Swing

by Adriana Locke

  A lump swells in my throat. “What can we do?” I ask.

  “I’m doing everything I can, Danielle. Just send good vibes and a prayer if you can.” Her voice nearly breaks. “We can’t lose the funding. I’ll do everything I can.”

  “I know that,” I whisper.

  “I’m going to go. I need to get some numbers together before we resume our meeting this afternoon. You’ll have some minutes in your email if you want to take a look. I sent them this morning.”

  I nod, even though she can’t see me. Before I find my voice, she’s said her goodbye and the dial tone blares in my ear.

  Letting myself fall back into my chair, I survey my office. It’s bright and playful, a testament to the kids that have been through our program. My gaze lands on a picture taken a couple of years ago, a young family with a little girl with pigtails. Her mother came to my office the day she was released and told me her daughter made little progress in the two other facilities she was in before here. Here, she rebounded and she could never thank the program enough. I get updates from her every six months or so.

  Flicking the mouse, I wait for my computer to fire up. When it does, I see a number of emails. The one from Gretchen is bolded and shines at me, begging to be clicked. But another one sits right above it, the name staring me in the face. It’s that one I click on first.

  Dear Ryan,

  Your father and I will be leaving for St. Thomas in a couple of days. We’ll be staying through the Thanksgiving holiday and will, for the most part, be unavailable until the second week of December.

  Joyce has offered for you to join her family for Thanksgiving dinner. I told her I would pass along the invitation.

  We will be spending Christmas with the Spencer family in Aspen. I will leave your gift under the tree when we leave. Give Joyce a call and she can stick it in the mail.

  Take care and talk soon.

  Mom

  The lump in my throat just doubled and it’s difficult, if not impossible, to work around it. I wait, unmoving, to see how I react. Every time it’s different. Sometimes I cry, unable to push away the rejection of my own parents. Other times, I laugh at their self-absorption and wonder how miserable they must really be. And then there are times where a numbness settles over my soul and I can’t make any headway on how I really feel beneath it all. How am I supposed to internalize the absurdity of a second-hand invitation to a holiday with their housekeeper? It’s like I’m not good enough to be with them, just their help. An afterthought, as always.

  It’s moments like this I’m grateful that the numbness is stronger than the hurt. That somehow I’ve trained myself to block out the most agonizing moments, like holidays, and just embrace the alternative: unfeeling. Maybe shock. Either way, it’s preferable.

  Easter two years ago was the last time I was invited to my parents’ house and that was only because they needed me to put in an appearance. I went along with it because it was easier than being on the receiving end of their wrath. Or so I thought.

  “You seem like such a sweet girl,” a wife of one of my father’s associates coos, swirling around an absurdly-priced wine around in an overpriced crystal glass. “Your mother was telling me that the two of you don’t quite see eye to eye on a lot of things.”

  “That’s true.” The explanation is on the tip of my tongue, how my mother only cares about appearances and my father’s acceptance. That I don’t spend time with them because they don’t want me.

  “Your mother told me how you refuse to accept their help.” She eyes me carefully, the wine blushing her cheeks. “It’s too bad you won’t let your mother get closer to you, honey. She has so many connections. I would love a daughter to shop with, go to the spa with,” she sighs. “It’s such a shame you and she are so different.”

  “No, it’s such a shame she wants nothing to do with me,” I say aloud, startling myself. I jump again when my cell hums on my desk and am grateful to see Macie’s name on the screen. “Hey,” I say, blowing out a rickety breath.

  “Hey! What’s happening?”

  “Oh, the same old stuff. What about you?”

  “What’s wrong, Danielle?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah. Of course I am,” I promise, although it isn’t completely true. “I’m fine.”

  “You get like this every year around the holidays . . .”

  “What do you expect when your parents take off for vacation and never invite you? I mean, I’m shocked they remember to email me,” I snort. “God knows they wouldn’t call me. Or text me.”

  “Your parents are assholes.”

  “That they are,” I agree weakly. ”But still . . .”

