Need

by Stephanie Lawton

  “You think that excuses it?”

  “Look, I don’t need to make excuses. There’s no reason to. It happened. It ended badly, but I don’t regret it. I’m sorry if it hurt you and Aaron and the kids, but I can’t do anything to change the past. No, I am not a pervert or pedophile or whatever you want to call me. I’m just a man—a very weak one—who got caught up in something much bigger than I could handle. I’m working on it. I’m moving on, moving forward, but I could really use the support of my family, including the sister I love to pick on.”

  “Stop making jokes. You can’t keep playing the baby-of-the-family card. Grow the hell up, Isaac.”

  “I’m trying. Not going to happen overnight.”

  “If you lay a finger on Jayne–”

  “Oh my God, will you stop? What do you want me to do?”

  “I want you to take this seriously.”

  “I am! You have no idea what I’ve been through, and you know why? Because you fucking cut and run. When I needed my family the most, you weren’t there. No one was but Uncle Robert. I may not be the best brother, but you sure as hell don’t get any gold stars either, Christie.”

  Her nostrils flare, a tell-tale sign that I’ve hit my mark. “Watch your language, asshole.”

  “You watch your language, princess.”

  We stand nose to nose, each with our necks stretched forward, jaws clenched, just like when we were kids. I stare into her identical blue eyes and cross mine.

  She caves first. “God, I missed you, Isaac.”

  “Missed you, too, Little Mama. I’m still the same brother you’ve always known. I’m not a monster and I’m not a danger. I just made some poor decisions.”

  “Yes, you did. I don’t pretend to understand it, but I’m willing to give you the benefit of the doubt. Don’t make me regret it, okay? And please, for the love of God, stop flicking peas down my shirt.”

  “Fair enough. Truce?”

  “Truce,” she says.

  I hold out my hand to shake, and when she grasps it, I pull her into a giant bear hug, then lift her off her feet and swing her around the room. She squeals and wriggles from my grasp, but at least I’ve got her laughing.

  The door slides open and Uncle Robert peeks in. “Everything okay in here?”

  “Fine,” I tell him, just before I pinch Christie’s waist. She ducks and comes after me, fingers extended. I twist away, but not quickly enough. She lands a nasty pinch on my right side, so I swing my arm around her head and pull her in by the neck. I would never stoop so low as to put her in a headlock—that’s a lie—but this time I choose to draw her in for a hug instead. Her laughter quickly turns to tears and I ponder how it is that I keep making women cry. It makes no sense, but as I hold her, I realize something basic, something so simple that it catches me off-guard.

  Perhaps it’s a sign of my immaturity, but it occurs to me that she cares. My actions affect her. When I’m not around, she thinks about me. Part of me still doesn’t believe that I’m significant enough to matter. I am nobody, forgettable, yet her tears say otherwise. So do Mama’s, and so do Juli’s. This is a revelation.

  Uncle Robert smiles and backs out of the room.

  Christie sniffs. “Love you.”

  “Love you, too. Can we get past this?”

  She nods and wipes her nose. “Just…I don’t know. Don’t forget who you are, okay? If you get in a situation, don’t shut me out. Don’t shut us out. You don’t have to go through stuff alone now that you’re back. And you are back, right? Uncle Robert said you planned to stay in Mobile.”

  I rub her back and nod. “Yeah, for the foreseeable future. There are some things I need to work through, but I think I’m on a good path now.”

  “No more Julianne Casquette?”

  Dammit, she had to ask, force my hand. That’s such a complicated question, though I don’t expect her to understand. “I can’t promise that I don’t still have feelings for her, but I can promise that I won’t act on them. I’ve done damage to our family, but also to her. I care for her enough to know that I need to bow out and let her get on with her life.”

  Christie’s eyes are saucers in her head. Apparently this wasn’t the answer she expected. “You had feelings for her? Like, real ones?”

  “Course I did. Still do, unfortunately, though I’m working on that. Did you think I was a completely heartless jerk? No, don’t answer.”

  “I–” She waves a hand in the air. “I guess I figured it was just a physical thing. I didn’t realize you…wow, okay.”

