This Mess We're In

by Scarlett Grove

  I was a businesswoman. Every time I thought about it, it made me want to giggle with delight — even though underneath my happiness was the bitter sting of my aching heart.

  I parked in front of JoAnne’s Fabrics just after noon. I practically strutted to the door with Rose babbling in my arms. I struggled to get her into a cart and strolled through the aisles until I came to the rows of sewing machines that nearly made my mouth water.

  It was like heaven on Earth. I’d been eyeing a professional Singer model and found it on sale in the store. With my heart racing like a little kid at Christmas, I pulled the box from the shelf and put it in my cart.

  Down the aisle, I spied a series of dress forms that would make my life so much easier. I popped one of them in the cart as well. It was getting heavy to push, but I felt like some kind of big shot wheeling it around the store. I still needed a bolt of white cotton, dyes, zippers, thread, and a few other small supplies. I quickly put them in my cart and headed for the checkout line.

  The woman at the checkout rang me up, and I had a manic smile on my face. Then I saw the total. My throat went dry, and I had to swallow over a hard lump. Reminding myself that I had to invest in my business, I handed her my debit card.

  The seconds between when she slid the card and when the register said “Accepted” felt like an eternity. When the receipt printed out, I exhaled a breath I’d been holding and accepted it with a smile.

  “Have a nice day,” the checkout woman said.

  “Oh, I will!”

  I carted everything out and put Rose into the car before unloading the rest in the back of the cab. A list of things I needed to do ran through my head as I drove home. One of them was to register my business with the city and state. I was still operating without a license, and I wanted to fix that as soon as possible. With a thousand dollars of income a week, I could safely say I was operating a real business.

  The thought that my sales might dry up at any second gripped my chest as I crested the last hill before descending into Leggetville. Self-doubt swirled in my brain. Maybe I shouldn’t have spent so much money on new stuff. Maybe I should have saved it for the roof repairs or the electric bill.

  I made myself stop worrying. I wanted the new sewing machine so badly, I almost didn’t care if I went hungry for a week to keep it. I parked and greedily brought all my new things inside. I looked at the dining room table that operated as my studio, and put my hand on my hip.

  This wasn’t going to work anymore. I needed more space. Rose dumped a bucket of toys on the floor. One of them started to sing “Ring Around the Rosie.” I turned down the dark hallway to the room we never used.

  Ashes, Ashes.

  I opened my mother’s door, letting it slowly creak while I stood in the doorway. I peered into the darkness and turned on the light. We all fall down.

  We’d left it untouched. It was as if she was still here, haunting us. My brain burned. The money in my bank and the new sewing machine made me feel braver. I wasn’t going to let life walk all over me anymore. It was time for a change. All Mom’s shit had to go.

  Rose’s toy changed songs. I could hear her singing along.

  I walked into the big master bedroom that smelled of mold and dust. The bulb overhead burned weakly, casting the room in a dim, flickering orange glow.

  Take the keys and lock her up, my fair lady.

  Mom had a handmade, queen-sized bed that had been handed down from my grandparents. They’d lived with us until they’d passed away when I was a kid. We’d moved in with them after Dad left, and stayed in this house ever since. Zoe had been a baby. I barely remembered my father.

  I slid my hand over my grandmother’s patchwork quilt, and then turned slowly around the room. It was packed full of knickknacks and clutter.

  Pulling open the built-in wooden closet, I prepared myself for the sight of her clothes. There they hung, outdated and dusty. She dressed like a typical redwood coast mom: jeans, flannels, a few summer dresses, long skirts, and the requisite tie-dyed garments.

  My fair lady.

  I remembered the way she moved through life. She was a staple in this community. When she’d died, people were shocked. My mother was only forty-eight. She had hidden her depression and her mood swings from others. But she couldn’t hide them from us.

  All the king’s horses and all the king’s men couldn’t put Humpty together again.

