Gus (12 page)

"Morning Ma. Just peachy." My scratchy voice contradicts me. "Sorry about last night. I didn't mean to bail on you. I just needed to sleep this shit off."

"It's okay. Taco leftovers are in the refrigerator, if you're hungry."

"Sounds good. Thanks. I gotta run a few errands. You need anything while I'm out?" I'm making small talk, waiting for her to come clean about Impatient. Like maybe why she didn't tell me about her sooner. I don't understand why it had to be kept secret.

"That's sweet of you, but I don't need anything. Thanks." She knows we're dancing around the issue and sounds hesitant.

"Sure. Guess I'll see you when you get home."

"Should be home around five forty-five. And don't forget Mikayla's going away party at Delgado's is tonight. It starts at seven o'clock."

"Wouldn't miss it," I answer. Because I won't miss it. Sick or not, I'm going.
 

Ma walks in at five forty-five on the dot. She's always been ridiculously punctual. Never early, never late, always exactly on time. I'm always late. Obviously timeliness is not hereditary.

She leaves the front door open behind her and I'm afraid to ask why, when Impatient walks in. And holy shit. If last night was a surprise, tonight just blew that out of the water.
 

She's wearing a black dress. The simple fabric cascades over her body from the high neckline to the cuffs of the long, silky sleeves. It's modest, except that it falls a bit above mid-thigh ... and her legs look fantastic, especially paired with the heels she's wearing. I'm a sucker for heels. Her hair is curled slightly at the ends, which somehow softens her hard features, mollifying the stringent intensity that's housed inside. I'm used to Scout in shorts and an ill-fitting, long-sleeved T-shirt, her hair hanging straight. She's normally so ordinary. Not that ordinary is bad. Not at all. She's natural and there's something to be said for that. I prefer it. And right now she's still natural. No makeup, I'm glad she doesn't try to hide her scars with it. She doesn't need it. Her hazel eyes are an odd combination of green and gold, with not a hint of brown. They're striking and outlined by thick, long black lashes.

But her natural state is now wrapped in this dress. This tasteful and professional, but ...
damn ...
sexy dress
.
Despite the distracting new attire, I'm curious why she's Ma's new shadow. I understand that they're working together, but why was she here last night? Why is she here tonight?

"S'up, Ma?" Again, I'm looking for answers as I hug her.

She squeezes me tight before she answers, "Hi, Gus. How are you feeling?" Her hand is on my forehead checking for fever.

I cough. My sore throat has transformed into a nagging cough this afternoon. Lucky me. "I'm good, Ma."

She shakes her head. "You don't sound good."

I nod to give her the assurance she needs. "I'm good."

The dress walks past me without a word, only a curt nod, and again I'm confused as to what it even means. The nod. Here on my turf. Is it:
Hi,
How's it going,
or
Fuck you
?
 

I turn and watch her walk down the hall. Where in the hell is she going? And then I say it out loud. "Where in the hell is she going?"

Ma starts looking through the mail on the end table. It's a distraction so she doesn't have to look at me when she tells me something I don't want to hear. "To her room."

That's when I lose my shit. "What?! Her room?!"

Ma continues her intense scrutiny of the pile of junk mail. There's nothing worthwhile in the pile of diversion—I know because I thumbed through it when I brought it in from the mailbox this afternoon. She's stalling.

So I repeat, "What do you mean by 'her room'?"

Ma sighs and straightens her shoulders to square off against me. "Scout is staying in the guest room until she can save up for a place of her own."

I shake my head and feel the anger building inside me. All my life, anger manifested slowly, if at all. These past nine months, it's been hair trigger quick, zero to fucking irate in two seconds flat. I hate it. And I know that what I'm feeling is irrational anger, but it's the principle of the situation that irks me. This isn't Ma's fault, but I can't hold it in. I point down the hall for emphasis and lower my voice as I say, "That is Bright Side's room."

Ma stares at me as her eyes turn shiny and her chin stiffens. She's never been one to hide her emotions, but she rarely cries. Sadness chases away my anger when I see the first tear fall to her cheek. She nods; she's agreeing with me, it
is
Bright Side's room. Always has been. Always will be.