  “Look, it’s over. Done. I’m in a pretty decent place right now and I don’t intend to screw that up. I’m fixing up my house, I’ve got a decent job, and Uncle Robert hooked me up with a music publisher so I’m composing again, plus…I’m kind of seeing someone.” Shit. Shouldn’t have said that.

  “Who is she? No, I don’t need to know. Just tell me that she’s closer to your age?”

  “Yes, she is. Don’t get excited, now.”

  “Uncle Robert said you might be bringing someone to dinner today. How come you didn’t?”

  “Because I needed to mend fences on my own today. If I brought her, I’d just be avoiding facing y’all.”

  Christie purses her lips then looks me in the eyes. “Thank you. For telling me all this. It helps clear up some things. I’m sorry I jumped all over you about Jayne—that was out of line. I want you to be a part of our lives.”

  “And I want to be, too. So, are we okay?”

  “We’re okay.”

  “Good. Let’s get dessert. I haven’t had Mama’s bread pudding in ages.”

  “I see some things haven’t changed.” She grins and pats my stomach.

  All eyes are on us when we rejoin the family in the dining room. The table has been cleared and the kids are fidgety. Christie’s husband looks downright frightened. I give him a reassuring smile and he relaxes, no doubt glad he doesn’t have to deal with an irate wife when he gets home this afternoon. I slip back into my chair next to Jayne and ask, “What did I miss?”

  “Nothin’,” she says. “Daddy yelled at me for flicking peas and said I needed to act like a lady.”

  “Aw, I’m sorry for getting you in trouble, sweetheart. I bet some bread pudding will make it better, you think?”

  She smiles. “And then can we play catch like you promised?”

  “Sure thing, sweet pea.”

  Mama enters the room with a plate in each hand. Uncle Robert is right behind her with two more. I stand to take them off his hands.

  “Here, let me help with that.”

  “I’ve got it, son. You sit back down.”

  Without his cane, Uncle Robert is a bit off-kilter. Ever since his stroke last year, he’s needed it to varying degrees. I’m surprised to see him forego it altogether. Makes me oddly nervous.

  “You sure I can’t get those for you?”

  “Isaac, I said I’ve got it.”

  Uncle Robert stumbles, knocking one of the plates into a chair and sending the dessert to the floor. He tries to speak again, but everything happens in slow motion and all that comes out is a strangled moan. My arms shoot out to brace his back before he hits the carpet.

  Chapter Ten

  Gently, I lower his head to the floor while everyone else remains frozen in their seats. Jayne begins to cry while Mama falls to her knees next to us.

  “Call an ambulance!” No one moves. “Do it, dammit! Aaron, get over here!”

  He’s ATF, so he should know CPR or First Aid or whatever the hell needs to happen next. Uncle Robert’s eyes are closed and a trail of spit trickles from the corner of his mouth. I wipe it away with my sleeve then lean down to check if he’s breathing. I can’t tell over my own panting. Aaron kneels next to me, adjusts Uncle Robert’s head, and puts his ear to his mouth, his eyes trained on the stillness of the old man’s chest. Aaron’s lips form a grim line while his fingers probe for a pulse.

  He must not find one because he folds one hand over the other
and begins pumping on Uncle Robert’s chest. Every so often, Aaron stops to force air into his lungs. I wait a goddamn eternity before he gently places Uncle Robert’s hand back on his chest and shakes his head.

  “I’m sorry,” he says. The next few minutes pass by in a blur. There’s noise and confusion, Mama’s cries and the children’s sniffling. Christie and Tiffany shepherd their kids into the front room while I hold my uncle’s head in my lap, watching the color drain from his cheeks and his muscles go slack.

  I refuse to give up. “Call a goddamned ambulance! Aaron, keep doing CPR. Or tell me what to do and I’ll do it!”

  “Isaac,” he says in that tone of voice usually reserved for children. “He’s gone.”

  “No. It’s just another stroke. He’ll recover.” Aaron places a hand on my shoulder and squeezes before standing. I tear my gaze away from Uncle Robert’s face to look up into the ones of my remaining family. They reflect the horror that’s creeping along the hairs on my arms and neck, but unlike me, they seem resigned.

