“Do you want to go somewhere else?” I ask, grabbing my pocketbook and slinging it over my shoulder.
Vik tosses his tablet onto his desk. After he stands, he takes a moment to brush over creases crinkling his khaki pants near the upper thigh. “No. I need all the green I can consume after the weekend I had.” He holds the door open for me.
“Spill,” I say glancing over my shoulder.
“You first,” he counters.
“Dating a new guy. Avoiding my parents. Ya know, just another random Tuesday.”
“Avoiding your parents?” Vik asks. “Why?”
“They took their most recent interference in my life a bit too far. Avoiding them is the way I choose to handle the issue. It’s the best way.” It’s been over a month since Maddie’s birthday party and I still haven’t forgiven them for being so rude to Austin.
“Is it?” Vik asks.
“If you knew my parents, you wouldn’t even ask me that.”
Vik laughs. “I know enough about them to understand why you’d want to avoid them.”
My jaw hits the floor. No one except Austin has ever had the balls to say anything like that to my face about my parents. People are scared that I’ll go running back and tell them what was said. Which could literally ruin someone’s life. My father can be a ruthless man.
“Despite that,” Vik continues, “I still don’t think avoidance is the way to handle anything. You should confront the issue.”
“Easier said than done.”
“Never said it would be easy.”
“They don’t approve of Austin, and they never will,” I tell Vik as we walk down a set of stairs.
“Because he’s a musician?” Vik asks.
“Because he’s poor. Or rather, lower class.” I use air quotes when I say ‘lower class,’ because that’s my parent’s phrase, not mine. They’re the ones who put a huge weight on wealth. I don’t see people as dollar signs.
“Ahhhhh.” He nods knowingly. Which makes me wonder if his parents have ever thought that way about any of the girls he’s dated.
When we get to Grabbagreen, we halt the conversation to order and gather our food.
Vik digs right back in when we settle at a table.
“I understand parental influence. I mean, you know my situation. I’m gonna marry an Indian girl. And that’s not just because my parents expect me to. I want to, ya know? I love my culture and the traditions and as long as I get to pick the girl”—Vik laughs—“I’m happy with it.”
I stab a big chunk of avocado in my southwest bowl.
Vik’s smile disappears. “That’s where the difference comes in. My people are my people, no matter what their financial status.”
“And my parents don’t care that Austin works as hard as anyone I’ve ever met. Maybe even harder. He’s busting his ass and it’s all coming together for him. Songs on the radio, music festivals, a huge tour coming up.”
“That’s awesome!”
“I know.” I can’t help smiling when I think of all Austin and his bandmates have done to get to this point. I’m proud of him. “But my parents just see: tattoos. Lower class. Starving artist. Drugs. Alcohol. Tour life. Groupies.”
“Is that what your parents see or what you see?”
“What does that mean?”
“It sounds like you have reservations about him and your relationship. Deep down, do you see it as something long-lasting?”
“I—yea—I—” I stumble on the answer.
He continues, “Is it about a real relationship or is it about rebelling against your parents?”
“No,” I say with absolute certainty. “It’s real. I really like him. I like who he is and how I feel when I’m with him.”
“How’s that?”
“Like myself without filters. Saying what I really want to say and being who I am without having to worry about what other people think.”
“Well then I think you have your answer. Fuck what other people think and live your life.”
9
Austin
The house I grew up in is only a few minutes away from the house I rent with friends. I’ve lived in the same neighborhood since I was a toddler. Modest houses and mature trees line the streets just minutes from center city—close enough to businesses and nightlife, yet far enough away that you can actually have a yard. When the textile mills began to close, the working-class neighborhood fell into poverty and disrepair. While growing up, it was pretty rough—shootings, muggings, drug deals, prostitutes—and some of that is still around, but it’s much less frequent because of how much the area has changed.
About thirty years ago, artists, creatives, and entrepreneurs started moving in because rent was cheap and they had the freedom to do what they wanted. The revitalization that brought an eclectic, artsy, funky vibe to the neighborhood is the reason my parents chose the area when they moved to Charlotte from Chapel Hill after Dad graduated from college. He loved living in a place where he could paint a colorful mural on the side of our fence and have people stop to take pictures in front of it rather than tell him to wash it off or paint over it.
Pops of color and vibrancy began springing up with every creative endeavor and soon, our once-forgotten neighborhood became the trendy, new hot spot. And when you have a hip, fun area so close to Uptown (which is what Charlotteans call the downtown area), it draws large investors and more affluent residents—which changes the vibe of the neighborhood. There’s always a double-sided coin that comes with dramatic change. It increases property values for long-time residents like Mom, who still owns one of the original mill-era homes. Increased home values and increased property taxes go hand in hand, and that puts more stress on her. Many of our neighbors have been pushed out because they couldn’t afford the tax increase. Sky-high rent has made moving into the neighborhood—or staying in the neighborhood—almost impossible for those who started the revitalization and created the funky, eclectic oasis.
Multiple buyers and investors have approached her about selling—to the point that it’s borderline harassment—but she refuses. She knows that, despite being able to sell her home for much more than she bought it for, she couldn’t get enough for the house to buy or build another home in the neighborhood. And she doesn’t want to leave the place she loves and supported while it was going through so much growth and change.