I move toward her and hug her. She holds on like months of grief are catching up with her and spilling out as she cries into my shoulder. "She doesn't have anywhere else to go, Gus. She doesn't know anyone here. She's trying to make a fresh start."

I let her cry. And talk. And I keep my mouth shut and listen. I hate seeing Ma hurting. It just crushes me. She's always been so strong. "I miss Kate, too. You know that. No one will ever replace that girl in my heart. She was like a daughter to me, her and Gracie both, but Scout needs help. She's so smart and I see so much goodness in her, so much potential. She needs a place to stay for a while, but more than that she needs a support system, Gus, and I intend to give her both."
 

When she sniffles, I let her go. She smiles weakly and swipes at the mascara running beneath her eyes with her thumbs. "I'd better go freshen up so we can get to Mikayla's party."

I nod and kiss her on the forehead. "I'm ready whenever you are."

Ma disappears to her room and I decide I need a cigarette before we leave since I don't smoke in Ma's car. I'm out on the driveway, holding the flowers I bought for Mikayla this afternoon, coughing my way through cigarette number two, when I hear the front door open and close behind me. That's my signal to snub it out in the ashtray in the garage.
 

"You want me to drive, Ma?" I always ask.

She always declines. She's always been staunchly independent. "I'll drive."
 

I'm relieved, because I plan on drinking my share tonight. I'm not going to get sloppy, but I'm going to sedate.

I look to Impatient. "You wanna ride shotgun?"
 

She shakes her head without meeting my eyes. Fine. I'm just trying to be nice. Whatever.

Ma smiles at me as I'm fastening my seatbelt and asks, "What was your number?"

I smile back because this woman knows me. She knows I was thinking it, so I answer, "Nine."
 

She raises an eyebrow. "Not five? First guess is always five. Nine is risky."

I agree. "Nine is risky. What can I say, I'm a rebel."

She laughs, and it warms my heart. "The number was eight. Your rebellious streak is rewarded tonight."
 

Bright Side and I used to fight over shotgun. Every time. It was a rivalry held over from our childhood. To settle it Ma used to think of a number between one and ten and whoever was closest got to ride up front in the passenger seat. I suspect Ma kept track in her mind and alternated evenly between rewarding each of us with a win.

Ma's eyes are on the road as she speaks, because she's always been a cautious driver. "The flowers are lovely. Lilies. Mikayla's favorite."

They are Mikayla's favorite. I always give her lilies for her birthday, because Mikayla's like family, my favorite pseudo-auntie. I hold up the bouquet wrapped in cellophane resting in my lap. "Only the best for Mikayla."

A smile breaks out on Ma's cheek. "She'll love them."

Ma reserved a private room at Mikayla's favorite seafood restaurant, Delgado's, for the retirement party. The room is expansive, with high ceilings and white linen tablecloths. There are twenty employees from the office and they all came, most with spouses or dates. It's a good turnout and I'm glad. Mikayla deserves a proper sendoff.

Mikayla predictably goes overboard when she sees me. "Oh my gosh, who's this handsome stranger?" She reaches up and pats my hair. It's grown out to hit my mid-back, but it's still shorter than my waist long she saw last. She pulls me in for a hug.
 

I laugh off the compliment, set the flowers down on the table behind me, and wrap the little woman up in a hug and lift her off the ground. "How's my favorite Mikayla?" I ask.

She giggles like she does every time I do this. It's one of my favorite things about Mikayla, she's sixty-five years old, but she giggles like a child. Her laughter is pure and free of the cynicism that plagues most adult's laughter. It's also a curious juxtaposition to her serious nature. She's so smart and driven career-wise, that's something that always made Ma and her click so well. They're cut from the same cloth. But when Mikayla laughs, she lets all of that go. I've always loved that.

When I set her down and reach behind me for the bouquet, she gushes over the flowers. "Oh Gus, they're just beautiful. Thank you, sweetie."

I nod and wink. "Anytime, Kay."

After we catch up for a few minutes I excuse myself to the bar to order a Jack on the rocks. