by Vivian Wood
“Wait a minute. They don’t know about Will? How is that possible?”
She shrugged. “Never mind. Let’s go get a burger, then I can drop you off back home. This was stupid, sorry.”
“No! No, I’ll go. I don’t mind going. I’m just surprised is all. But on one condition.”
“What’s that?” she asked as she directed the car toward their favorite old-fashioned drive-in.
“You buy me a double,” he said.
She laughed. “Yeah, you’re going to need some fortitude to face my dad.” She smiled at him weakly as she put the car in park. A young girl on roller skates drifted out of the small white shack.
“Hey, y’all. You need a menu, or you know what you’d like?” Poppy loved the nostalgia of the place, even though it looked more rundown and dreary every time she came here.
“We know. A double cheeseburger, a kids' hamburger, and waffle fries with both.”
“And a large vanilla shake!” Ryan called from the passenger seat.
“Large? Our large is thirty-two ounces—”
“I know,” Ryan said.
The waitress jotted down their order and skated back to the double doors.
“I can’t believe this place is still here,” Ryan said. “I remember coming here all the time when you were in med school.”
“The cookies,” Poppy said.
“Huh?”
“You used to bring me cookies from here in the middle of the night when I was studying.”
“Oh, yeah,” Ryan said. “It was the perfect arrangement. A cookie for you, a double with extra cheese for me.”
“You know they sell antelope and bison meat here now,” she said.
“No shit.”
“Ryan!”
“My bad, sorry. Sorry.”
The waitress arrived, expertly balancing a tray even as she stopped and balanced herself with a single toe stop. “Your large shake,” she said as she handed the monstrous drink to Poppy, who had to hold it with both hands to pass it to Ryan. The lid came separate. On top of the thick shake, a mountain of chocolate-drenched berries threatened to avalanche over the side.
“That’s what I’m talking about,” Ryan said. He tried to fit it in the cup holder. “What the hell, Poppy? Are these holders miniature sized or something?”
“Uh, no, they’re just not made for economy-size beverages.” The waitress gave her a knowing smile and skated away.
“So,” Ryan said as he somehow managed to take a bite out of the mile-high burger. “Is there anything I should know before we get there? Conversational dos, don’ts, whatever?”
“Oh, I wish I knew,” she said as she picked the rings of raw red onion out of her burger.
“Why don’t you ask for no onions?”
“I don’t want to make a fuss,” she said. “But really, I don’t know. I’m guessing they’ll be on their best behavior with you there.”
Even though her burger was a quarter the size of his, they finished at the same time. “Ready?” he asked. He grabbed some wet wipes out of her glove box.
“As I’m ever going to be.” She pulled the car out of the drive-through and headed toward the freeway.
“Bumfuck, Maryland, here we come,” Ryan said as he began working on the shake.
“Ryan, seriously! Come on.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he said. “How come your parents never moved closer to you, anyway?”
“They never loved the city like I did,” she said. “Too loud and fast paced for them.”
“Makes sense, I guess,” Ryan said. “At least they’re still together though, right? Your parents? That’s a rarity these days.”
“I guess,” Poppy said. She couldn’t tell him her parents were likely still together because the idea of divorce was just wildly too foreign for their small-town, Southern minds.
“For real, you don’t see it that often anymore,” Ryan said. “I think that would be cool. To be together that long.”
“I don’t know,” Poppy said. “I think it’s hard to gauge a relationship from the outside. Being married forever doesn’t necessarily equate to happiness. I don’t think.”
He gave her a sideways glance. “I’m sure you’re right,” he said. “All I know is my own mom. And, well, you’ve met her. Totally self-absorbed.”
“I mean, I don’t know her that well, of course,” Poppy said. “But she never seemed self-absorbed to me. Kind of all over the place, sure. But maybe she’s just finding herself is all.”
“Isn’t that what college is for? Or at least your twenties? Or even thirties?”
Poppy shrugged. “I guess it takes different people different amounts of time.”
“Maybe so,” Ryan said.