  “But still nothing,” she retorts. “They don’t deserve you. They’re two of the most self- obsessed people in the world.”

  I don’t respond because there’s nothing to contribute. And the longer this conversation happens, the worse I feel. Macie picks up on it, like she always does.

  “Come here for Thanksgiving. Julia and I are cooking a huge ass meal. It’ll be fun.”

  “Nah . . .”

  “You are welcome here. We’d love to have you,” she says softly.

  “I have too much going on here.” My eyes drift to my calendar and the blank slots surrounding Thanksgiving and the emptiness that fills the time around the holidays makes itself apparent. I cringe.

  “We’ll chat about this later,” she warns. “But I need to go get back to work. My lunch break is over and I can’t even remember why I called. I’ll call you later if I remember.”

  “Sounds good.”

  Replacing the receiver on the cradle, I bury my head in my hands. My heart swells, causing the pain buried there to sweep up my throat and to my eyes. I try to blink back the hot, salty tears but one lone, solitary tear drips down my cheek. When I reach for a tissue, my hand stalls over the box. Lincoln is standing in the door, his face washed with some unnamed emotion. He doesn’t ask for permission to come in. He just does. The door latches softly behind him. He also doesn’t ask what’s wrong and he doesn’t wait for me to tell him. He just storms around my desk and nearly lifts me out of my chair and pulls me into the deepest hug I’ve ever felt.

  That does it. The tears stream, wetting his white t-shirt. He holds me against him, not saying a word. We stand like that for a long time. I couldn’t pull away if I wanted. He wouldn’t let me.

  He reaches behind me and I hear the tissue box being moved. It’s only then he lets me lean back.

  “Baby . . .” he says, his eyes full of trepidation. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.” I take a proffered tissue and turn away, cleaning up my face. “Just a bad day.”

  “This isn’t how you do a bad day, Dani. Something’s wrong.”

  His hands are on my shoulders, rolling them gently. It feels good to have him here, to have the physical and emotional support so available. I don’t really know what to do with it.

  “Please talk to me,” he pleads.

  “I’ll sound like a baby,” I laugh, the sound barely above a whisper. “This isn’t the Danielle I want you to know. I want you to see the strong, confident Danielle. Not . . . this.”

  He whirls me around until I’m facing him. Our eyes are level, his jaw set in defiance. “I want to know every side of you. The confident side, the part of you that’s a little bitchy,” he grins, “the sweet one, and the baby one, if it exists.”

  I wrap myself around his waist, needing to feel him. He smells like expensive cologne and sweat. My eyes close and I allow his scent to calm me. Once I’m sure I won’t lose control, I explain. “My parents sent me an email with their holiday plans.”

  He stills. “And they are?”

  “Their usual—St. Thomas for Thanksgiving, Aspen for Christmas.”

  “Are you going?”

  “I’d have to have an invitation to go,” I sniffle. “Don’t worry though. Their housekeeper will mail my Christmas present.
”

  “Are you fucking kidding me?” he barks. “Tell me you’re joking.”

  I shrug helplessly. “It’s been this way my whole life. Even in high school, I’d find a friend to stay with for the holidays because they’d leave. It was that or stay home with the help.” My chest tightens as I remember watching the snow fall on Christmas Eve while the microwave counted down the minutes until my hot chocolate would be done. All of my classmates loved the holidays and would come back from break with stories of dinners and vacations and gifts and pranks. I’d spend my break making up the stories I’d tell. No one ever knew I’d really spent two weeks watching re-runs alone.

  “I fucking hate them,” Lincoln insists.

  “You don’t even know them.”

  “I don’t have to and it’s probably better that I don’t,” he says, kissing the top of my head. “You’re coming to my house for dinner tonight. I’ll order something,” he chuckles. “But this isn’t up for negotiation, Dani. You’re coming. End of story.”

  I don’t even fight it. I don’t want to. “I’ll be there.”

