The Lemonade Year

by Amy Willoughby-Burle

  “Ray is so in love with Michael and so sure he doesn’t have a shot at being in his life that he just flipped.” I reach out to touch her arm, but draw my hand back. “He would never hurt Michael. He’d never take him from you—not for real. He’s just desperate for something he thinks he can’t have.”

  I’ve never felt so close to Ray as I do in this moment.

  “Why didn’t he just tell me all that?” Nicole asks. “We were talking. Things were going well. I wanted to be able to let Ray into our lives for real.”

  “If Ray could do that . . .” I start, but don’t finish. “Besides, you knew that. Didn’t you?”

  “Yes,” she says and leans back. “I never thought Ray was a bad guy. I don’t think that now, either. I know he means well. He just doesn’t know how to do well, and I can’t spend too much time waiting on him to be different.”

  “He’s on his way back now,” I say. “Just give him a little more time.”

  “He better be back soon,” she says, shaking her head.

  At home, I pace. I call Ray’s phone, but he doesn’t answer. I hope he’s at Nicole’s place, down on his knees, begging her forgiveness.

  The phone rings, and I grab for it. It’s Oliver. My heart races even more. I want to pick up. I want to tell him what’s happened. I want to hear his voice telling me to breathe, but I don’t. His voice is too much for me right now. If I talk to him, I’ll never be able to think straight again. I let the call go. He doesn’t leave a message.

  I pull up the lemonade photos on the computer and begin to edit them just to have something to do. I get bleary-eyed after a while, and I must drift off, because I’m startled awake when the phone rings again. It’s Ray. I look at the clock. Almost midnight.

  “How did it go?” I ask instead of the traditional greeting.

  “We’re about a block from your apartment,” he says.

  “We?” I say loudly into the phone. “Please tell me you don’t mean you and Michael.”

  He doesn’t answer.

  I sigh.

  “He knows who I am,” Ray says, and there’s a little glimmer of happiness in his voice. “I asked him if he knew who I was and he said ‘I think you’re my daddy.’ Did you hear that?” Ray asks. “He knows. Call Nicole and tell her we’re coming. I’ll give you a couple minutes. And bail me out when she has me arrested.”

  “She didn’t call the police, Ray,” I say. “She’s wants you to be part of Michael’s life. She’s giving you a second chance, but you’ve got to take it the right way.”

  “I don’t know what that is.”

  “You know it isn’t this,” I challenge. “What took you so long anyway?”

  “I took him back to my place for a while,” Ray says. “We spent the afternoon and evening watching cartoons and eating pizza. I just wanted more time. He asked if he could stay until midnight.” Ray laughs a little. “He almost made it, but he fell asleep.”

  “Are you crazy?” I suddenly see a little devil and angel version of myself sitting on either shoulder.

  “I watched him sleep for about an hour. Then I scooped him up and put him in the car. I just wanted more time,” Ray says again.

  I think about the day of Dad’s stroke. I said the same thing over and over to myself. I’m not ready for this. I want more time. I’m not ready. Not ready. More time. I need more time.

  “Yeah,” I say. “I know what you mean.”

  “Will you go with me to drop him off? Not for me—for Nicole. In case she needs someone to watch Michael while she beats the crap out of me.”

  “You’ve got it coming,” I say, then pause. “Is that really why you want me to go with you?”

  “No,” Ray says, and his voice is so soft, so broken. “In case it’s the last time I get to see him.” He pauses, and I hear his emotion in the silence. “I just don’t want to be alone.”

  My throat is tight, and when I breathe in its all snotty.

  “Don’t cry,” he says. “It was worth it. I never would have had a shot at him anyway.”

  I don’t believe that. I think Ray could have been happy, but his fear got the best of him.

  “You in?” he says.

  “You know I am.”

  Michael is asleep in the backseat of the car. Ray shrugs at me when I get in. I don’t say anything.

  “I called Nicole and told her I was on my way,” Ray says. “That I was bringing you.”