“I mean, my mom? I don’t think she has a clue who she is. I’m not even sure she’s interested in finding out.”
“But that’s not unusual for her generation. Everyone had assigned roles, and that’s what you did. Who you were.”
“Assigned roles? Like housewife? That doesn’t make it right. Or mean that everyone, or even the majority, was happy with that arrangement.”
“Do you think your mom’s unhappy?” The question cut right to the chase and took her breath away.
“I don’t know,” she admitted. She had a hunch, for sure. How could her mom be happy married to a man like her father? She'd never had a career, never had any real hobbies. All she remembered of her mom was her cleaning, cooking, and otherwise fulfilling the wholly stereotypical housewife role.
An hour later, they pulled up in front of a rundown white stucco house. She killed the engine and took a deep breath. Is it too late to just turn around and go home? Every time she came here, although it wasn’t often, it was like the house was smaller. Dirtier. Did I really come from this?
She felt a hand on hers. Ryan’s hand was huge, and easily consumed hers whole. His skin was warm and soft, even with the calluses from the years of lifting weights. How had she not noticed all of this before? Surely she’d touched his hand before. He felt electrifying.
“It’s okay, Pops,” he said. “I’m here. I’ll be here every step of the way.”
She let out a ragged breath and nodded, unable to trust herself to speak. It felt good, his hand. Too good.
“Hey, you okay?”
Finally, she looked at him and nodded. They got out in silence, and Ryan came over to her side. He helped her navigate the gravel driveway in her heels. As she opened the little metal gate, it let out a squeak and groan. I know how you feel, she thought to the rusted entry.
As they ascended the concrete steps, she tried not to look at the cobwebs flanking the doorframe. At the poorly stitched curtain in the awkward diamond window.
Why did I bring Ryan here?
12
Ryan
Fifteen years ago
Just six more goddamned months, Ryan thought to himself as he pedaled his hybrid bike through the streets to Poppy’s house. He’d been working under the table gigs at Georgie’s and saved up for the past two years to buy a car. His mom had promised she’d cosign for a “reasonable sedan,” but that wasn't what he wanted—neither her help, nor a lame four-door car. He had his eyes on a Trans Am, and the day he turned sixteen he was going to buy one for himself. And someday, a motorcycle.
As he pulled up outside Poppy’s house, he jumped off the bike and let it fall into the small patch of grass out front. He started to shrug off his backpack and get ready to knock when he heard it. The bloodcurdling scream from inside shot chills through him.
The knob turned with ease. Thank you, God. Even as he rushed inside, he was aware it was adrenaline and fear that drove him forward. He raced through the little hallway, and glanced at the formal living room Poppy’s family used for storage and a makeshift office. It was empty.
He ran into the kitchen and froze. Poppy’s father was standing menacingly over her as she was huddled in a corner. What is she doing? It looked like Poppy was covering someone, like she was a heroine in an a
ction movie.
Suddenly, he understood what was happening. Poppy was crouched over her mother. Her father’s back was to Ryan, and her mom seemed to be unconscious, sprawled across the linoleum.
Poppy was sobbing, and a few words blubbered out of her. “Why? How could you?” She repeated the phrase over and over again. Poppy grabbed a tea towel from the stove’s handle and tried to tuck it under her mom’s head. When she wiped at her own nose, it brought on a fresh new flow of bright red blood. Poppy’s light blue shirt was drenched in what looked like red rust, and her face was smeared in it.
Ryan couldn’t move.
“You’re both whores!” her father growled. He’d never heard Mr. Baker sound like that before.
“You didn’t have to hit her!” Poppy cried through tears and blood.
“You’re both—both you crazy bitches bring it on yourselves,” Mr. Baker said. He staggered slightly and clutched a kitchen chair for support. Was he drunk?
“Stop it!” Poppy said, and held up a forearm. It was a warning. He’d only seen Poppy act like that on the day they first met, but he knew it instinctively.
“And you! You’re worse than her,” Mr. Baker said. “Fucking piece of shit whore, I see the way you look at men.” He started toward Poppy, and lifted up a hand that Ryan didn’t realize until then was holding a belt with a giant metal buckle at the end.