  A tear threatened to fall down my face, and I felt anger surge in my throat. Storming to the kitchen, I pulled trash bags from under the sink. The music had stopped. Rose pulled the couch pillows onto the floor in an attempt to corner Bradly as he barked and wagged his tail. I rolled my eyes at them and stomped back to my mother’s room.

  I tore open a bag and crammed clothes into the thin white plastic. Hangers flew around me as I worked. I didn’t want to look at her things. I didn’t want to go through any of it. I didn’t want to check if there was something sentimental to keep and treasure. I just wanted it gone.

  She’d left us. She’d taken herself away and left us to fend for ourselves. “Mother, you crazy, selfish bitch.” I filled half a dozen trash bags with just her clothes and proceeded to carry them to the living room.

  Rose giggled and jumped on the bags. Bradly barked at the door. If it was Damien, I’d be pissed. He was the last person I wanted to see right then. The handle turned, and Zoe walked inside.

  “What’s going on here?” she asked, looking around. Rose climbed on the bags, hysterically laughing while Bradly pounced around her.

  “Take a look,” I said, leading her down the hall. She stood in Mom’s doorway, her face blank.

  “Are you mad?”

  “I’m just surprised.”

  “When I got back from buying my new sewing machine, I took one look at the kitchen table and was like, ‘Nope, I need more space.’ There’s no point in leaving this room vacant.”

  “I know, it’s just, I mean, I haven’t had the guts to do it. I’m glad you did.”

  “I was a little worried you’d be angry.”

  “I’m relieved.”

  “Want to help?” I asked hopefully. There was a lot to pack up.

  “Okay. What are we going to do with all this stuff? We can’t leave it for the trash pickup.”

  I laughed at the idea of leaving dozens of trash bags next to the garbage can. “We can just put it in the shed. I don’t want to go through it now, but I might want to later. We can just throw out the clutter.”

  Zoe picked up a garbage bag and shoveled papers and other garbage into it. After I cleared out the clothes and carried them to the shed, I started packing the knickknacks. I’d brought in a few boxes from the shed and taped them open with packing tape. I wrapped the things in newspaper as I moved them into the box.

  Among the items, I found a picture of our family before Dad left. It was in a frame, inside a drawer. Zoe was just a few months old. I was two, and Regan was four. Mom and Dad looked happy.

  “Look,” I said to Zoe. “It’s Dad.”

  “Wow. He was good-looking.”

  Dad looked like a grunge rocker, with shoulder-length wavy blond hair and a flannel shirt over ripped jeans. Mom wore a flower print dress with black boots; her red hair flowed around her shoulders. Zoe sat on Mom’s lap, and I sat on Dad’s with Regan in the middle. It was a candid shot of us on a couch, maybe from a holiday or a birthday. It was hard to tell. All I knew is that we looked like a family.

  “I wonder why he left,” I said in almost a whisper while Zoe and I stared down at the picture.

  “I don’t.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Claire, Mom was so much like Regan. I’m surprised you have to ask.”

  “Not nearly as bad as Regan.”

  “Well, no, but her moods were off the charts. She used to storm around the house yelling at us with a belt in her hands. We were scared as hell. I remember hiding under my bed, waiting for it to be over.”

  “It was usually me that sh
e found.”

  “You mean, you let her find you,” said Zoe.

  I sighed. Maybe I did let her find me. It meant she would leave the others alone. Classic middle child behavior. And they said Regan needed a shrink. I took the picture from Zoe and put it aside. I didn’t want to think about Mom’s moods anymore.

  We cleared out the rest of the room, taking turns fielding Rose’s catastrophes. We stripped the sheets and quilt from Mom’s bed and threw them in the washer. Amongst Mom’s things, we found a few items that could be valuable: her wedding ring, jewelry of Grandma’s, a few collector’s items. Zoe went to work finding out how much the collector’s items were worth on the Internet and left me alone in the room.

  With all Mom’s stuff cleared out, there was a ton of space. I could easily create a corner for my workstation. The room had ample storage where I could put my fabric and supplies.

