The Final Piece

by Maggi Myers

  “What in hell are you hanyaks doing?” The emotion in Pops’ voice silences the room. He looks at me with disbelief and wonder playing across his wrinkled face. Before I can overanalyze every possible answer to his question, I blurt out the first thing that pops into my head.

  “We picked cherries, Pops.”

  It takes two steps for him to cross the kitchen and grab me in a fierce hug. My arms don’t reach all the way around him, but I squeeze him as tight as I can, inhaling his scent of tobacco and Irish Spring. I have to will myself not to cry, to allow my grandpa to savor this moment after all the pain I have caused him.

  “Baby girl, it is so good to hear your voice,” he whispers, his breath catching.

  “It’s ok, Pops. I am ok, Pops.” I can’t hold back my tears any longer. “Everything will be ok.” Delicate hands grip my shoulders and I feel the gentle pressure of a kiss on the top of my head.

  “There’s my blossom.” Gran whispers.

  I peel open an eye and find Tommy and Ryan leaning against the chipped red linoleum countertop staring. My eyes lock with Ryan’s and I am surprised to find affection in his gaze.

  “Thank you,” I mouth to him silently.

  He crinkles his brow and shrugs, confused. I give him a watery smile and wonder how foolish it is, thanking him for caring.

  “She’s something else, isn’t she?” Tommy nods his head toward me.

  “She sure is.” Ryan shakes his head and returns my smile.

  “Def Leppard, right?” Tommy queries.

  “What?” Ryan asks, turning to Tommy.

  “‘It’s better to burn out than fade away,’ that’s Leppard, right?” Tommy’s mustache twitches under the scrutiny of Ryan’s disbelieving look. “What?”

  “Yeah, it’s Leppard,” Ryan chuckles. “Your timing is impeccable.”

  “Impeccable? Are we busting out the SAT words, now?” Tommy teases.

  “Don’t you two start that again!” I laugh as I let go of Pops.

  “I guess I am making cobbler.” Gran tries to act put out but she is beaming.

  “I’ll pit the cherries.” I offer.

  “Not by yourself, you won’t. You two,” she points to Tommy and Ryan, “help carry these to the front porch, I don’t want cherry juice all over my kitchen.” She’s trying hard to sound stern, but I can see the smile tugging at her lips.

  Chapter 8

  I scoop the last bite of cobbler in my bowl and steal a look around the table. It’s quiet, but, for once, my shoulders aren’t hitched up to my ears. There is an ease to the silence as we stuff our bellies full of Gran’s dessert. My spoon is about to cross my lips when a foot comes into contact with my shin.

  “Ow!” I yelp, dropping the spoon back into my bowl. My eyes meet Ryan’s mischievous smirk. I reach down to rub my singing leg and am about to give him a piece of my mind when he lunges for my bowl. “What are you doing? Hey!” I cry as he scrapes the last of my cobbler into his greedy mouth.

  “Mmm,” he moans in satisfaction. “You weren’t going to eat that were you?”

  “You pig!” I laugh as I throw my napkin at him.

  “All right, you two,” Pops scolds, “not at the table.”

  I bite the inside of my lips together to keep from smiling, but an unladylike snort escapes before I can tamp it back down.

  “Oh, I’m a pig?” Ryan’s voice raises an octave with his laughter and I gasp for air between guffaws.

  Gran reaches for Pops’ hand and rubs her thumb across his knuckles. Joy is radiating off her, filling up the space between each of us. It pulses through our veins, connecting us to one another. This is family. This is my family, a menagerie of blood and friendship. Both equal, both vital.

  “Remember when Casey and Rob were like that?” Gran sighs, leaning her head on Pops’ broad shoulder.

  A shudder runs down my spine at the mention of my mom’s name. My eyes fall to the table and I run my fingers over a bubble in the lacquer finish. I don’t expect them to avoid talking about her, but I don’t know what I am supposed to say when they do.

  “Beth?” Gran’s gentle tone halts my inward retreat. “I didn’t mean to upset you.” Guilt and frustration beat down on me with angry fists, each blow punctuated with my thoughts: You. Are. So. Selfish.

