone else had in his short life. After all, I knew far too well what it felt like. Jayden needed to know he could count on me. That some adults kept their promises.
Still, the next time I wanted to help a kid? I was so going to suggest bowling.
I typed the last line of the script then read it over. Satisfied, I emailed it to Asher for him to take a look. Then I rose from my seat, ready to head over to the graphics department to see if they’d finished the piece’s opening animation. But before I could get out the door, my desk phone rang.
“This is Piper,” I said, putting the receiver to my ear.
“Hey, Piper, it’s the front desk. Are you expecting a visitor?”
I frowned. “Um, no? Is someone there?”
The man’s voice lowered. “Well, this woman just showed up. She’s acting a little crazy, to tell you the truth. She keeps insisting she’s your mother, but I don’t know. She looks like she might be homeless. Do you want me to get rid of her?”
Oh, crap. I glanced at my cell phone sitting on my desk, suddenly remembering my mother trying to call me last night in the middle of the whole country club fiasco. By the time I got home it was too late to call her back and I’d forgotten to do so in the morning.
Looks like I was about to pay for that forgetfulness. Big-time.
“Piper? Are you there?”
“Yeah, sorry,” I said. “Just . . . keep her there. I’ll be right down.”
“Everything okay?” Asher asked as I set down the phone.
“Yes. Everything’s fine. I just have to . . . I’ll be right back,” I stammered, trying to quell the panic rising inside of me. This was the last thing I needed. If someone were to see her. To discover she was my mother . . .
I raced downstairs, through the newsroom and down the hall, toward the front entrance, passing the framed posters of all the legendary News 9 employees along the way. One of which, I observed, was Asher’s father, Stormy Anderson. Asher definitely resembled his mother more than his father, but I thought I caught a resemblance in the senior Anderson’s eyes. I thought back to what Asher had said about his father—about how much pressure it was to live up to such a legend. Maybe he should try my life once in a while—where the bar had been set so low by the parental units, it was practically underground.
The hallway ended at a reception area where the security guard sat behind a wall of bulletproof glass. Which, at first glance, might have seemed a little extreme. But we’d had occasions where we’d aired controversial stories and angry people showed up to . . . argue . . . their counterpoints and the guards needed some protection, just in case.
The guard buzzed me out and I pushed through the double doors, stepping into the lobby. My mother, who was pacing the room, turned to find me, her eyes lighting up in recognition.
“See?” she shrieked at the guard. “I told you I had a daughter who worked here!” She turned back to me, her face a mask of indignation. “He tried to turn me away,” she accused.
I sighed. “Mom, we talked about this. I’m very busy at work. You can’t come here.”
“What else am I supposed to do, when you won’t answer my calls?”
I raked a hand through my hair. God, why hadn’t I just freaking called her back? I should have set an alarm or something. Anything . . . to avoid this kind of scene. I glanced back at the double doors and then at the security guard, who was pretending not to listen, but clearly was. This was going to be all over the newsroom gossip vine tomorrow, I could just tell. Piper and her crazy-sauce mother.
“What do you need, Mom?” I asked. “Can it wait until I’m off work?”
“No it can’t wait! And it involves your work. I want to talk to one of the reporters here. The . . . I-Team or whatever they’re called. I’ve had my civil rights violated and I want to report it.”
I cringed. Oh God. This was one of my mother’s all-time favorites. Her civil rights being violated. Even though nine times out of ten the “violation” was because of something she did or didn’t do herself.
I watched as she stalked the room, her steps eating up the distance between walls. Her eyes were wild and unfocused and her lips dry and cracked. She was grinding her jaw muscles back and forth, too: a telltale sign she had been on a bender—or still was.
“What happened?” I asked, trying to channel my inner saint, even as anger roiled within me. She’s your mother, I scolded myself. She needs your help.
“That slumlord at the trailer park,” she spit out. “He locked me out of my own house! Without any warning whatsoever. I come home and there’s a big fat padlock on my door—with all my stuff inside!”
“Wait!” I interrupted. “You don’t live at the trailer park anymore. I got you an apartment!”
She didn’t have the decency to blush. “I know, I know. But David needed a place to crash for a couple weeks—while his house was being fumigated. So I let him move into the trailer until the lease ran out.”
I closed my eyes, trying to reset my sanity. Goddamned David. I knew it had to have something to do with him. It always did. Why couldn’t the freaking penal system lock him up for good and throw away the key? Every time he got out I had to deal with this shit.
“Okay,” I said, trying my best to stay pragmatic, even though I pretty much wanted to strangle her at this point. “So what did the landlord say when you asked him about the lock?”