“Stop.” Fuck, was that me? The voice that poured out of his throat was deep, calm and commanding.
Mr. Baker and Poppy both looked at him for the first time. “You mind your own business,” Mr. Baker said. “And get the fuck out of my house.”
“Ryan,” Poppy said, her eyes big.
He didn’t realize he'd closed the gap between him and Mr. Baker. All he knew was that he was suddenly on top of him. Straddled over the middle-aged man’s paunch, Ryan landed punches wherever he could.
“Motherfucker,” Mr. Baker grunted, and shoved Ryan off of him with a strength that shouldn’t have been possible.
Ryan’s head hit the floor, and Mr. Baker’s fist landed squarely on Ryan’s jaw. The shock stung more than the actual punch. Her dad must have had forty pounds on him, and Ryan had never been in a fight before. Still, his youth and sheer anger were on his side. After he took two more punches to the face, he kicked his way backward and out of Mr. Baker’s reach.
Ryan stood up and caught him by surprise. Right as Mr. Baker looked up, Ryan landed a hit squarely on his nose. As Mr. Baker reached up to protect his face, Ryan sent an uppercut into his throat and followed with a hit to the temple. With his breath knocked out and windpipe temporarily closed, Mr. Baker hit the floor with a solid thud. He was out.
He heard Mrs. Baker sobbing softly on the floor. When did she wake up? Did she see everything? He didn’t know if he should be worried or proud. Poppy seemed to be in shock. Ryan grabbed Poppy’s hand and helped her up. Easily, he lifted her mother over his shoulder. She couldn’t have weighed more than ninety pounds—a tiny little thing.
After he sat Mrs. Baker on the sofa, she was still moaning gently, not quite fully alert. Poppy looked through the doorway to her father’s unmoving body, unconscious on the kitchen floor. The floodgates opened, and she started crying nonstop.
“Hey, it’s okay. It’s okay,” he told her. How the fuck do you know it’s okay? “Should I—do you want me to call my mom? I can—”
Suddenly, Mrs. Baker reached over and patted Ryan gently on the arm. She was still groggy, and her voice was slurred. “Nobody’s going anywhere,” she told him with a sad smile.
“Mrs. Baker, I’m sorry, but I think you need—I mean, some medical attention might—”
“Sweetie, you couldn’t understand,” she said.
Poppy grabbed his hand and shook her head vigorously. He knew better than to argue.
Mr. Baker began to groan in the next room. Ryan couldn’t see him on the floor anymore, but he rumbled about in the kitchen and sounded like a wild animal. “Poppy, let’s go,” he said. Mrs. Baker leaned back on the couch and closed her eyes.
Without a word, Poppy let him lead her out the back door. They didn't exchange a word until they reached their special Mitchell Park bench. It was their unspoken secret place, even though it was out in the open. Somehow, even with the rolling lawn and joggers passing by, it always seemed like they were alone here.
He didn't know what to do, but when he wrapped an arm around her she fell into his chest naturally. Ryan pulled a bandanna out of his pocket and started wiping at the blood on her face. It was everywhere. It caked her neck and drenched her shirt. “Poppy,” he started, “is this…”
She nodded. “It’s—it’s usually not this bad,” she said. “Really.”
“But, how long…”
“Um, I don’t know. As long as I can remember? I guess?” She was halting in her words, and he could tell she was holding back. But he didn’t want to push her.
“Why didn’t you ever—I mean, how could I not notice?”
Quietly, she pulled her shirt out of her skirt and stood before him. Poppy looked around to see if anyone was coming. When she was sure it was clear, she lifted up her shirt and exposed her stomach. It was covered in bruises all shades of purple and blue. Some bruises were recent, and others were nearly faded away. She turned like a ballerina in a music box, and he saw rows of welts on her back. Before he could stop himself, he traced one of the healed scars with his fingertip.
“This is serious,” he said, but Poppy just pulled her shirt back down and shook her head.