  They wait me out with patience and understanding, giving me what Uncle Rob promised—space and time. Gran’s hazel eyes swirl with worry as my shame creeps into my cheeks. I owe them so much more than a fast retreat at the first mention of her name.

  “I don’t know what you want me to say.” I whisper, deciding honesty is the best I can give her.

  “Blossom, I don’t care what you say. Just don’t stop talking to us, okay?” She places her free hand over mine, and squeezes. Her new nickname makes my heart hurt. She’s so full of hope. The laugh lines on her face tilt upward with it, igniting my fear of saying the wrong thing.

  “What was she like,” I readdress the table’s lacquer finish. “You know, when she was my age?”

  The chair squeaks as Uncle Rob turns to me. “She was a spitfire, she knew how to have fun. We spent a ton of time in the basement with our friends, playing music. We had a makeshift dance floor down there that we kept waxed and everything.” Surprised, my head pops up at his statement. “That’s right, your mama was a music fanatic.”

  “What happened?” The words escape before I can filter the astonishment out of them.

  Uncle Rob barks with laughter and continues his story, “Well, I suppose people grow and interests change. What makes you think that she doesn’t still love it? She has a beautiful singing voice and that girl could cut a rug!” My face reflects my complete shock. Uncle Rob’s smile stretches to the furthest corners of his face.

  “Your mom, Uncle Rob and I used to go down to the Val Air Ballroom and listen to the bands that played there. There were dances, concerts, all kinds of different music.” When Tommy chimes in with his memory it reminds me of how long he has known my mom, too. “She always had them lined up to dance with her. We would spend half our night beating the boys off your mama with a stick.”

  Uncle Rob is nodding his head in agreement as he chuckles, “Good times.”

  “What happened? What made you grow apart?” At this point, my curiosity has bested my anxiety. I plop my elbows on the table and lean my face into my hands.

  “Well, when your folks moved to Florida, it was hard to stay close,” Uncle Rob murmurs. “Our lives changed and the miles just made it that much harder.” The vein in Uncle Rob’s neck flutters as he stammers over his lame excuse.

  “You mean when they started to do drugs.” I correct.

  Uncle Rob’s blue eyes swim with sadness—this is harder on him than I thought.

  “I’m sorry, that was harsh,” I mutter.

  “It’s okay, Beth,” his face softens with sympathy, “I’m just not sure how to answer that. I don’t know when the drugs started. You probably know better than anyone.”

  My breathing quickens as I think about the countless times my parents left me to fend for myself while they went off on one of their benders. I choke on angry words and consider my answer more carefully as I focus on the pain in Uncle Rob’s voice.

  Drawing in a deep breath, I compel myself to speak. “I don’t remember a time when there wasn’t drugs. For a long time, I just thought everyone’s family was like that. It was at least two years before I realized I was wrong.” My answer is a pained whisper.

  Gran’s arms wrap around me from behind; I never even noticed her leave her chair to stand by me. “Blossom, I am so sorry,” she coos, kissing the top of my head, cradling me against her chest.

  I have never told anyone about this part of my life. Keeping it secret gave me a sense of control over the uncontrollable; unveiling the lies leaves me painfully exposed. I close my eyes to try and pare back the panic attack creeping its way through my body when I feel Ryan interlace his foot with mine. A weak grin tugs at my lips as his simple gesture ground
s me.

  “Blossom? I like it!” Ryan encourages a not so subtle change of topic.

  I tap my foot against his where they are still connected. I open my eyes to find the concerned faces of my family all accounted for. I want so badly to make them stop looking at me like I am going to shatter at any moment. It makes me want to try harder, be better for them. I direct my attention back to Ryan and his comment.

  “Don’t you dare,” I say, raising my eyebrow in warning.

  “That one belongs to me, Ry,” Gran chuckles, “she is my blossom.” Her hand drifts up to cup my face as her eyes sparkle with adoration. I am so lucky to have her. She gives me a quick kiss on my forehead before she stands. “Pops, you help me clear the table. These hanyaks did the dirty work.”