  “You think she’ll yell any less because I’m there?” I ask, buckling my seat belt.

  “No,” he says.

  Ray starts the engine and then shuts it off again. He turns in his seat and looks at me. He rubs his hand across his mouth several times the way people do when they’re getting ready to say something serious—like they have to warm up their lips and coax the words out.

  “Look,” he says. “Thanks. For all those years ago when I was being a jerk. Back when we were kids and I didn’t know how to cope with what happened to Lola and my part in it all. I should have been there for you, and I wasn’t. I know you were coping, too. And then I pulled out of life and got sent away and missed, well, everything. And now I’m doing it again. Screwing everything up. I’ll probably disappear again, and I hate that, but it’s likely, so I just wanted to say—”

  “Stop,” I say sternly, actually holding my hand out toward him. “Don’t you dare give me a good-bye speech. All we’re doing right now is taking Michael home. That’s it. Then you’re going to go home, go to sleep, get up in the morning, and go to work. Understand?”

  He takes hold of my outstretched hand; he is the one to reach out this time.

  “I’m really sorry,” he says. “I know you’re searching for yourself, or something that you think you need. Give yourself a fighting chance. Don’t screw up like I did.”

  “Ray, I mean it. Stop this.” Tears are streaming down my face.

  Ray squeezes my hand and turns me loose. He starts the car, and we drive in silence to Nicole’s apartment building.

  She’s on the landing with her cell phone in her hand. Ray stops the car, and she walks casually down the steps like she isn’t approaching the car of someone who stole her child. Ray gets out and stands next to the open door. She doesn’t say anything, just walks up to Ray and slaps him hard in the face.

  I look in the backseat where Michael is still asleep.

  “What’s the matter with you?” she asks Ray. “This is still new. It’s too new for you to sneak off without telling me. What am I talking about—it’s never all right to sneak off without telling me and then stay out until after midnight without so much as a word, a phone call, a text, nothing. I didn’t call the police even though my mother thought I should. I still might.”

  “Nicole,” Ray starts, but she holds up her hand for him to stop.

  I can’t see their faces, and I’m glad of it. I’m not needed here, which is a good thing, but I feel like I’m spying.

  Michael stirs in the backseat. Nicole opens the back door a crack. Michael sees her and smiles.

  “This stuff right here is why I didn’t tell you, Ray,” she says. “Do you know how badly Michael wants you?”

  “He does?” Ray asks.

  “You’re so stupid,” she says. “How dare you put me in this position?”

  “Nicole,” he tries again, but she waves him off.

  “We can talk later,” Nicole says and opens the back door all the way. Michael hops out and hugs her. “Did you have a good time with Ray?” she asks him like she hasn’t been riddled with worry this whole time they’ve been gone, even if she did know Ray had him.

  Mothers can do that—change their voice, their eyes, and their face in a fraction of a second. They can close up the ache in their heart and put a smile on their face and make everything all right for the little three-and-half-foot-tall piece of forever in front of
them.

  “Mr. Ray is my daddy,” Michael says as proudly as anyone has ever said anything.

  Nicole looks at Ray, who is looking at Michael with eyes so filled with pain and love that Nicole sighs and confirms it. “Yes, honey. He is.”

  Ray struggles extremely hard not to cry.

  “We got ice cream,” Michael says. “I got two scoops. One fell off.”

  She kneels down in front of him and touches the spot on his shirt. She looks inside the car at me, and we offer pressed-lipped grimaces to each other.

  “I see that.” Nicole smiles at Michael like she isn’t seething inside. “Tell Daddy bye for now and run on inside. It’s very late.”

  I know she’s using that term to please Michael, that it’s not for Ray’s benefit or happiness, and the sound of it makes my stomach ache. It’s everything he wanted, and it’s further away now than ever.

  I crane my neck to see what’s happening. I don’t care if I’m spying anymore. Michael hugs Ray’s legs, and I see Ray tousle Michael’s hair, giving him a “See you soon, buddy.”

  Michael runs inside, and Nicole rounds on Ray.