  Both hands are in my hair while I try to memorize every last detail about this man who might as well be my father. As usual, his gray hair is neatly parted and combed with a single lock falling over his wrinkled forehead. Round glasses perch on his nose, but his lips are different. So many wise words have come from them over the years, words of encouragement, advice, even well-deserved reprimands, but now they’re blue.

  His chest doesn’t rise and fall under his widower-stale button-down shirt and signature sweater vest. As usual they don’t match, but that’s part of his charm. With a kind heart and warm wit like his, nothing else matters. Seeing his slender piano fingers neatly resting on his chest is the last straw. I grab his hand and press it to my lips. The wedding band he refused to remove is still warm, though his skin is not. Something inside me breaks loose.

  I reach over to push his hair off his forehead when memories flood my head. I welcome them because they deaden the searing pain that threatens to take over if I acknowledge what’s happening—what’s already happened. Strong arms try to lift me up, but I shake them off. I am not leaving him alone. Another hand tries to move me but I turn and nearly punch Aaron, but it’s not Aaron. It’s some guy I’ve never seen before in a uniform. Next to him is a lady in the same uniform. Paramedics. When did they get here? It’s about damn time.

  “He’s going to need his cane,” I tell him. “Where’s his cane?”

  I let them near Uncle Robert, but I refuse to let go of this hand. Even when they lift him onto the gurney and place a sheet over his body and face, I don’t let go.

  “Sir, we need to put him in the truck now.” I hear the words, but they don’t compute. Silently, I follow them out the door and across the driveway to the waiting ambulance. They lift him into the back and, despite their protests, I hoist myself in after. The lady gives me a sad smile when she shuts us in and takes her seat up front with the driver.

  The ride to the hospital is silent—no sirens, no flashing lights, no screeching tires while dodging traffic. Just the quiet hum of the tires and faint crackles from the radio up front. I’d thought about committing Heather to the fifth floor at Mobile Infirmary. Didn’t think I’d be headed there so soon for a completely different reason. I pull back the sheet from Uncle Robert’s face and lay my palm against his cheek.

  You can’t go. I have so much to tell you and I need your help. Can’t do this without you.

  At four forty-six on a sunny May afternoon, Uncle Robert Cline is pronounced dead.

  ***

  Too many hours later, I’m covered in Mama’s tears as I pull into my driveway. Heather’s car is in my space. Briefly, I consider just ramming it out of the way. Inside, the house is dark and I stumble over something large in the foyer. Once my eyes adjust, I see it’s a suitcase. Quiet crying filters down the staircase, making the hairs on my arm stand up. Sounds like someone else is hurting, too.

  She’s curled up in the fetal position on my bed, clutching the sheet to her mouth. I slide in behind her and pull her close. She fits perfectly. I don’t ask questions, I’m just too drained. Eventually she stops crying and her warmth seeps into me until I drift off.

  We wake to my alarm. It’s Monday. Shit.

  I place a phone call without waking her. “Herman? Yeah, I won’t be in today. Need the whole week off. I know, sorry, but there’s been a death in the family. Need to take care of business. Yeah, thanks. Bye.”

  I hang up and pinch my eyes shut.

  “Isaac?” I open them and find Heather’s swollen lavender ones gazing back. “Who?” The concern on her face tears open a hole. My brain still refuses to believe it and my mouth won’t form the words. Surely yesterday was just a bad dream.

  “Your mama?” I shake my head. “Oh, no. Mr. Cline?” Instead of answering, I bury my face in her hair. She turns in my arms and holds me close, her soft hands a balm on my back. “Do you want to talk about it?” Again, I shake my head. “So sorry, Isaac. I know how close you were. I don’t have to be at work today, so I’ll stay here with you as long as you need me.”

  I pull her in until we’re as close as two separate bodies can be. People talk about experiencing loss as painful, numbing, and sometimes even cathartic. What’s happening at this moment isn’t so much a feeling as an experience. It’s as if I’m being suspended in time while the whole world keeps moving around me. I’m strung from the ceiling, floating in another dimension’s air, charged with both panic and nothingness. The only thing keeping me on this plane is Heather’s warmth and her uncanny ability to predict exactly what I need.