Someday I’m going to be able to afford to renovate this house. It’s what Mom deserves. A fresh feel to the home she loves.
“Mom! You home?” I ask as I push open the door to the tiny brick ranch I grew up in. Memories flood my mind every single time. Wonderful memories. Heart-breaking memories.
My dad killed himself in the master bedroom.
If Mom were going to move, I would have expected it to happen after that. I thought living in the house would be too much pain for her to manage. So many amazing family memories with dad marred by the absolute worst. Mom doesn’t see it that way. She sees the good. And she doesn’t dwell on his death as a curse. She knows—we both know—that he’s at peace.
Mental illness is a terrible disease. It’s not like we didn’t know how dad was feeling. He was open about his battle with bipolar disorder. I lived with the reality that something could happen at any time. I knew he was close to the edge on multiple occasions. I thought I could save him. Thought I could help. My dad knew we loved him. He knew we cared and that he meant something in this world. Our love was strong, but loving another person isn’t enough; they have to love themselves.
Whatever demons Dad struggled with inside his head overpowered him. There was nothing anyone could do. We tried. We were there. We “saved” him multiple times. But you can’t save someone who doesn’t want to be saved. And, honestly, I don’t know if you should. Why make someone suffer out of personal selfishness? I don’t know. Suicide is hard to come to terms with for survivors. She thought she was enough—and she was—but she wasn’t the magic cure for dad. No one could heal him. He wasn’t ours to heal
.
“In the kitchen!” Mom calls.
I make my way through the living room and into the kitchen where Mom stands at the sink, washing dishes. She always said a dishwasher was an unnecessary luxury. I understand now, because it’s just her. I understood it when I lived at home, too, because I did all the dishes.
“Hi, Mom,” I say as I lean over and kiss her cheek. Then I hip check her out of the way and take the soapy sponge out of her hand.
“I can do it, Austin, it’s fine.”
“I know you can. You can also take a seat and let me help you.”
Mom holds her hands up before grabbing the dishtowel and wiping them dry.
“Thank you.” She pulls out a chair from the kitchen table and collapses into it, seemingly more tired than usual. She reaches for a stack of mail and starts sorting it into piles. Loose strands of silver-streaked hair fall out of the bun on top of her head and frame her face. The bags under her eyes look darker than normal.
“You okay, Mom? You look tired.”
“I’m always tired, sweet boy.”
Mom has been at a local financial planning firm for over twenty-five years; she worked her way to office manager and stayed there for the last fifteen years.
“I know, but you look even more so than usual.” I glance at her while I soap up a plate.
“Haven’t been feeling well.” She puts a palm to her forehead, but drops it quickly. “I think I’m coming down with something.”
“Have you gone to the doctor?” I ask.
“Who goes to the doctor every time they get a cold? Haven’t got time for that.”
“But if it’s been for a few days, you might be able to get on antibiotics or something.”
Mom pushes back from the table and takes a pile of mail to the trash. When she walks back, she rubs my forearm. “I’m good. Thank you for your concern.”
Then she grabs a dish towel and starts drying the dishes I’ve set in the other side of the sink.
“How’s Franklin’s leg?”
Mom has known Fozzie for years, but she always calls him Franklin, his given name. She must’ve seen our Instagram story when Fozzie cut his shin on the metal grate hanging off the back of a truck. While were unloading our equipment, he carried an amp around the back of a truck, not expecting a grate to be protruding. He’d run smack into it, causing a nasty slash. His shin was gushing blood. He missed soundcheck for a trip to the emergency room. Thankfully our tour manager went with him so Tim and I could finish setting up. If Fozzie hadn’t gotten back in time, we were somewhat prepared to do an acoustic set.
“He’s fine. Had to get a few stitches, but he drank away the pain and played through.”
Mom’s dry sigh tells me she’s not impressed. But no one’s ever been impressed by Fozzie, outside of his drum skills.
“Where are you guys off to next?”
“We’re booked for a couple festivals this summer, and we’ve got that tour with Walk on Mars in the fall. We’re at a festival in Atlanta in a couple weeks. Wanna go?”
“To a music festival?” Mom asks. “At my age?”
“Who cares about your age, Mom? You’re cooler than half the kids I know.”
She laughs. “Doesn’t sound like my kind of fun, my dear, but I appreciate the invite.”
“Rocking out in the sun with a drink in your hand. It’ll be like the days when you followed Widespread Panic.”
“I was young and stupid when I followed the Spread. Getting sunburned and dehydrated with people one third of my age now sounds like a prison sentence.”
“Don’t say I didn’t invite you when you see all the videos and complain about how you wished you were there,” I tease.
I know it’s not Mom’s thing anymore. But I do love the stories of when she and Dad traveled around to see bands. She kept all their ticket stubs for every show they went to. Even though I used to love going through that box when I was a kid, it means even more when I do it now. We have a few super fans, but I can’t wait to be a band that fans travel the country to see.
