“Hey, Jax,” I said, using her nickname from when we were kids. She smiled and pulled me in for a hug once we were standing again. We stayed that way for several seconds before she reluctantly let go. I’d never been much of a hugger, but lately, every time Jackie hugged me, I held on a little tighter. It was beginning to feel like that was the only thing holding her together. “Have you heard from him?”
She shook her head. “Not yet.”
“He’ll call. He’ll find a way. He loves that little girl more than anything.” I pointed toward Megan as she swung higher and turned to talk to an imaginary friend on the empty swing next to her.
“You’re right.” She paused. “I know you’re right. I just never pictured her fifth birthday being this way. I never imagined I’d be doing all this alone.”
“Mom and Dad—”
“Are busy.” She cut me off. “I can handle this. This is just one of those bad days, Al. You know?” She gave me a pointed look because, yeah, I did know.
Jackie walked away and began setting up the games while I went over and pushed Megan a little higher, feeling guiltier than I had in a long time. I couldn’t even begin to understand the type of stress and pain my sister was going through. And even though she never said it, I knew there was a part of her that wondered how I could be the depressed one when she was the one with so much crap on her plate.
Some people couldn’t understand depression without a source; my sister was definitely one of those people, and some days I could feel it—the resentment and disbelief. She never meant to make me feel that way. She was my sister and she loved me fiercely. But at the end of the day, some people just expected more… but sometimes there was no more. Sometimes there was no trauma. No death. No PTSD. Nothing.
Megan’s giggles broke me from my thoughts as she became almost parallel with the ground. I looked over at the setup on the picnic tables and grimaced as my thoughts collided with reality.
Sometimes there was no more. Sometimes there were just giggles, balloons, and a happy little girl talking about blowing bubbles, but you were still depressed and you still couldn’t figure out why.
One year. Today marked a full year I’d been without my mother. Three hundred and sixty-five days since I last heard her voice, saw her smile, or felt her touch.
When I left for Europe and told my sister I’d be gone for a little while, I honestly hadn’t meant for it to turn into six months. She never said anything negative about me being gone; she even stopped asking when I was coming home around the three-month mark. But I knew it had to be killing her.
It had been two weeks since I last spoke to her, and even though I’d already bought my plane ticket, I hadn’t told her I was coming home. I told myself it was because she was preparing for her senior year of high school and I didn’t want her to be concerned with anything but that. But really, I was afraid she was giving our father updates, and I was in no way ready to deal with him. Especially today.
I sat in my car outside my childhood home and looked into my mother’s kitchen, bristling at what I saw. A blonde model, at least fifteen years my father’s junior, was hanging around his neck as he gave her a few absentminded pecks on her lips. It was a horrible thought, but I couldn’t help but wish he were the parent who was six feet under.
I swallowed the breakfast that threatened to resurface and moved my eyes toward the driveway. Sam’s car wasn’t there, so I assumed my father and his mistress of the month were the only ones home. Despite my need to see mom’s favorite place, her garden in the backyard, I couldn’t make myself go inside right now. Not with the scene currently taking place, and not with all my thoughts about what happened the last time I was in that kitchen.
Samantha was softly crying as my father and I continued to scream at each other across the kitchen. She was fingering the jewelry around her neck, a simple silver pendant with the phrase “I still believe in 398.2” etched into it. Our mother had given it to her on her thirteenth birthday.
“It’s time you took your life seriously. We all loved your mother”—I scoffed at his lie while he continued like nothing happened—“but her death is no excuse to throw your life away. It’s been six months—”
“And while that might be an appropriate amount of time to grieve for a coldhearted bastard like yourself, some of us need a little bit more,” I bit out.
Again, he continued as if I hadn’t made a sound. “It’s been six months, and you’ve made too many drastic changes. You broke up with Miranda, dropped out of your master’s program, quit your job, and those are just the things you’ve made me aware of. You need to grow up and accept death is a part of life. The world isn’t going to wait for you to get back on your feet, and I certainly wouldn’t be doing you any favors by tolerating this childish fantasy.”
I crossed my arms over my chest and leaned back against the counter. “I know you think you own the world, but this isn’t your decision. This is my life and that means I decide what the hell I do with it.”
His mouth flattened into a line and his eyes narrowed as they raked over me thoughtfully. “You’re not ready.” He spoke quietly, as if he were talking more to himself than to me. After a disgruntled sigh, he closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose before refocusing his attention on me. “You have until the New Year. It’s only the second week of March, so that should be plenty of time to sort out whatever it is that’s going on up there.” He waved his hand toward my head. “Then you will come back and do what’s right by this family. You will get your master’s, come work for me at the company, and refocus your attention back on Miranda. Do you understand?” He eyed me expectantly and let out an annoyed sigh when I didn’t answer. “Gabriel, this is the only arrangement I will allow. Take it or leave it.”
Sam’s cries had softened, and when I looked over at her, I saw her staring down at her hands resting in her lap. “Samantha, will you be all right if I leave for a little while?”
“She’ll be fine,” my father answered for her. “She’s sixteen years old. Besides, she has Brody.”