  Lincoln

  “HEY, G.” I STRIP THE sheets off my bed and toss them to the floor. Balancing the phone against my bare shoulder, I find a clean white set in the hall closet and begin remaking the bed. “What’s up?”

  “Two things. One, are you coming home for Thanksgiving?”

  “Yeah. Why?”

  “I have some papers for you to sign for the security company. I didn’t know whether to mail them or wait for you to come home.”

  “Nah, I’ll be there. What’s number two?”

  “In a hurry?” he chuckles.

  “Kind of.” I start shoving pillows into new pillowcases.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Making my bed.”

  “Okay, you’re scaring me now. Where’s Rita?”

  I plop the final pillow against the headboard. “She’s not here today. You had two things to talk about?”

  “I suddenly don’t remember what the second thing was.”

  An irritated sigh slides out of my mouth. “So we good to go then?”

  Graham doesn’t respond for a moment. Finally, as I’m walking into the kitchen and wondering if the cake should’ve gone into the refrigerator, he speaks. “What’s wrong, Linc?”

  Deciding the cake is fine having sat out, I slump against the counter. “I have a lot on my mind. That’s all.” My hand squeezes my forehead, the headache that creeped in on the way home from therapy intensifying. If I could stop clenching my jaw, I’m sure it would help. I glance at the clock.

  “Is it your shoulder?” he asks.

  “Nah. I had therapy earlier today. My range of motion is about 60% better than it was.”

  “That’s good . . .” He gives me an opportunity to respond, but I don’t. “Seriously, all joking aside, are you okay?”

  “I’m fine. This isn’t about me.” I scratch my chin. There’s more stubble dotting my face than I usually let add up. “I don’t think it’s about me, anyway.”

  My brother blows out a breath. “If you don’t want to discuss it, that’s fine.”

  “You know what it is?” I say, shoving off the cabinet. “I’m fucking pissed off.”

  I can hear it in my tone, the sharpness that’s been needling my gut since leaving Dani’s office. Graham hears it too because he doesn’t push me. He gives me a minute to get my thoughts together.

  “I swing by Dani’s office after therapy and she’s all tore up.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “She’s crying, G. I can’t deal with her crying, man.”

  Her beautiful face, stained with tears, slays me again. The feeling of her back heaving as she tried to hold back the hurt makes my fingers itch to find her and pull her to me again.

  “Did you do something stupid?” he asks.

  “No. It’s worse.”

  “Who?”

  “Her fucking parents, G. Her parents.”

  “What?”

  There’s no doubt he’s having as hard of a time envisioning this as I am. Coming from a family like ours, it’s nearly impossible to imagine someone hurting you on purpose. We go to battle for one another. Our dynamic isn’t perfect—we have issues just like everyone. But, at the end of the day, we are Landry’s. One family. One team. To think her parents hurt her like this is unfathomable. It makes me want to come out of my skin.

  “I don’t really know the whole thing,” I say. “I just know they go off on vacations and never invite her, not even for the holidays. She’s their only kid. She said they’ve never really included her in shit and she’s always been a disappointment to them.”

  “She’s not a prostitute or drug addict, right?”

  “Shut the hell up, Graham.”

  “Just asking. I know some of your haunts,” he laughs, trying to break up the seriousness. It doesn’t.

  “She’s kind. Sweet. Sincere. How could anyone hurt her like that?” My fists clench at my sides. “I want to hurt them. Bad. Take a fucking weighted bat and swing for the fucking fences.”

  “Easy there, slugger.”

  “Fuck!” I’m pacing the kitchen, my bare feet slapping against the hardwood. My body temperature is rising. Despite being in just my boxer briefs, I’m boiling. “I can’t take it, Graham. I can’t. I can’t see her cry because of some crazy fucking thing like this!”

  I think Graham is holding the phone away from his mouth. I think he might be chuckling. I think I might kick his ass when I see him next.

  “So my little brother is in love.”

  “I am not,” I counter. “What the fuck do you know about love, anyway?”

  “I know it when I see it. And I’m looking at it, I’d say.”