“I’ll try to contain my jealousy,” Mom deadpans as she lifts a stack of dry plates onto a shelf in the cabinet above her head.
I grew up on all kinds of music. Mom and Dad let me listen to whatever I wanted, not just the music they liked or approved. In fact, they wanted me to listen to real music rather than watered-down kid’s versions of songs or lame-ass Disney radio. They made sure to instill an appreciation for art and stressed the importance of self-expression and free speech. They made sure I knew that I was open to do whatever made me happy. I always appreciated that. Especially after hearing how Liz didn’t have that choice. I can’t even imagine if she would have told her parents she wanted to be in a band. Actually, I can. They probably would have made her train for Juilliard and join the symphony.
I never got into the jam bands my parents loved so much. I gravitated to emo, punk, and 90’s alternative sounds. Though some of my fondest memories are when I watched my parents dance around the living room, high as fuck. They never looked happier than when they were in each other’s arms with their eyes locked.
When they would notice me watching—they always noticed me watching—Mom would hold out a hand and invite me to join. And we’d dance around the living room as a family. Free expression, arms and feet moving however we wanted with the rhythm of the music.
In moments like those, I learned how to love. I learned how to treat the person I loved. I learned what a marriage was supposed to be.
It would have been easy to focus on the negative. Dad’s depression. His mental illness. The heartache that it caused Mom. But she always made sure I knew the bad times weren’t who he was. It was the illness. He loved us with everything he had. But he couldn’t always love himself.
My racing mind overflows with memories to the point that I’m getting bummed out, so I reach over and push the button on the iPod mom has on the kitchen counter. The room floods with music, which makes both of us smile. We shake our hips and bounce around while we finish the dishes.
It’s times like this that I remember how much I loved living in this house. I loved being around my parents. Sometimes I feel like I abandoned Mom when I moved out. But I had to. I couldn’t stay after seeing Dad in the bathtub. I still can’t go upstairs.
“How’s Liz?” Mom reaches into the fridge and grabs me a beer.
“Good. Busy. She’s working her ass off,” I say, popping the top and taking a pull.
I follow her into the living room and collapse next to her on the worn, navy-blue sofa. I’ll buy her a new one soon—before I even outfit my own place. I have a list of semi-extravagant purchases for Mom. Personally, I don’t need much.
“Well, so are you, so that’s good, right?” Mom bends her knees and curls her toes under my thigh. It’s her signature move. She’s always cold and loves tucking her toes under someone. She did it to Dad all the time.
Liz and I have been seeing each other for a few months now, and I’ve internally debated whether or not to tell Mom that Liz is the same girl I brought to the hospital last year. I know she’ll be pissed if she remembers it was someone from the Commons family.
For some strange reason, my mom has always avoided Commons Department Stores. Granted, Mom is the lady who doesn’t give places or products a second chance if they piss her off bad enough. I figured her hatred came from one of those situations. Maybe they didn’t honor a coupon or something. It doesn’t take much to bring out her feisty Italian side if she’s in a mood.
She’s also really into angels and universal connections and believing that people come into your life for a purpose. Her whole family believes in stuff like that. One of her cousins, in Staten Island, swears she can see ghosts and talk to the dead. Mom’s all about that shit. She visits twice a year to see if Dad will speak to her. No luck yet.
“Remember when I told you about the connection I had with Liz the night I met her at the show? There was something about the way she looked at m
e—like she could see straight through to my soul.” I pause. Fuck it. I’ve gotta come clean at some point. It’s not like she’s not going to find out. “I don’t know how else to describe it. It’s like we knew each other. But I had never met her. Or, so I thought.”
Never have I ever been able to keep my mouth shut around my mom. She’s my rock. My best friend. The person I share everything with. I trust her advice more than anyone I’ve ever met.
“Or so you thought?” Her toes wiggle under my leg, urging me to continue. Mom’s eyes rarely light up, but me talking about a connection with a girl gets her all excited.
“Well, turns out she’s the girl I found on the road during that ice storm. The one I took to the hospital.”
That silly spark in mom’s eyes extinguishes completely within a second. “The Commons girl?”
“Yeah,” I admit. It suddenly feels like I’m under police surveillance. “I can’t deny the connection, Mom. She was at my show that night for a reason, ya know? And it turns out she’s pretty fucking cool.”
Mom thinks before she speaks. It’s one of her best qualities, one that she passed down to me. I tend to stay calm and cool, until I sit down to write. I pour everything I’m feeling into journals. At the same time, once those lyrics become a song, my heart is on my sleeve for all to see—and stomp.
“You know I believe in those connections, Austin. And I believe in seeing where it goes.”
“Here comes the ‘but,’” I interject before she can continue.
“But—” She kicks the outside of my leg before burrowing her toes again. “You also need to be careful. She comes from a different world. Different values. Different moral compass. I want you to be happy, but I want you to be careful.”
“I get it. It’s like Pretty in Pink and I’m the girl.”
“Oh my gosh, Austin!” Mom laughs. “I’m just saying—you have so much ahead of you.”
“So does Liz, Mom. She’s a surgeon.”
OPEN YOUR HEART: Material Girls 1 Page 12
