by Mj Fields
I feel his hand take mine. “I knew I didn’t want to let go before, Yaya. Now it’s going to be impossible.” He sits up and turns to me. “You just became an obsession.”
I simply look at him.
“Did I scare you?” he asks, rubbing his thumb over my knuckles.
I shake my head. “I think I like that.”
“Good damn thing,” he says in a deeper rasp than usual before leaning forward and kissing me hard, just the way I like him to. It’s possessive, and I like that from him.
She called him a dark knight in her journal. Finn Beckett isn’t dark, and he isn’t light; he is gray and perfect.
I smile. “I know I like it.”
He smiles in return and laughs, then sits back in his seat and laughs again.
“You just sucked any toxins that I have ever allowed inside of me out. I swear to you, I feel like a new man, Yaya. A very happy and deeply satisfied man who owes his girl big.” He glances over at me. “Holy fuck. You just … fuck.” He pulls me into a hug, and I can hear his heart beating against his chest. “You just got me off in public.”
I smirk up at him, feeling just as giddy as he sounds.
“In an airplane.”
“I wonder what state we’re over.” I smile.
“No shit.” He raises his hand. “Miss?”
The flight attendant walks back.
“Where are we?”
“About an hour out.”
“What state?” he asks.
She smiles at him. “I’ll go find out.”
“Thank you.”
She begins walking away.
“Miss?”
She turns around.
“Does the pilot have any of those little plastic wings they give kids?”
“I’m sure he does.”
“Can you ask if I can buy two?”
“Sure…”
***
As soon as we land, I turn on my phone to see if there are any messages. There is one.
“What’s going on?”
“He’s having a scan done’” I answer. “He hates them.”
He pulls me tightly against him. “Where’s he at?”
“I think Riverside Methodist.” I send a text, asking just that. “I don’t want her to know I’m here yet.”
“Why?” he asks, scowling.
“I just don’t want to fight with her.”
“He’s your kid.”
“It’s not that, Finn.” I don’t want him to know I’m sure she blew the money. I don’t want him to judge her. She’s all I have.
“Then what is it?”
“I’d really rather not—”
“She the one who drained your account?”
I look at him and shrug.
“That’s bullshit, Sonya.”
“I’m sure she has a reason. But right now, I want to grab a cab and get to Noah.”
“I have a rental car waiting. I’ll take you.”
I start to object, but he puts his finger over my mouth.
“You aren’t going to take taxis around, looking for your kid.”
“You can’t meet him.” I won’t put him through the possible attachment to a man when I don’t know if he will be in Noah’s life for a long time.
“I never said I was going to, but why?”
“I met many of my mother’s men, Finn. My son won’t go through that. I’m not her.”
He nods and pulls his sunglasses down. “Understood.”
“Finn?”
“Yeah?” he asks as he walks us to the car rental pick up.
“It’s nothing against you.”
“Okay.”
“Okay?”
He shrugs. “He’s yours. You gotta do what’s best for him.”
“You’re a good man, Finn, but—”
“I said I understood.”
“I hope so,” I whisper.
He leans down and kisses the side of my head, and for now, it still feels all right.
***
When he pulls up outside the hospital in the black Mercedes SUV, I grab my bag and start to get out, but he grabs my elbow. I lean in and kiss him, and then he sits back.
“Text me and let me know he’s here. I’ll wait until I hear from you.”
I go to get out, but he pulls me back again and kisses me.
“Text me.”
“I will.” I nod.
“Go get your boy better.”
“I’ll do that, too.”
“And don’t forget about me.” He narrows his eyes when he says it.
“Wouldn’t want to. See you later.”
“Text,” he grumbles.
“Okay.” I smile and shut the door, heading inside.
After speaking with patient registration, I find out Noah is here, so I send Finn a message on my way to the elevator. He calls immediately.
“Hi,” I say as I push the fourth floor button.
“He okay?”
“They admitted him, so I am going to say no.” I hit the four again and again until it opens.
“I bet they’re just being cautious.” His voice is soft and comforting.
“I know,” I whisper.
“I’ll be two hours from here. If you need me, you call, and I’ll come. Get it?”
“Got it,” I reply.
“Good.”
I walk past the nurse’s station and straight for room 321 where the receptionist, who remembered me from prior visits, told me my son is.
When I walk in, he sits up.
“Mommy?”
“Who else would it be?” I try to stay calm as I practically run to him.
“I thought you was in Florida,” he says as he enunciates every syllable.
“I heard my favorite person in the universe wasn’t feeling good.”
He smiles and throws his arms around me, and I hug him tight.
“No wires, Mommy,” he whispers.
“That’s good, buddy,” I whisper back.
“Just a picture.” He points to his chest.
“A chest x-ray?”
He nods.
I lean back and look at him, taking his hands and holding them in the air to inspect. “You’re correct. Wow, that’s super cool. So why are you stayin’ the night?”
