Embrace

by Fernandez, Michelle

  “I’m attending group meetings here and I did see a therapist. I’m okay now, Mama. Todd’s out of my life,” I reassure her.

  “The day Drake threw that son-of-a-bitch in jail was one of the happiest days of my life. I’m just sorry that I didn’t step in earlier.”

  “Oh, Mama.” Absolution overwhelms me as if it has lifted a weight off my shoulders.

  “Although I want you close to me, I understand why you left. It’s a healing process. A way to build yourself up and find that courage I know is there. I did the same when I left Texas to move far away from Albert.”

  “What ever happened to him?”

  “I heard he overdosed, and someone found his dead body in an alley.”

  “Well, at least Todd is in jail for a while.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me or anyone?” Mama asks.

  Another tear falls and my voice cracks. “I couldn’t . . . just like you said, it’s not something I would bring up at Sunday dinner.”

  “I feel like a terrible mother.”

  “No, Mama, you’re not. It was all me. When Todd first hit me, I was in total shock. He apologized and said it wouldn’t happen again. Then I got scared to leave him when he made threats toward you and Dax. I know I should have said something, but I thought I was protecting my family.”

  “Oh, my sweet baby girl.”

  “As much as I don’t want to say it, California has been good to me.”

  She clears her throat. “It sounds like you are getting back to your old self. And how’s Sydney?”

  “She’s great, and she’s been amazing in helping me put myself back together.”

  “Well, that’s good. You tell Syd that I owe her one of my famous chicken pot pies if she ever makes it back to Kansas.” Mama laughs. “Now, tell me about your corner office.”

  “I don’t start until Monday, but I’m sure it’s just a desk and a long draft table. But what I can tell you is I will work at a very prestigious company and a few of the clients are high-profile celebrities.”

  “Well, don’t keep me waiting . . . do tell. Will you get to meet Tom Selleck?”

  * * *

  Feeling better after I spoke to Mama, I figure it’s time for me to work on my car. If I don’t, I will have to depend on another means of transportation to get to work on Monday. As I exit my front door, I see there’s a note on my Jeep.

  I looked under your hood . . . I mean your Jeep’s hood. You were right about the battery. I hope you don’t mind that I replaced it for you. If you need anything else, hot cocoa, banana bread, an escort home, call me. See you Friday. ~B

  My smile is automatic as I tuck my lips under my teeth. Brody. I flip the paper over. He left his phone number, so I send him a text.

  Me: Hi, Brody. It’s me, Dee.

  Brody: Good morning, Kansas.

  Me: Thank you for fixing Duke. How much do I owe you?

  Brody: Just the date on Friday.

  Me: You bamboozled me. Now I really can’t say no.

  Brody: And here I thought my good looks and charm was good enough.

  Me: Perhaps. Thanks again.

  Brody: The pleasure was all mine. See you at

  Tawney’s on Friday, Dorothy.

  I have to give him credit. This is one way to make sure I show up.

  Chapter Eight

  Brody

  “Goddamn it!” The door sticks, making me wonder when the last time someone opened it. A shove of my shoulder against the door one last time, and it swings open. I look at the rusted hinges and the wood. “I need to fix this door.”

  A musty smell dances in the air and dust bunnies skirt along the baseboards. I flick the light switch and the chandelier lights up above me.

  “At least Avery’s been paying the electricity bill.”

  I think back to what Dee said last night about a well-lit house. It’s welcoming. I look around my old house and it is the complete opposite of anything warm and inviting.

  It’s eerie being here, yet nostalgic. I close my eyes. I feel her presence and can almost smell a hint of Mom’s perfume. Gardenias were her favorite flower.

  Opening my eyes, I visualize Mom on the steps with Avery putting a Band-Aid on her knee when she fell off her new bike. I see myself slide across the wooden floors through the foyer with my white socks. Mom hated when I did that. The bottoms of my socks would turn black, and she could never get them white again, even after several washes. And the times my parents sat by the fireplace holding hands, Mom reading a romance novel while Dad read the paper, and I played Candyland with Avery on the coffee table.