  I finished dusting, and tore down the thick blackout curtains she used. No wonder she was depressed. People needed sunlight. I shoved the curtains in the laundry room and dusted off the yellowing blinds. When I was finished cleaning, it smelled like lemons and pine.

  After I put Rose to bed for the night, Zoe messed around with social media for my shop. I went to finish setting up my new bedroom. The best thing about the new room would be not having to sleep next to my baby. I pulled the blankets and sheets from the dryer and put them on the bed. I brought in all my sewing equipment, set up the dress form and my sewing machine, and folded the fabric into one of the storage drawers.

  In the morning, I would bring down the rest of my things. That night, I wanted to enjoy the freedom of having my own room. I flung open the windows and let the warm night breeze blow through the long-stagnant space.

  Chapter Twenty-Four: Damien

  I woke up earlier than my alarm and stared into the darkness in the room in Sacramento. The fight. Today. I couldn’t help the numb pit in my stomach that made me want to retch. There was too much riding on this.

  I had no idea who I would fight or if it would even be a fair match. Did they bother to match weight class in these shady underground brawls? I had to push the fear far into the back of my mind.

  Before anyone could talk to me, I went out on my bike in search of a protein-rich breakfast and a fresh juice smoothie. Sacramento was hot and dry, like LA but without the ocean. I hated central California. The dry grit around my neck as I rode only added to my poor opinion of it.

  I found a place for breakfast in a health food restaurant that served farm-fresh foods. The guy at the counter juiced my carrots, and the cook made me an egg-white omelet with goat cheese and spinach. I sat at a table near the window and mentally prepared myself for the day ahead.

  My strength as a fighter was in my martial arts. My weakness was wrestling. I could practice judo forms all day long on my own, but it was impossible to practice wrestling alone.

  I finished my breakfast and left a generous tip for the pretty waitress. On my way back to the clubhouse, I passed a fabric store. It made me think of Claire and her dresses. Back at the clubhouse, Martel looked like he was about to be in a cage fight. He took me to the office with the president of our host club. He sat on the edge of the desk, looking at me in my chair.

  “Well, kid, we got news about the guy they want you to fight.”

  “Yeah. Spit it out.”

  “Seems like he’s a middleweight national champion.”

  “Great,” I said sarcastically. “I’ve only made it to state level. My art has always been my priority. MMA is just my hobby. Sounds like it should be a great show.”

  “His name is Bob the Boulder Jones.”

  “Shit. Perfect.”

  “What?”

  “I know the guy. He beat me last year. Took me down to the floor and got me in a wrestling hold.”

  Martel turned away like I’d punched him.

  “I should have taken more time to train. This was probably a mistake.”

  “We can’t back out now. The Devil’s Dozen will take a cancellation as a loss.”

  I shrugged. My mental game was wrecked. Pushing my hand over my head, I eyed Martel’s profile.

  “You’ve got to have a backup plan.”

  “I’m thinking about it. Just focus on your match tonight.”

  I went to my room and sat on the floor with my sketchpad. My fingers gripped the graphite pencil, moving over the page in confident strokes. Claire’s face appeared, looking like Mother Mary, wise, innocent, and loving. When I finished, I threw it across the room. I’d memorized her face, but I couldn’t look at it. I thought about going back to LA. It would probably be better for everyone if I did.

  I had Perez get me another protein shake, and spent the rest of the day stretching and getting loose. As night rolled in, I was focused and my body was as limber as a sapling in the wind.

  We arrived at an empty warehouse deep within an abandoned industrial district. We were directed through the back to a cramped bathroom by a guy with a shaved head and neck tattoos. I saw the ring as we passed. Everything looked regulation. Crowds were already pushing in through the big sliding doors.

  The bathroom reeked of piss. Black filth lined the grout in the sticky, tile floors. Gang graffiti covered the raw cinderblock walls. The sinks held brown standing water around the drains. I changed, keeping my focus on my core. I pranced on my feet in front of the dingy mirrors and watched myself throw punches in the air. I was quick. I needed to stay quick. The sound of the crowd reverberated through the warehouse and into the bathroom.