My mother turned, refusing to meet my eyes. “Some bullshit about back rent,” she muttered. “I’m telling you—he’s a slumlord. You should do a story on him. I bet I’m not the only person he’s ripped off!”
“Back rent? I give you money every month! What have you been using it for?” I started to demand. Then I shook my head. It was a stupid question. I was stupid for having given her the money in the first place. But she’d been doing so well—until David had come back, that was. “How many months behind are you?” I asked.
“I don’t know. A couple, I guess,” Mom mumbled. Then she looked up at me, eyes fierce. “But I’m not giving that asshole a dime of my money! He violated my civil rights! I want him to pay for that! I want you to put him on TV!”
“Everything okay?”
I whirled around at the sound of the voice, horrified to realize Asher had stepped into the lobby and was now standing behind me. I felt my face turn purple with humiliation. Of all people—I did not want him to see me like this.
“Everything’s fine!” I said quickly. “I’ve got it under control. You can just go back upstairs and finish—”
“OH MY GOD! You’re Asher Anderson!” my mother broke in. “I watched your father for years on the TV. He was the best weatherman ever. I mean, you’re no slouch yourself, and you’re actually easier on the eyes than your pop, if you know what I mean.” She gave a low whistle. “Asher Anderson. Damn. I’m blushing!”
“Mom,” I hissed. “Can we talk about this later?”
But she was done with me, all of her meth-fueled attention directed at Asher now. “I need your help, Mr. Anderson. My civil rights have been violated! I need to put this asshole on TV!”
“She’s fine,” I said, stepping in between them. “Mom, I will help you. You don’t need Asher.”
“What happened?” Asher asked my mother.
She repeated the whole story in one long breath. While I stood there, mortified beyond belief. Asher listened patiently.
When she was done he said, “So you have a new place to live. You just need your things back? Is that the issue here?”
“Well.” My mother huffed. “I guess that would be a start at least.”
“Okay.” He glanced at his watch. “Let’s go make that happen.”
“Wait, what?” I interjected. “No! We are working here!”
“I put the script into edit,” Asher argued. “We have time for a quick trip.”
“Thank you!” my mother said, beaming up at Asher. “It’s nice to know someone in this building cares.” She shot me an affronted look. I rolled my eyes.
Asher turned to me. “Are you coming?” he asked.
“You really don’t have to do this,” I said.
“Actually I think I do. Do you want to come or wait here?”
“I’ll come,” I said, not that I wanted to. In fact, it was the last thing I wanted to do. But I’d be damned if I’d allow my mother to be alone with Asher. Who knew what she would say to him?
We took two cars, Asher insisting that I drive my mother’s, which was a good idea seeing as I had no idea how she’d even made it this far in the state she was in. Asher followed behind us in Fiona. As I drove, my mother twisted her body around so she could look out the back window. “Asher Anderson!” she exclaimed again. “What a hottie. I sure wouldn’t mind a slice of that bacon.”
“Please, Mom. He’s my boss. Try to restrain yourself.”
She turned to me, her wild eyes glittering madly. “I think he’s more than your boss,” she teased. “At least he wants to be. Did you see the way he was looking at you back at the station?”
“No, Mom. I was too busy focusing on you humiliating me and putting my job at risk, actually.”
“This is why you never get a man,” she pointed out, wagging a finger at me. “You’re always thinking about work. Guys don’t like it when you think about work. They want you to think about sex.” She glanced back at Asher’s bus again. “You know, I bet you could totally get with him if you wanted to.”
“I appreciate the vote of confidence. But I’m good, thank you.”
“Are you a lesbian, Piper?”
“What?”
“I don’t know. I was telling David the other day how you never bring guys home. And he says, maybe you’re bringing girls home. I told him if you were, I didn’t know about it. But I would be okay with it either way. I’m liberated, you know? I have friends who are gay. If you got married, I’d even come to your wedding.”
“Well, that’s good to know. But I’m not gay.”
She shook her head. “Then, honey, you must be blind if you don’t see the benefits to getting a piece of that Asher Anderson ass.”
I let out a heavy groan. “Okay, Mom. Point taken. Just . . . please for the love of God don’t say anything like that to him, okay?”
“Of course I wouldn’t.” She giggled. “It’ll be our little secret.” Then she giggled again, which told me I couldn’t count on it. Sigh. This had better go quick.