I was still looking at her and saw her stiffen at the mention of her boyfriend. She looked up at me and gave me a smile before speaking for the first time since we started arguing. “Of course, Gabe. You need some time away from this place,” she said as she pointedly looked at our father.
My plan to travel around Europe for a few months was impulsive, and even though I didn’t have a lot of money (not by dear old Dad’s standards anyway), I did have enough to get by until I figured out a more long-term plan.
I had followed the rules my whole life, and what did I have to show for it? Not a damn thing. For as long as I could remember, I’d been groomed to follow in my father’s footsteps, and to the outside world, it seemed like a lifestyle I wanted. But in reality, it was just a ten-year-old boy’s pathetic attempt at getting his father’s respect and love. And somewhere in the middle of seeking my father’s approval, I started believing it was what I’d wanted, too. But it wasn’t. It only took my mother dying of cancer for me to realize it.
But I had let it go on for so long that I didn’t know who I was anymore or what I wanted. I couldn’t go back, but I didn’t know how to move forward either. So instead, I existed in a kind of limbo, and the plan became simple—do whatever I wanted and not worry about the consequences. I was no longer Mr. Punctual, Mr. Do-the-responsible-thing, or Mr. Proactive. Because those things didn’t matter much in the face of everything that was important. Those things couldn’t save my mother any more than they could help pull my sister from her despair. So what was the point of any of it?
I shook my head, and as I stared at his impatient expression, I realized I didn’t have to give him the truth. What would be the point in having this completely useless argument with my father now when I could deal with it later? When I could deal with it without Sam in the room or three shots of vodka in my system? I nodded in what he no doubt thought was submission. “Fine. Deal.”
He gave a cu
rt nod in return before leaving my sister and me alone in the kitchen.
I’d barely heard his office door close before Sam ran over and hugged me. “Are you sure you’re okay if I leave for a little while?” I asked. But I didn’t know if I’d be able to stay even if she begged me.
“Yeah,” she mumbled into my shirt.
I knew she was lying, but I took the life raft she was offering and held on for dear life. Swallowing my shame and guilt, I quickly kissed the side of her head before turning around and taking the stairs two at a time until I reached the top.
When I reached my old bedroom, I opened the door to the mostly bare room and moved toward the closet. Most of my stuff would stay in my—well, I guess now it was just Miranda’s—apartment until I returned. But here was where I kept all I had left of my mother. I carefully removed the back from one of the frames until I had the worn picture in my hand. After staring at it for several seconds, I folded it until it fit in the plastic frame of my wallet. The air began to feel heavy as I closed the box and shoved it back with all the others before I jumped up and headed toward the door.
My father’s car was gone when I got to the garage only twenty minutes later. I slowly pulled out of the driveway and gave my mother’s house one last look. Movement in an upstairs window caught my eye, but when I looked up to what I knew was Sam’s window, all I saw were the fluttering curtains where her face must have been. A face I could barely look at because of how much it reminded me of our mother.
I drove away as I felt tears roll down my face and a painful thought took residence. If I had trouble looking at my sister, how the hell did she look in the mirror?
Maybe she was simply stronger than me. Maybe she wouldn’t be haunted by our mother’s death like I was. But as much as I tried to convince myself of those maybes, I couldn’t. All the maybes in the world couldn’t erase what I saw in her eyes that day—that she was suffering just as much as me, and I was too selfish and weak to do anything about it.
But how could you save someone who was sinking, if you were drowning right there with them?
…
I left the house before he could see me. Confronting him without any kind of plan would be a suicide mission. I hadn’t spoken to my father in over three months, and our last conversation wasn’t one I was eager to have again. It ended with my fist in the wall of a cheap motel room.
What would your mother think? You think she’d be proud of the man you’ve become?
His words had been on repeat in my mind ever since I hung up on him. Not just because they were vicious, but also because they were most likely true. My mother would not be proud of who I’d become. But not for the reasons he thought.
He wasn’t proud because all he saw was a college dropout (even though I still had a bachelor’s degree) with no job and little to no aspirations or plans beyond the next ten minutes. He’d expected me to be married to Miranda with the first of our two point five kids on the way by now. And for a while, I wanted that, too. I wanted the wife, the kids, and the white picket fence. I was ready to settle into that average life.
But what I realized when my mother died was I would have hated it all. I would have graduated with my expected business degree and entered into an accounting job at my father’s firm, all with a genuine smile. But I would have woken up in forty years dissatisfied, resentful, and filled with regret. Because I’d never done what my mother was always pushing me to do, and that was to find my passion. For so long, I stuck with the status quo and what I was good at, despite whether or not I really loved it.
It was the same thing with Miranda. I didn’t love her, at least not in the way you’re supposed to love a wife. I guess growing up in my household, I never got to see that, but in the six months since I’d been gone, I saw a lot. I saw passion and love and spirit in ways I never would have dreamed possible. All the things my mother had always pushed us toward. So while my father was sure I was a disappointment because I quit my job and broke up with my girlfriend, I knew my mother wouldn’t have felt the same way.