  “I’m sorry,” Ray says preemptively. “I just wanted for things to feel normal.”

  “This is not normal,” she says. “Did you really not know that? There’s a way to do things, and then there’s the way you do things, and if you can’t start doing things the way regular people do them, then I don’t think this is going to work.”

  I inhale sharply.

  “What’s not going to work?” Ray says, his face out of view, his voice warbling.

  “For crying out loud, Ray—you and me and Michael.”

  She slams the backseat door closed without acknowledging me again. The driver’s side door is still ajar.

  “What if I don’t know how to be normal?” Ray asks.

  “You mean, what if you’re too afraid to be,” Nicole says. “This is all a front, and you know it. All of it. I’ve set the bar pretty low, and you’re failing miserably. I’ll tell you what—why don’t you think about it, and when you can come up with something normal, call me. I won’t be holding my breath.”

  She goes back into her apartment without another word or glance to either of us. Ray gets back in the car and breaks down into sobs. I put my hand on his shoulder, and he shudders.

  ◆ ◆ ◆

  The next day, Ray calls me from work—which is a relief.

  “I need to do something. Will you come with me?”

  I don’t answer.

  “It’s nothing illegal or even inherently dumb,” he says. “Cut me some slack.”

  When we get to the cemetery, Ray idles the engine for a while before he shuts it off. He opens the door to get out but then shuts it again. I get out of the passenger side and go around to open his door. He pulls on the handle from the inside so I can’t open the door. I yank, and he yanks back.

  I lean down to the window so I can see his face. “Get out,” I say to him.

  “No,” he says. “Mistake—get back in.”

  I know he’s still holding the door handle so I deliver a low blow.

  “Look at that spider!” I point at some ambiguous spot inside the car.

  LOL my scary big brother is afraid of spiders.

  “Where?” he shouts, his voice only slightly muffled by the closed door.

  He takes his hand off the handle, and I seize the opportunity.

  “Get out,” I say.

  “That was dirty,” he says. “I’m impressed.”

  Ray gets out, and we walk toward Dad’s plot. The sky is overcast today—like it’s been special-ordered to fit the scene. Low thunder rumbles over the far left corner of the dead.

  The ground is still raised a bit where Dad’s urn went in. It looks like a mole hole. Too small for the significance of what’s buried there. I don’t know why, but I take a picture of it with my phone. Ray looks at me quizzically. I shrug.

  The date of Dad’s death has been carved in the stone. Now that I see it, I wish it had been left the way it was. It seemed then like something macabre, but in hindsight, it was more like ridiculous hope.

  I hear footsteps approaching and turn to see Mom walking toward us with another one of her massive flower creations.

  “I just can’t catch a break,” Ray says.

  Mom nods at me and sets the carnation contraption beside Dad’s stone.

  “How’s your father doing?” Mom asks, oblivious.

  “Great,” I say. “He was just telling me about a fishing trip he’s planning with Uncle Paul.”

  Ray smiles, and Mom purses her lips at me.

  “How are things with you, Ray?” she asks like he’s her nephew twice removed.

  “I think I’m going to be ok,” he says, in a peaceful tone of voice. “I hope.”

  “Did something happen to you?” Mom asks, concerned.

  Ray and I look at each other. He wrinkles his brow, and I nod.

  “Mom,” Ray says, taking her hand. “I need to tell you something.”

  “Sounds grave,” she says and tweaks Ray’s nose.

  “I’ve done something stupid,” he says. “Again. But I had a really good reason.”

  Ray seems so childlike to me in this moment. Innocent even. As if confessing the thing can take it away. Suddenly I fear that one of these gravesites will open up and suck Ray down in it. I imagine the shock on his face when his feet give way beneath him, his eyes catching mine for a second as he drops out of sight—his hand reaches up, but I can’t grab it in time and he’s gone. The sinister earth closes up over him forever.

  “I figured as much,” Mom says to Ray and repositions Dad’s carnations. “Are you staying for dinner tonight?”