  “It’s time, kid,” Martel said, leaning his head through the splintered door.

  The moment of truth had arrived. Time to live down my lies. I marched through the screaming crowd. A bookie took bets at the back of the room. I kicked off my shoes, pulled on my gloves, and climbed into the cage.

  Bob took his place across from me. He looked pumped, healthier than the last time I’d seen him. He had a Devil’s Dozen tattoo on his chest.

  We warmed up our bodies, preparing to fight. The amateur announcer proclaimed us to cheers from the audience. I threw off my sweatshirt, pushed in my mouth guard, and took a last swig of water.

  The bell rang. Round one.

  We circled each other. Bob swung at me, and I easily leaned out of the way. I was faster than he was. I knew that from the last time we fought. That hadn’t changed.

  I checked him, throwing a hard right at his jaw. He ducked away a second too late and my knuckles grazed his face. It was an impotent punch, barely touching him, but it made fire blaze in his eyes.

  He pressed into me, fists flying. My superior speed allowed me to bounce out of the way and connect with a shot to his kidney. Bob spun and grabbed me from the side. His grip was like iron. I swung my arms over his head and pulled him toward me. Neither of us could get an advantage. He unlocked his arm and hit me in the face. At that moment, I broke out of his hold. I launched a kick at his chin.

  He was ready for my kick and pivoted out of the way. Even after the punch and the hold, my energy was good. He would have a hard time connecting in this position.

  Cheers from the crowd faded into crystallized focus on my opponent. He barreled at me with full force. I ducked out of the way and landed a hit to his chest. He took the opportunity to sidestep and grab me around the waist. His momentum knocked me down. I landed underneath him on my stomach against the padded floor.

  I twisted to get up, but Bob had me in a chokehold. I punched at him, but he was out of reach. Desperately, I reached for his head and pulled him toward me. It didn’t help. I couldn’t get a good enough grip to throw him off.

  The referee lunged forward and called the match. Just like that, it was over. I’d lost. I’d lost it all. Dumbfounded, I stood in a haze from loss of oxygen. The smell of booze mixed with the sound of cheering. Martel’s face looked like grim death.

  I leaned against the cage to catch my breath. My head pounded and blackness formed at the corners of my eyes. I was ushered through the
crowd into the dingy bathroom. Noise and smells surrounded me, but barely registered in my consciousness.

  “Well, we’re fucked,” Martel said beside me as he leaned over the dirty sink.

  I looked into the mirror at the bruises and cuts on my face and body.

  “None of this is your fault.”

  “Then why does it feel like it is?”

  “Get yourself together, Damien. We’ll go back to the clubhouse tonight, and figure things out in the morning.

  I splashed water on my face. Martel left me alone to wallow in my failure. I took the phone from my gym bag and eyed Claire’s number. I wanted her sweet voice to take me away from my ruin. What did I have to say to her? I lost the fight. Everything would only get worse.

  Chapter Twenty-Five: Claire

  I spent all day sewing on my new machine, in my new room, and the work went faster than ever before. I breezed through five dresses in one day. Claire MacKenna originals. I squealed at the idea that that meant anything. When I finished, I decided to take Rose to town to visit Zoe on her late shift at the café.

  The air smelled of lemons and roses from pots of fragrant geraniums that lined the street. The black pavement glowed yellow under the light of the streetlamps. High school kids whooped it up as they walked down Main. It was one of those buzzing summer nights that made you feel alive with possibility.

  Maybe it was because I was finally getting somewhere in life, maybe it was the fantastic weather. I felt good, even nursing a broken heart. I’d be okay. I’d get over him. I didn’t need liars in my life.

  After she put in my order, Zoe took a break to eat with me. She set my plate on the table and slid into the booth with her shift meal. She dug into her hamburger. Her delicate features seemed comical as she bit into the massive patty and bun.

  I ate my fettuccini Alfredo and shared the noodles with Rose. Zoe wiped her fingers on a napkin while she chewed. Picking up a French fry, she pointed it at me and said, “Do you remember Stacy from my high school class?”