We pulled into the trailer park a few minutes later, stopping at the first trailer in the lot, a halfway decent doublewide that the manager lived in. I’d met him before; he wasn’t a bad guy. Certainly not a slumlord. Which was why I was worried about how much my mother really was behind in rent. For him to lock her trailer on her—it must have been far more than a couple of months. I tried to mentally calculate how much was in my bank account. I was making more now, but I’d put down a hefty security deposit on my mother’s new apartment, which had drained my savings.
I stepped out of the car, looking around, my heart sinking at the scene laid out in front of me. I thought back to the country club, the yacht club—all the places Asher had taken me. The places in his world with the beautifully manicured lawns, the sparkling lights. Of course there were sparkling lights here, too. Tacky, blinking Christmas lights, half falling down on the side of one rusty single-wide. I groaned, watching Asher get out of the car, heading toward us. We needed to get this over with—quick.
The manager stepped out of the trailer, meeting us on the front porch. His eyes zeroed in on my mother. “Oh no, Miranda,” he said. “I told you not to come back here!”
“You violated my civil rights!” she shot back. “I brought News 9 to investigate!”
He glanced over at Asher, raising an eyebrow. “That’s the weatherman, you idiot.”
“Yeah, and he’s going to shut you down! You and your—conspiracy to rob good people of their personal possessions!”
“How much back rent does she owe?” I asked the manager with a sigh.
He scowled at my mother. “Six months,” he said. “I’ve been more than patient. She kept promising me she was getting some kind of disability check in the mail. But it never came.”
“Six months?” I turned to my mother. “Did you even use any of the money I sent you for rent?”
“He’s lying. I might have missed a month or two. But not six months! There’s no way I missed six months!”
Shit. I started doing the calculations in my head. Six months, four hundred fifty a month . . . Shit.
“What’s the total she owes?” Asher asked, stepping in. “Including any late fees you might need to collect . . . for your pain and suffering.”
I watched as the man’s eyes raked over Asher greedily, as if assessing his worth and how much of it he’d be willing to cough up. “I’d say four thousand ought to do it,” he said at last.
“Four thousand?” I blurted out. “But that’s—”
“Do you need cash or can you take a check? I’d need to go to the ATM for cash.”
“A check’s fine,” the manager declared. “I can tell a check from you won’t bounce.” He shot my mother a look. “Unlike some people.”
“Asher, you really don’t have to do this,” I protested, mortified beyond belief. Here I was, trying to dig my way out of the debt I already owed him for the job, and now he was doubling down.
“It’s already done,” he said, handing the man a check. “Now how about you go open up the lady’s trailer?” He turned to my mother. “I’ll call a moving company to come pick up your things. Just write down your new address for me.”
“Thank you!” she cried. “Thank you so much! You’re a goddamned hero is what you are! It’s nice to know some people have decency in this world,” she added, sneering at the manager. He ignored her, his eyes not leaving the check.
I turned back to Asher, surprised to see he’d put a hand on my mother’s arm and was leading her away from me. I watched, confused as he leaned in to talk to her. I could see my mom nod
ding her head vigorously. Then, he pulled out his phone and put it to his ear. A moment later, he walked back to me.
“There’s a room open at Safe Harbor. She’s agreed to let me take her. She’ll sign herself in voluntarily, so I can’t force her to stay. But I think we need to be thankful that she’s even willing to try it out.”
I stared at him in disbelief. He’d gotten my mother to agree to go to rehab? Just like that—in one conversation? I’d been trying for years to get her into a program, but she’d always refused. Seriously, I knew Asher was persuasive, but this was amazing.
It was also, unfortunately, impossible at the moment.
I swallowed hard. “Asher, that’s really great of you. But we can’t afford a program like that. Not right now.”
“You don’t need to. I got it covered.”
“No.” I shook my head vigorously. “You’ve already done too much! I can’t let you—”
“This isn’t about charity, Piper,” Asher interrupted. “Your mother’s sick. She needs treatment. If she had cancer would you say no to chemotherapy?”
“No, but . . .” I stared at him, helpless and so damn grateful. “Thank you,” I said at last. “I don’t know what else to say. You’re a saint.”
“No.” He shook his head. “I’m definitely not a saint. Just a guy who once suffered from the same kind of cancer. If I can help your mom . . . well, maybe I’ll finally feel even for what Miguel did for me.”
He held out his arms and I collapsed into them, sobbing in relief against him. He stroked my hair gently and I could feel his heartbeat against my chest. Strong, steady, just like Asher himself.
At last we pulled away. He looked down at me with affectionate eyes. “Now let’s get a move on,” he said. “We need to get back to the station and get that piece finalized. My producer’s a bit of a slave driver, you know.”
I looked up at him. “Yeah, well, I’m pretty sure you’re not half the slacker you pretend to be.”