  “Don’t you want to know what I did? And why?” Ray says.

  Mom cocks her head to one side and then the other like she’s mulling something over. “Not really. You’re not in jail, I didn’t see you on the news, and you’re not bleeding. I guess whatever this stupid thing is, you have it under control. So, no. I’d rather not know.”

  “The news, huh,” Ray says. “Do people still watch the news?”

  “I don’t,” Mom says. “Too depressing. I feel like a big salad with tons of veggies,” she says, presumably about dinner. “What about you?”

  “I feel like a chump,” Ray says.

  “Nina,” Mom says, not commenting on Ray’s proclamation. “Will you come by, too?”

  I nod.

  Mom points to the car to indicate that she’s ready to leave. As we walk away, I look over my shoulder at Dad’s plot. I can imagine him standing there looking at the obnoxious flower arrangement and smiling.

  One thing I can say for your mother, when she does something—for the good or the bad—she goes all out. I see him look me straight in the eye and wink at me. Buck up, kiddo. It’s all uphill from here.

  I blow a kiss to Dad and catch up with Ray and Mom’s conversation.

  “I’m sure it’s not as bad as you think,” Mom is saying.

  “With me, it’s usually worse,” Ray says.

  We get back to the cars and Ray stops Mom from getting in. “Mom,” he says. “I get it.”

  “What’s that?” she asks, fishing in her purse for the keys.

  “All of it.”

  Mom’s hand freezes in mid-search, and her head pops up. Her eyes lock on Ray. “Thank you,” she says.

  They could be talking about anything. But they’re talking about everything. Everything that doesn’t need to be put into words that will never do it justice.

  “It might be too late to fix this thing,” Ray says, “but I’m going to try to do better.”

  She takes hold of both his hands and spreads his arms out. She looks at him like she’s surveying a wreck.

  “Son,” she says. “I
f you touch a lightning bolt, it’s going to knock you off your feet. But if the shock doesn’t kill you, then you get back up and carry on. Right?”

  Ray allows her to hug him.

  “Your dad never stopped hoping for you,” she says. “Don’t you stop either.”

  ◆ ◆ ◆

  Before Ray managed to end up in prison for a couple of years, he’d spent more than his fair share of weekends there. He called it his vacation spot. Once, when he’d gotten off on a technicality on an offense that should have sent him away, I pretended I didn’t know where he was when Dad asked. Dad didn’t believe me and made me drive him to Lola’s place in my car, so Ray wouldn’t suspect it was him.

  Dad flattened himself against the wall beside the front door, the way the police do in the movies—waiting for the bad guy to come outside so they can catch him off guard.

  “Ray already saw you and Dad in the parking lot,” Lola said, peeping through the door she’d cracked open. All I could see was one eye and the side of her mouth.

  “This is ridiculous,” I said.

  Dad popped out from beside the door, and Lola jumped. “Ray!” he shouted into the house. “Son, I just want to see you.”

  The sound of Dad’s voice made my eyes water. Lola stepped back and let the door swing open. I could see around Dad and over Lola’s shoulder and into the hallway. At the end of the hall, Ray stepped into view. His face was fixed and ready, but when his eyes met Dad’s, there was a crack in the stone. He stepped out of view again.

  “I meant what I said, son,” Dad shouted back into the house.

  I didn’t know what he meant, but words weren’t a threat. They were a reminder of that night in the street, when Lola was spirited away in an ambulance and we found Ray huddled in a corner in the alley.

  “That will do for now,” Dad said to us and walked back to the car.

  A father’s love is unbreakable.

  After that, Ray stuck around, but not for long.

  Lola wanted him to come to her very first gallery show. She said he was the special guest. He tried to beg off, saying that he didn’t have anything to wear. Lola told him to come anyway—that his arms were art and he’d fit right in. He didn’t mean for the tattoos to be art. He meant for them to be a warning. The fire breathing devil down his left arm was matched by more fire and brimstone creeping up his right arm and down the middle of his back. I think, really, they were supposed to be a shield.