  As I move further into the house, the frames on the wall are a slideshow of our lives together. Mom and Dad’s wedding day. Me, when I was seven holding Avery’s hand by the water. Then a photo of all of us, just before everything took a dive.

  I move through the family room and out the French doors, I breathe in the ocean breeze. Two lounge chairs rest on the weathered, uneven wooden patio that still has splattered blue and white paint on it. The makeshift path Dad paved for us so we would have an easier access to the beach appears overgrown.

  I stare out to the canvas in front of me—blue, cloudy sky and waves crashing on the sand. My phone rings and pulls me from my thoughts. I roll my eyes when her name and face appear on the screen.

  “Why am I not surprised you’re calling me?” I answer as I walk back into the house and straight to the den. I yank off the white linen cloth that covers the desk as more dust flies around.

  “Did you find them, Brommando?” Avery asks, using the silly nickname she called me when we played war on the beach, our backyard. A time we made sand forts with Kyle.

  Avery and I would be on one side and Kyle would be on the other side, throwing sand grenades. It was all fun and games until sand got in someone’s eye. Most of the time it was Avery who cried first.

  “Don’t be a hissy-sissy.” I stare at the cherry wood desk and the oversized ivory chair. “I just walked in.”

  She asked me to pick up Dad’s journals since he’s been asking for them. Then drop them off at the facility where he lives, and his Alzheimer’s is being cared for. This is one visit I am not looking forward to, seeing the man who may not even remember me. His own son. He’s my hero and to see him like that, in a wheelchair, breaks me.

  “Dad is expecting you,” she nags, her voice just like Mom’s.

  “He’s expecting me. You sure about that, Ave? He doesn’t even know who I am anymore.” Mockery slips out that she doesn’t deserve.

  “Wow. Did you wake up on the wrong side of the bed, or what?”

  “Did you call to badger me?”

  “Yes, that’s my job . . . I thought you would be there early this morning,” she says as I hear an announcement in the background about a flight number and boarding time.

  “I had to run an errand this morning.” The corner of my mouth turns up as I imagine Dee’s face and hope she’s okay with me changing her battery. I heard her when she said she knows a thing or two about cars and fuck if that’s not the sexiest thing. I visualize Dee with a smudge of oil on her face, twisting and jiggling the cables and spark plugs.

  “Hellooo, Brodyyy. You there?” Avery’s voice echoes.

  “Maybe I should have just let you take care of it,” I snap back, annoyed that she interrupted my quick fantasy of Dee that I shouldn’t be having while my sister is nagging in my ear.

  “Brody. You know I’d do it”—another announcement blares—“if they didn’t push the photoshoot up a week.”

  “Oh, come on, Ave! You wouldn’t come to this house even if I gave you my inheritance.”

  “Whatever,” she bites back.

  “Being in this house is a bit eerie. I can still smell her perfume.”

  She lets out a breath. “I think the house needs a facelift, a makeover. A restoration.”

  “Great idea. You should start on that,” I say, knowing all too well she’s dodging the conversation about Mom. I open the drawers an
d start fumbling through them searching for Dad’s journals.

  Avery laughs. “Are you kidding me? I have no time for that.”

  “At least you have time to pay the electric bill. It was nice to walk in and see that they still worked.” I open another drawer. “Are you sure Dad’s journals are in the desk?”

  “The desk? I never said they were in the desk.” She lets out a sigh. “They’re packed up in some boxes in the closet.”

  My eyes veer to the closet door and I imagine the boxes that occupy the deep space of the alcove, the best hiding place in the house. I remember the times I would hide in there as if it were my very own bunker.

  “Brody.” Her voice is soft. “When I saw Dad a couple of weeks ago, he remembered me, and he asked about you. Then asked about Mom.”

  “What did you tell him?” I open a drawer and I subconsciously take inventory. Calligraphy pen, cream paper with brown edges, paper clips. My finger glides over an old notepad with Mom’s faded scribble.

  I make my way to the closet and open a few boxes as Avery continues talking about her visit with Dad. When I open the second box, I find leather journals tucked neatly along with other tchotchkes.

  I know I shouldn’t, but I unwind the straps of the top journal. I’m greeted with Dad’s handwriting as I open to the middle of it. I’m about to tell Avery I found the journal, but then I read the first line.

  I miss her. But I have no choice but to let her go . . .

  I immediately close it, not wanting to read anymore. I’m tempted, but those are Dad’s private words. I shake my head and push the thought aside as I grab the other journals.

  “. . . then Dad just blanked out on me. One minute he was there and the next, he wasn’t,” Avery continues without missing a beat. “He thought I was the nurse. All the while asking where Mom was.”

  “And you say that Dad’s expecting me to deliver these journals?”

  “Like I said, he’s been asking for them. He thinks someone stole them.”

  “Did Dad have one of his tantrums again?” I ask, wondering if I’m adding more fuel to this conversation.

  “He’s not doing well, Brody,” she says softly.

  “Is that what Doctor Williams told you?”

  “Yes, among other things.”

  “Like what?” I ask.

  A woman’s voice announcing a flight number echoes. “Listen, I gotta go. I’ll be back in a couple of days. Don’t forget we’re meeting for dinner on Friday.”

  “Ah, fuck! I forgot. I, uh . . .”

  “No, Brody. You are not shafting me again. I haven’t seen you since you got home.”

  “I’m meeting someone,” I say as I close the flaps to the box.

  She grunts. “Fine. Then at least come with me to see Dad next Sunday.”

  “We’ll see.”

  Chapter Nine

  Delilah

  A stroke of my pencil on my sketchpad. A circle here. An oblong outline there. A tag line here. Then blend green and blue with the markers I pull out of a plastic bin. A dab of orange, and a splash of purple on the new account I am assigned to and I am grateful for.

  I thought I would shadow one of the tenured staff until I got the hang of things here. But, when I brought in my mock-up designs this past week, I must have impressed Mr. Grisham because he immediately assigned me an account to work solo.

  Not only do I need to come up with the final designs, I have to give a presentation for Evergreen Escapes. A campground east of San Francisco where camping is not the typical sleeping in a tent like how I grew up. Glamping is the new camping and very posh.

  My fly-away strands tickle my cheeks as the breeze blows from the ocean. The smell of spring is in the air, the sun warming my face now that the storm has passed through and is heading out to sea.

  I tap the pencil on my chin, brainstorming what else this design needs. More color? Another logo? More texture? A different slogan?

  “Another refill?” I look up at the cheery voice. A waitress with a bright smile, holding a pitcher of pink lemonade in one hand and water in the other stands in front of me.

  “Yes. Please.” I pop the plastic lid off and hold up my paper cup of ice cubes and hand it to her. “And can I get some water for her bowl?” I motion down at Serena lying peacefully by my feet.

  “Sure thing,” she says and fills the disposable bowl. “What’s her name?”

  “Serena.” I smile at my eight-year-old Husky-German Shepherd mix, grateful this sidewalk cafe is pet friendly.

  “She’s such a good dog. I don’t think I heard her bark once.” The waitress motions to another dog, then leans down saying, “Not like that chihuahua over there. Non-stop growls at me when I pass by.”

  I angle my head to peer around her to peek at the little dog, then I stifle a laugh. “Maybe it’s Napoleon syndrome. Small dogs are like that.”

  “Does she ever bark?”

  I purse my lips and hold my breath for just a second as I recall the only time Serena barked ferociously. “Yes . . . at my ex-boyfriend.”

  “Well, dogs have a sixth sense and that’ll explain why he’s your ex now.” The waitress shrugs then looks down at my sketchbook. “Did you draw all of those? They’re amazing.”

  “Thanks,” I say shyly as I look at my artwork. “I’m trying to come up with a glamorous camping resort logo.”

  “So, you must be in marketing,” she assumes.

  I nod to her then I angle my head looking at my work so far. “I’m working on this new concept . . . glamping.”

  “I have heard of those resorts. They cost an arm and a leg just to stay for a weekend.”

  I show her an old brochure that I need to revamp. We glance at each photo and the inside of the sleeping quarters. Fur rugs, a mattress with a goose down bed, and a vanity. “This one has a TV in it.” I point to the photo as I stifle a laugh. “Not my kind of camping. I like the old-fashioned way. A pitched tent, a blazing fire, and my sleeping bag under the stars to wake up to the sunrise. Away from reality.”

  The waitress tilts her head slightly. “Peace and quiet, right?”

  “Yes, exactly,” I say as I gaze at the photos, wondering if I should take a road trip to understand the hype of glamping. Maybe this way, I can give a knock-out pitch on Friday.

  “Well, I’ll let you be. Holler if you need anything else,” she says and skirts away.

  The pencil twirls between my fingers as I people-watch to get my creative juices flowing again. I only have three logos and some taglines, not nearly enough variety. At least I have a whole week to turn everything in and present to the owners of this intimate resort, hoping they’ll like at least one of the logos and the ideas I have to make them more marketable.

  I sketch a few more ideas and write whatever words come to mind.

  Clean air. Retreat. Refuge. Haven. Hideaway.

  I have been sitting here for the last few hours and the waitress was the only person I spoke to. Sydney’s right. I don’t have a social life. No friends to meet me like I have seen with the other people around me. And I haven’t looked at my phone once, since the only people that I do have conversations are with Sydney, Jenna, and my family.

  I close my sketchbook and tuck it in my shoulder bag along with my plastic bin full of colored pencils and markers. I drop a few bills on the table for the tip then wave to the waitress as she smiles back at me.

  With Serena’s leash wrapped around my wrist and my lemonade in my other hand, I opt out on heading to my Jeep and take a walk on the beach instead. I could easily go home, pop open a bottle of moscato, and watch the sunset and the same waves from my patio. But Serena needs a good long run today. She’s been cooped up in the house for the last couple of days because of the rainstorm.

  I sit on the bench alongside the sidewalk, unhook the leash from Serena’s collar, and let her run. And she does.

  Straight to the shoreline.

  Biting a splash of water in midair.

  I laugh then call her name
and know that she will need a bath as soon as we get home. Serena runs back to me, wet sand on her paws, and she sees her tennis ball in my hand. I took it out of my bag when she beelined to the water.

  After several throws, a few of the kids playing nearby ask to throw the ball to Serena, giving my arm some respite and my dog a few new playmates.

  A girl catches my eye with a bright pink sun hat and a matching pink cast. She must be about five or six years old and holding—what I assume is—her dad’s hand. And I wonder how she hurt herself. Questions I have no right to know the answer to, yet I wonder. Was it an accident? Did someone hurt her?

  I try to shrug off the memories, but as I watch the little girl at play, images flash of the days I wore my cast. Emotions race through me, the pain and agony, reminding me of how weak I was to defend myself and to leave him.

  I’m in a better place now. I have a job at one of the most prestigious marketing firms in Los Angeles. Sydney has helped me crawl out of my shell, build my self-esteem, and made me realize I am not weak.

  I survived his hateful words and I’m no longer his punching bag.

  Chapter Ten

  Brody

  Being at the mercy of the ocean’s waves is primitive. Listening to the complicated sophistication of energy the water makes takes skill and talent. The waves aren’t that big, but after the storm it’s enough to get a decent ride or two.

  Fighting against the current and riding through gives me some kind of control in this very moment. I need to forget the chaos that weighs heavily in my thoughts over Matt and his family, Dad’s journals, and the father that may never remember I’m his son.