“Aunt Margie is sick. She been sleepin’ lots. I guess I’m sick, ’cause I didn’t get my breathing treatment when she was sleepin’. I tried to do it myself, but,” he leans in and whispers, “I was a scared of the cord.”
“Afraid of the cord? I’m proud of you, buddy. So proud that you didn’t touch it.”
“Not without adult supervision.”
“How did you get here today, Noah?”
“She drived.”
“Aunt Margie drove?”
“Yes, she droved,” he says, correcting himself. “She was really tired. She almost falled asleep walking in. The doctor taked her on a stretcher for a checkup.”
“Okay, well, how about you lie back. I am going to turn on the TV and go talk to the nurse right down there. Then I will be right back, Noah. I will be right back.”
I hug him tight again and then walk out of his room. I stand against the wall, trying to stop the trembling in my hands. After I feel like I can face her, I walk to the nurses’ station and wait for one of them to notice me.
“Can I help you?”
“Is Marguerite Thugington on this floor?”
“Are you—”
“Sonya. Sonya DeAmore,” I say.
I see it on her face. She knows who I am, and not just because my son is here, but because she remembers my story.
“Yes, sweetheart, let me get the doctor.”
I wait for what feels like an eternity for her to return. When she does, it’s with about four other hospital staff. They all try to look busy, but I know they just want to get a look at the girl they all watched on TV as her life slipped away.
It has been like this all my life. Some look at me with pity, some with curiosity, and som
e as if I am a freak. I always assume it’s because of my choice to keep Noah.
“I’m Dr. Gray. Come with me?”
“Where?” I ask, not moving.
“To speak to your aunt.”
I point to Noah’s room. “My four-year-old, very sweet, very smart little boy is lying in bed, and I walked in there without being questioned by anyone. I’m not leaving here unless someone sits with him.” I look at the staff. “And that someone better not look at him the way you have all looked at me.”
“I can assure you this is a professional—”
I look around and point to the oldest nurse on staff. “Will you sit with him?”
“Yes, dear, I will.”
Assured, I follow Dr. Gray down the hall where she opens a door, and we walk in to find Margie sitting up.
“I told you not to come. Told you he was fine.”
“But you? You’re not fine, are you?” I ask, standing at the foot of her hospital bed.
“The pain from my TMJ has been bothering me, so I took some pain pills to help me out. You know how Noah can be,” she whispers. “I didn’t realize how exhausted I was until—”
“I spoke to you on the phone less than six hours ago. You didn’t sound exhausted.”
“I think I had a bad reaction to my medication, young lady, and your tone is not appreciated.”
“You driving with my son in this state is not appreciated,” I spit back at her.
I turn to Dr. Gray. “Is my son well enough to go home?”
“He has pneumonia and shouldn’t be at his school for at least a week. Treatments every six hours. His record indicates that he has been through this before. Take him to his pediatrician in a week for a follow up, sooner if needed,” she says.
“My aunt?” I ask without looking at Margie.
“She should stay the night.”
“Thank you, Dr. Gray. I’d like a moment alone with my aunt please, and then I will be out to take Noah home.”
As soon as she leaves, I look back at Margie.
“You have no right to speak to me the way you just did. Do you know what could happen if they told the authorities I was driving with Noah? I could be arrested, Sonya. Think! You have no one but family,” she snaps. “And if it wasn’t for me, you wouldn’t have him.”
“But that didn’t matter to you today when you drove with him. That didn’t mean a damn thing to you,” I give her attitude back.
She looks at me almost smugly. “Well, well, well, what has happened to you in the past few weeks? That kind of attitude only comes from a girl who thinks she is a woman. We both know what happened the last time you—”
“Stop,” I say, knowing where she is going and hating it.
“Truth hurt, Sonya? Your mother had your looks and see where it got her? She’s off finding the next man to fund her choice of lifestyles while the rest of us—the ones she dragged into this whole thing—suffer. We take twenty dollars here, fifty there, and eat it up like a dog getting a tasty, little treat, but never a full bowl. Did you find someone, Sonya? And if yes, do you remember what happened the last time you thought love could save you from the hell of a mansion on the hill, hidden behind the security of a gate—”
“Stop,” I plead.
“You need to stop.” She points at me with a look of disgust.
I dig deep for courage. This woman may have saved me from living in a home or facing my peers by enabling me with home school, but she put my son—my Noah—at risk today.
“You need to get help. Don’t come home until you do.”
“How dare you—”
“Where is the fifteen thousand dollars that was in the account, Margie? Where is the money that I needed to get home today?” I snap, snatching her purse off the windowsill and looking for the keys.
“What are you doing?”
“Getting my keys so I can drive Noah home.”
As I start to walk away, her voice stops me.
“Your cousins needed help. We are family; they are my children. I chose to come here and help you, uproot them from where they grew up, and look what has become of their lives, Sonya. Selfish, selfish Sonya. If they need help, we give it to them.”
Remembering Finn’s words, I look at her. “If they are hungry, they should work for it like everyone else does. I have a mortgage on a house that was paid for because they needed help. When is enough, enough?”