  Chapter 9

  The weeks pass quickly as I fall into a comfortable routine of schoolwork and family. Gran and I finished my last assessment test of ninth grade this morning; I am officially on summer break. This afternoon we are cruising up the river for a bonfire to celebrate. There’s peacefulness, being on the water that is undeniably appealing. There are no pressing demands, just the lull of the water slapping against the sides of Pops’ pontoon boat as we drift along the current. My favorite river pastime is admiring the stately houses that are perched on the jagged shore and daydreaming about the people who live there.

  My favorite is about a family I call “The Browns.” Mr. Brown is a tall dapper man with blond wavy hair and clear green eyes that twinkle when he laughs. He is a partner at a law firm downtown and an avid tennis player. Mrs. Brown is a curvy redhead with milk chocolate eyes and a warm smile. She’s a stay-at-home mom to their only child, volunteers with the Humane Society and is a yoga enthusiast. Life inside this daydream is a flawless rhythm of give and take, ebb and flow with each family member in perfect unison with the next. Their happiness is intoxicating and I find myself wishing that my own life could be that way.

  My parents’ faces dance across the back of my eyelids, bringing me back from my fantasy. For the last month I have tried envisioning my mother as a teenager with Uncle Rob and Tommy. It’s hard to reconcile the carefree girl they describe to the version of her I know. Regardless, I am starting to understand her through their old stories and records. Tommy’s even teaching me how to dance like they did — he says my Pony is impressive. It gives me hope to know my mother wasn’t always so lost. All I really want is to understand her so I can start to forgive her.

  ***

  “Beth, I am so sorry,” mom cries into the phone, “I will never forgive myself. Never.”

  “Mom, don’t,” I breathe out on a frustrated sigh, “I can’t make you feel better.”

  “I don’t want you to, honey. I just need you to know that I ache every day in my heart for what happened.” Her voice breaks on the last word and I listen silently while she sniffles and collects herself,” Gran tells me that you are finally opening up,” her voice instantly brightens.

  I twist the telephone cord around my fingers and tap my foot against the floorboard. “Yea, well it is the least I can do after everything,” I mutter.

  “That’s not how they see it. They want to be there for you more than anything. You are their heart, Beth. All Pops talks about is how you are his little kindred spirit and Gran can’t stop herself from bragging about how smart you are. You are so special, Beth.” Her words surprise me.

  “Thank you, Mom,” I whisper as tears spill, relentlessly down my chin.

  “All they want, all I want, is to find a way to make things right.” I hear the emotion in her voice and can feel the sincerity behind what she is saying but she is wishing for impossible things.

  “I know that is what you want but this can’t be made right. Everything is ruined. I am ruined!” I sob.

  “No, baby girl. You aren’t ruined, you are magnificent.” Her voice is a soft caress, “We are all broken in one way or another. It’s how we put those pieces back together that matters. You, my darling, are going to fit the pieces back together again, you’ll see.” My shoulders slump, my chest heaves but hope grips my heart at my mother’s words.

  “Mom?” Cautious, I reach out to her, my first piece. “Sobriety really suits you.”

  Chapter 10

  A loud whistle rings across the water, snapping me out of my reverie. “Here, take the line!” Pops shouts as he cuts off the engine. A little dazed from my daydream, it takes me a minute to soak in the sight. We’re drifting onto a sandy patch of shore where Uncle Rob’s boat is already anchored. In the water, Tommy and Ryan have secured the line and are pulling us in. Uncle Rob and Aunt Melissa are lounging in a couple of beach chairs set around the makings of a fire pit.

  “Hey squirrel, I mean girl!” Rob hollers. Melissa swats him on the back of his head. “Easy, babe, I am just teasing.” His boyish, goofy grin makes an appearance as he leans to kiss her cheek. I smile and wave to them but they are already nose-to-nose cooing over one another. The ease at which they show affection makes me fidgety but it is as natural to them as breathing. I don’t like shows of affection; it confuses me. It’s hard to get much out of such things when you are constantly wondering about ulterior motive. Somebody always wants something in return. Nothing comes free.

  As I study the rest of the beach set-up, my attention is drawn to the water. Eyes popping wide, I am dumbstruck at the sight of a shirtless Ryan guiding the boat to shore. His shaggy blond hair is raining drops of water down his chest, making my heart somersault. I dip my head as my face flames, I have seen him in his board shorts millions of times, but there is something about the way his lean muscles strain against his skin that makes me giggle nervously. I peek without lifting my head to find Ryan eyeing me curiously.