  The cake is sitting on the table. The smell of Columbian Roasted coffee fills the kitchen. I have three bottles of creamer plus regular milk sitting beside a brand new pink coffee mug with paint brushes on it.

  Is this love? Am I in love with Danielle Ashley?

  The heat turns to a stone-cold chill.

  “I haven’t known her long enough to be in love with her,” I say.

  “You don’t have to convince me,” Graham says, not bothering to stifle his chuckle. “Work on convincing yourself.”

  The doorbell rings and my eyes skirt to the clock. “She’s here. I gotta go. Call me back if you remember the second thing.”

  He doesn’t say goodbye, just laughs as I hang up. My phone goes sailing across the kitchen table as I jog to the front door.

  Danielle

  I’ve never been so happy to see him and, this time, it’s not because he’s basically naked or that his body looks like it was sculpted by the hands of a saint. It’s because I just need to be in his arms.

  I don’t have to wait long. At all, actually. As soon as it registers that it’s me standing on his porch, he pulls me inside and into him. My arms wrap around his waist, his skin warm against my face. We don’t speak for a long time, just stand in the doorway in the midst of a pile of sneakers and duffle bags.

  “How are you?” he whispers against the shell of my ear.

  “Better now.”

  His lips twitch; I feel his smile against my neck. It makes me smile too. Pulling back, I touch his cheek. I fight back the wetness in my eyes. So I don’t fall victim to the mushiness I feel sneaking up on me, I stand on my tiptoes and pucker my lips. It takes him all of two seconds to touch them with his.

  “Thank you,” I whisper against his mouth.

  “For what?”

  “For being here for me. Let’s go sit down. I want to cuddle.”

  “Cuddle?” he asks, his brows raising. “If all I get for this is a cuddle . . .”

  I laugh as I make my way to the living room, leaving him to follow me. I wait for him to sit so I can use him as a pillow.

  My head in his lap, looking up into his eyes, I feel relief. Relief from the loneliness that saturates my life, especially this time of year. A break
from feeling like no one cares. A reprieve from fending for myself.

  I’d forgotten, or maybe I’ve never known, this little smidgen of peace in my soul. Even if it doesn’t last forever, I’m grateful it’s here today.

  “I was worried about you,” he says, his eyes full of concern. “I didn’t know what to do.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you were upset. You were crying.”

  “Haven’t you seen a girl cry before?” I laugh.

  “Yeah, but usually because of some dumb shit that I really can’t feel sorry for them over. But you, today, that was fucked up.”

  “It’s just a part of my life,” I shrug.

  He brushes a strand of hair off of my forehead. His touch is gentle, caressing, and I close my eyes and just enjoy being at the receiving end.

  “Do you have other family?” he asks. “Besides your parents?”

  I shake my head. “I’m an only child. So were both my parents, so no aunts or uncles or cousins. My father’s parents are alive, but they live in Washington State in some kind of nursing home.”

  “Your dad put them in a nursing home?” He seems shocked by this, almost flinching as he says it.

  “Yeah, I guess. We were never close with them anyway. I saw them sometimes in the summer when they took a vacation near us. But that was maybe six or seven times in my life that I remember.” I think back to the weird moments with them. Stifled tea hours. Odd conversations. No hugs, no kisses, no little presents like my friends’ grandparents brought them, even though mine had way more money and means. “They’re in their eighties, probably. They had my dad when they were older in life. So once they couldn’t live alone, Dad signed papers for them to live in this center. I remember hearing my parents discuss it.”

  He whistles through his teeth. “They’re hard core.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because unless you cannot physically care for your family, you don’t put them in a nursing home, Dani. They’re your blood. Their sacrifices got you where you are, in part.” He cringes, as if maybe he’s overstepped. “I just didn’t grow up like that, I guess. My mom’s mom lives in a little guesthouse behind my parents. And if I have to take care of my mom when she gets old, I will. I won’t lock her up somewhere.” He chuckles. “Graham gets Dad though.”