Her eyes grow wide and angry. “When I can take care of them like I do you and Noah.”
I turn and walk toward the door.
“Don’t you walk away from me!”
I repeat what I said before, “Don’t come home until you are clean.”
I waited outside the hospital until she sent me a text. She said she will call me she is going to take her boy home, but he has to be out of school for ten days. She also told me she will call me later. She was short and to the point, and as a guy, I appreciate that. However, as someone trying to figure out where this path is leading, it kind of fucked with me.
I pull down the dusty gravel road toward what used to be home at the very end of a dead end road. I laugh at the irony.
Coming here wasn’t easy. It brings back memories and heightened emotions.
Nothing has changed except the few houses look older and less taken care of. I still see the remains of the old mobile mansion. The place went up when good old Mom stepped outside while she was cooking up meth. No clue what the hell she even came out for. It wasn’t like she was bringing lemonade to me and the old man. She was probably fucked up and lost. Lucky for her, she didn’t die inside the tin can, but was it really? Her life was a joke. She was a waste of fucking air. Now she’s living it up with a different man every couple months, last I knew. I stopped giving a shit six years ago.
I pull over before I get too close, just to take in the place where I grew up. Yes, grew up, and fast, too. I had to.
The old porch is still standing and the ground is still charred. No idea why Dad hasn’t tried to do some work, bring in some soil or something to cover it, or at least torch the porch so it isn’t still taking up space. The whole place is a fucking eyesore.
Do I hate my mother? Maybe. Do I blame her for all the shit that went wrong in my life over the last ten or so years? Abso-fucking-lutely. Do I dwell on it, let it draw me down? No. I stayed the fuck away and went after what I wanted, and now I have it. I am living my dream, one not bought from selling drugs or selling out, but earned from the blood, sweat, and tears of many, many years.
I throw the SUV in drive and hit the gas, the tires kicking up loose gravel. I speed past the burned can and to the left, toward the garage.
There are about five cars in the old driveway waiting for the old man or the owners to pick them up and about twenty heaps of shit in the field beside the garage.
Throwing the car in park, I get out and walk toward the door that says, ‘Beckett and Son.’ I open the door and the bell jingles, though it’s not much of a warning that someone is coming in when the air compressor is blatting and the grease gun is whining.
The smell of oil fills my senses and gone is the scent of her.
I see Dad bent over a car with the hood open, a shop rag hanging from his back pocket.
“Yo! Old man!” I yell to him like I always did back then.
I hear his deep laugh, and he takes a step back before standing.
“Not much older than you, boy.” He smiles, wiping his hands on the rag. “Sixteen when I—”
“Got her knocked up,” I finish his sentence and smile.
“What’s the difference between a pregnant woman and a light bulb, son?”
“Can’t unscrew a pregnant woman,” I answer.
“Wouldn’t want to, either. Something good came out of her.”
“How you doing?” I walk over and give him a quick hug.
“Not bad. Not bad at all.”
“You feel like going out to dinner?”
He shakes his head. “Now, you know the
answer to that.”
My dad never goes out. He hates it, says it’s a waste of time and money getting all dressed up so someone else can cook for you. Then you have to pay them. If he’s gonna get dressed up and hit the town, he would rather be getting laid, not having a meal.
“Got steaks in the car.”
“Gimme ten minutes to finish old lady Smith’s car and get washed up.”
“The grill have propane?” I ask.
“Sure does, but how about charcoal tonight?” He smirks.
“On it.”
I walk out and around to the back, smiling when I see the patio off the back of the apartment he added on to the garage after the fire. A brick fire pit was built in the far corner. There are a couple benches, even some shrubs, and a couple pots that have flowers planted.
“Place looks good, right?” my old man asks, slapping me on the back.
“Yeah, it does.” I smile. “Where’s the charcoal?”
“I can get it after I take a quick shower.” He walks toward the sliding glass doors that enter the palace.
“Dad, where is it?” I laugh.
He points to one of the benches. “Bags are in there.”
I open the bench, grab the charcoal and lighter fluid, and carry it to the pit.
When he comes out, he’s in jeans and a sweatshirt that says Carhart. I laugh to myself because, back in the day, anything with that logo was our equivalent to a fucking Armani suit. I send him Levis and Carharts every Father’s Day and every year on his birthday.
“Looking good, old man,” I say as I pull out my Zippo and light it up.
Dad shakes his head when I stand back.
“What?” I ask.
“You still got Glenda’s lighter.”
“My life changed that day. It’s a reminder.”
“All of our lives changed that day. She went to jail, you got hauled away to foster care, and me ... I sat in it.”
“Sat in what?”
“Shit.” He motions toward our old place.
“And it still stands,” I remark, looking at it.
“Took me forever to convince them I wasn’t fucked up like her so that I could get you back.” He snaps his fingers. “Then in the blink of an eye, you were gone.”
“Had things to do,” I say, feeling the weight of his words.
“Made a name for yourself.” He smiles. “I’m proud of you, son.”