“It looks worse than it is,” she said. “Seriously. I mean… he drinks. You know? And sometimes it gets out of control. He can’t—he can’t help when he gets mad at us. I mean, my mom and I, we have a lot of flaws, you know? It makes him mad—”
Ryan’s fists automatically balled up, but he hugged Poppy tight. As he held her close, her hair flew across his face. “Your dad’s a monster, and it not your fault. Or your mom’s,” he said.
“Ryan,” she said. “It’s okay, really—”
He held her tighter, afraid that if he looked at her face right then, he’d start crying, too. “No. There’s no level of badness that could come close to excusing what your dad’s done.”
Poppy sighed into his arms. “I shouldn’t have said anything,” she said. “I think… I feel like I made it sound worse than it is.”
“Stop it,” he said. “I can’t—I can’t undo what your father’s done. But I can promise that I’ll never let anything bad happen to you. Not ever again.”
He didn't know how long they stayed like that, intertwined on the park bench where they’d spend the past four years talking, laughing, and he'd thought sharing secrets. How could she have kept something like this secret? How could I have been so blind?
Ryan clutched her tighter, and started to rewind their years together. Little pieces of an otherwise enigma of a puzzle began to come together. The turtleneck and long sleeves on a sweltering day. The long skirts. The pained looks on her face so often when they were in PE and a dodgeball hit her just right.
He couldn’t believe how blind he’d been, how stupid. His best friend was hurting, and he hadn’t even noticed.
She felt both incredibly alive and powerful, yet so fragile in his arms. He’d hugged Poppy hundreds of times over the years, but it was always quick and in fun. Not like this. He felt like he was cradling the whole world in his arms, an enormous responsibility. He thought it would be overwhelming and terrifying to be in that kind of position, but it wasn’t.
It felt wholly natural, like this was right where he belonged.
13
Poppy
Poppy knocked on the peeling wooden door. The doorbell had never worked. As she looked around the small patio, peppered with bags of newspapers and a ratty old welcome mat, a wave of embarrassment washed over her. She didn’t want Ryan to remember where she’d come from.
Her mother answered, and Poppy’s throat was instantly thick with emotion. Her mom looked much,
much older. Poppy could still see the pretty young woman her mom had once been, the woman she remembered from her youngest days, but now the hair was solid gray at the roots and deep rivulets of wrinkles covered her face.
“Poppy,” her mom said. Her face lit up—until she noticed Ryan. “And Ryan. I—I’m sorry. We weren’t expecting anyone else for dinner—”
“Mom!” Poppy snapped at her. It happened every time. She was instantly turned back into a teenager whenever she came ”home.” She took a deep breath and tried to steady her voice. “You begged me to come out here,” she said coolly. “If you want to see me, you’ll make room for Ryan.”
Her mom’s milky blue eyes shifted back and forth between Poppy and Ryan. With a swallow, she whispered, “Wait one second.” She disappeared into the dark house, leaving the door cracked just a sliver.
Poppy looked up at Ryan, and apologized with her eyes. He smiled slightly. She couldn’t get a read on him.
When her mom returned, she was wearing a strained smile, but opened the door to usher them in. “Let me have your coats,” she said. Poppy slipped out of hers awkwardly. Her mom was acting like a butler, a maid. “Come, we’ll be eating in the kitchen.”
The same round, wooden dining room table from her youth was squeezed into a corner of the 1970s-orange kitchen. Her dad was already hunched over the table, halfway through his plate.
“Hi, Dad.” He barely looked up at them, but nodded his acknowledgment to her and ignored Ryan. He seemed smaller, yet fatter, than she remembered. The monster of her youth lurked below the surface. Poppy could still sense that. But it was almost sad how much he’d shrunk. Almost.
“How was the drive?” her mom asked as she scrambled to set another place for Ryan. He had to shove himself into the farthest corner. A hook of old grocery bags hung over his head, but he didn’t move to brush them away.
“Okay,” Poppy said. Her mom placed three plates of piping hot food on the table.