  I want to die.

  “Blossom, you want to help me carry some of this?” Gran interrupts.

  Thank you, Gran! I jump up to grab a cooler and work my way toward the back of the boat. If I busy myself, maybe my face will return to its normal shade of pale and freckled. I give Tommy and Ryan a curt nod as I wiggle off the end of the boat and wade through shallow water toward camp. I’m just beyond Ryan when water hits my back so hard it sprays over the top of my head. Still gripping the cooler, I spin toward the culprit. Ryan is crouched down with his hands spread out along his sides, sluicing the water between his fingers, and his green eyes glow with mischief.

  “You looked a little warm under the collar there, Beth,” he smirks.

  I swallow the lump in my throat and try to feign indifference, but I am mortified. I roll my eyes at him, give a disdainful, ”Whatever,” and proceed to drag my humiliation to shore.

  “That was mean, Ry!” Aunt Melissa is wagging her finger at him “That boy is such a teaser,” she tsks.

  “How is my tenth grader? Come here, you sweet thing,” she chirps as she wraps me in a towel. “How does it feel?”

  I pretend to adjust my towel and glance over my shoulder. Ryan is still in the water, unloading a bag of charcoal from the boat when he turns my way.

  “Wet.” I deadpan, shooting Ryan the stink eye. His face lights up with laughter as he hands Tommy the charcoal and dunks himself in the river. He pops up out of the water with his arms cast wide in a “ta-da” gesture. Right, like that makes us even. I shake my head at him and turn my attention back to Aunt Melissa. She is looking at me with narrowed eyes and pursed lips.

  “What?” I ask, sheepish.

  “Listen up, Stinkerbell, I get enough sarcasm from your uncle. Don’t you dare blow me off, I want deets!” she nudges. I feel bad for Aunt Melissa. Uncle Rob tends to speak in phrases, particularly his arsenal of idiom originals. It’s hard enough to decipher what he means when he busts out with ‘Never mind the cart’s on fire, keep loading the wagon!’ When you couple that with his sarcasm, it’s almost impossible to decode his lingo.

  “It should feel like a huge relief,” I breathe out on a long sigh, “but it hasn’t really sunk in yet, ya know?”

  She nods her head and starts shu
cking ears of corn. “I can see that. Once you have a couple of days of freedom, I bet you’ll feel different. Have any big plans?”

  “I am spending my freedom on the porch swing with a book,” I say wistfully.

  “Mmm. That sounds wonderful. What are you reading?” Aunt Melissa and I fall into easy chatter about the books I have waiting to read while we set up for dinner. I am engrossed in the task and the conversation, making it easier to push Ryan from my thoughts. By the time the food is ready, the fire in my cheeks has cooled to smoking ash.

  After dinner, Tommy grabs his guitar case and plops in sand by the fire. As he starts tuning the strings, I am unable to resist the pull of the notes and move to sit closer to him. He looks up at my approach, giving me a brilliant smile and begins strumming the chords to “Beth” by Kiss.

  I groan in mock misery and throw my hand up to my forehead, “Doesn’t that ever get old?” I whine.

  He stops strumming and kicks my foot. “Kiss hater,” he laughs, “have any requests?”

  I shake my head and wait for him to start again. This time he chooses an upbeat song, laced with a little reggae.

  “I like this,” I encourage as I subconsciously begin swaying to the rhythm. He starts singing about how short life is and how we shouldn’t hesitate to grab it before it goes by. Slick move, tricking me with a carefree island beat that carries hidden philosophical words.

  “I’m yours-ah,” he exaggerates the last line and chord. His enthusiasm is charming my suspicious nature into submission. As if he can sense a shift in my demeanor, he starts to play one of my favorite songs.

  Brown noser.

  I lean back on my elbows and close my eyes as the sound of the notes moving across the fret board flow through me. Tommy starts to sing the first verse and I join him on harmony during the chorus. We drift along, singing in sync together like we have a hundred times before. I open my eyes when the song ends and find Tommy’s eyes swimming with unspoken emotion. “You sound just like your mama.”