  But I’m not the only one hurting. “Things didn’t go well at home?”

  Heather sniffs. “You could say that.”

  “Want to talk about it?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Okay.” We stay like that until our stomachs rumble.

  Face to face, each on our own pillows, she says, “Let me fix you breakfast.”

  “I’ll help,” I tell her.

  “Okay.”

  Neither of us moves, not willing to break the connection that’s forming as we stare into each other’s bloodshot eyes. I search her face before leaning in to kiss away the worry etched there. She kisses back, but it’s not the frantic, animal tongue-lashing I’ve grown accustomed to. This is soft, slow, and even a little timid. My hand finds her smooth cheek and I deepen the kiss. She responds by pressing herself into me, but again, she’s not aggressive. It’s almost like she needs me—needs me as much as I’ve needed her these past few weeks. Don’t see it ending anytime soon.

  Never been very good with words, so I try to show her through actions. Instead of tugging her hair, I gently run my fingers through it, savoring the way the light plays on the golden strands. Instead of roughly grabbing her hips and leaving red marks, my hands skim up and down her curves gently enough to make her shiver.

  “Don’t cry,” I whisper, but a tear makes its way down her cheek just the same. “Whatever it is, we’ll figure it out, okay?”

  She nods then kisses me again.

  We make love.

  And it’s beautiful.

  Afterward, she says, “They’re divorcing. Daddy moved out.”

  “I’m sorry. I need to go to the funeral home today, but we’ll get your stuff and get you safe. The room next to mine is in decent shape, but there’s no bed, so…” I squeeze her tighter and that elicits a smile, so I kiss the top of her head. She snuggles closer.

  “Isaac, this divorce…it’s going to get ugly. There are things no one knows. I appreciate your letting me move in, but I want to be honest with you so you know what you’re getting yourself into. Why are you laughing?”

  “Because, sweet pea, I could say the same thing to you, except you already know all my dirty laundry.” Instead of agreeing, she’s quiet. “That bad?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Worse than your mama groping your seventeen-year-old boyfriend?”

  “Not to downplay what you went through, but
it’s like comparing apples and oranges. My mama’s people…they weren’t—aren’t—good folks.”

  “Let me guess, she was abused as a little girl and that’s why she went after me.”

  “No, nothing like that, at least not that I know of. Listen, I’ll tell you everything soon, but it’s going to take a while and you’ve got enough to deal with today. I packed enough stuff for a few days. If you don’t mind me sleeping in your bed–”

  “Sure don’t.”

  “Then I’ll get the rest of my stuff later. We’ll need to set some rules.”

  “Rules?”

  “You know, like who pays for what. Household chores. That kind of thing.”

  “Does your mind ever stop racing?”

  “Never.”

  “You do enough thinking for the both of us.”

  “And I’m thinking we better get up. I’m starving and we’ve got a long day ahead of us.”

  “We?”

  “I’m going with you to the funeral home. There’s no way you’re facing this alone.”

  “That’s–that’s really sweet of you, but you think it’s a good idea?”

  “Look, I always liked your mama and I loved Mr. Cline. Wasn’t crazy about your sisters, but we can all be adults, right? Would they have a problem with me? Because I don’t have a problem with them.”

  I shake my head in amazement. “No, don’t see how they could have a problem with you. Your mama, yes. You? No. Come here.” I squeeze her again, and marvel at how much tenacity can reside in such a small package. “You wash my back, I’ll wash yours?”

  “You’re on, big guy.”

  An hour later we’re on our way to Dotson Funeral Home in midtown. Mama is already there and sporting a red face. The color deepens when she spots Heather, but she quickly puts in place a mask of Southern manners. It slips a bit when Heather takes both her hands and does one of those fake girl kisses on the cheek.

  “Ms. Laroche, I am so sorry to hear of your brother’s passing. He was a dear man. If there’s anything I can do, please let me know.”