What would gut my mother the most was what I did to Samantha. How I abandoned her. I’m sure she would have understood the first month, maybe even the next two. But leaving for six months? Not even my saint of a mother could justify that.
I guess the only defense I had left was I didn’t feel like myself anymore. As my mother withered away, so did the pieces of my life. Things that seemed important before suddenly didn’t matter at all. Once those things were gone, it felt like I had no idea how to do anything anymore, and I convinced myself even if I had stayed, I would have been worthless. Everyone else seemed to still know how to live, and all those things I lost still mattered to other people. And while I hated my father, I couldn’t deny he was very right about one thing: the world doesn’t wait for you to grieve.
My head was throbbing by the time I pulled into the parking lot of the cheap motel I was going to stay at tonight, and I couldn’t wait to lock myself inside my room and not have to deal with anything or anyone for the rest of the day.
I had been lounging on the bed for three hours, and it was just past 7:00 p.m. when my phone rang. Glancing at it, I saw the incoming name: Samantha. I stared at it until it went silent, and I blew out a breath of relief. Unfortunately, my relief only lasted a minute before the ringing started again. Samantha. When was the last time Sam called me twice in a row? My stomach felt heavy and my vision grew blurry at the thought of the last time that had happened. Exactly a year ago. Snatching my phone up, I breathlessly answered, “Hello? Sam? What’s wrong?”
“Hey, hey. Calm down. Nothing’s wrong,” she said in a hurry.
“Oh.”
“Something’s got to be wrong for me to want to talk to my big brother?” she asked with a slight edge to her tone.
“Of course not. I just…”
“You just wouldn’t have answered if you thought it was just to talk to me?” Sam didn’t sound mad. She just sounded… resigned, and her disappointment was evident in the heavy exhale that followed.
I opened my mouth to correct her, but what would be the point? We both knew the truth. And the truth was I probably wouldn’t have answered.
“I just wanted to see how you were doing,” she said, graciously overlooking how much of an asshole I was. “You know with today…”
“I’m doing fine, Sam. How about you and Dad?”
She was silent for a moment, and I smiled because I knew she was sitting there nodding into the phone, a habit both her and Mom had. It usually only took them a couple seconds to remember the caller couldn’t see them. “I’m all right. It’s hard but… school’s starting in a week and senior year is supposed to be the best, right? So I’m excited for that. I haven’t seen Dad much though. He’s been traveling on and off for the past few months.”
That son of a bitch would leave his only daughter to fend for herself without a care in the world. A voice in my head asked me if I was any better.
She cleared her throat before asking, “So what city has the honor of your presence today?”
I hesitated before clearing my throat and answering, “Carillo.”
“Carillo.” She drew out the word slowly. “As in…”
“Yeah. I got back this morning.”
“You’re home? And you didn’t tell me?” Sam finally let her armor crack, and I heard a soft sniffle come through the line.
“Sam. I just didn’t—”
“Hey, it’s all right. I u-understand. I do. But I have t-to go. I’ll talk to you later, okay?” she rushed out. But instead of just hanging up like any other woman would when she desperately wanted to get off the phone so she could cry in solitude, Sam waited for me to say goodbye, too.
“Yeah, Sam. I’ll talk to you soon,” I said in a low voice. She mumbled another strained goodbye before hanging up. I clutched my phone for several seconds before dropping it to the floor and putting my head in my hands, hoping like hell what I’d just said wasn’t a lie.
I
needed a job. Three days had passed since the anniversary of my mother’s death, and this would be the first time I left the hotel. Even though I could have afforded a couple more nights of self-pity, I didn’t want that. I was ready for my fresh start.
I drove to Carillo University and decided to try my luck at the busy strip mall right next door. I walked into every restaurant/bar/coffee shop I could find. Most were unimpressed by my suit-and-tie job history and started tuning me out the second I told them I had no experience in the food industry. Despite my failed attempts everywhere else, I entered the last bar the same as the first: confident and upbeat.
It was the first sports bar I’d seen, and it looked like it brought in a lot of customers. The door handles were in the form of small skulls and the tinted door displayed its name, Pick Your Poison, in blood red. Four large TVs were mounted in various places around the bar, all playing a different sport. There were two bars, one running the full length of the back wall and another up front in the right corner.
The hostess walking up was wearing jeans and a plain black T-shirt with a small skull and crossbones logo. “Hey, how can I help you?”
“Hi, I’m Gabe.” I stuck out my hand. “I was wondering if I could speak to a manager?”
After giving my hand a quick shake, she looked toward the bar where a guy was polishing glasses. When she turned back around, the blush on her cheeks had reached fire-engine red, and she quickly coughed to cover up her reaction. “Of course. May I ask what it’s regarding?”
“I’m looking for a job.”
With a quick nod and small smile, she hurried around the stand and disappeared behind two large doors to the right of the back bar. Less than a minute later, the hostess reappeared with the Hulk. Seriously. The only thing missing was the green skin.
He stopped a couple feet away and whispered something to the girl before returning his attention to me. “Sadie says you’re looking for work?”
Unveiling The Sky Page 2
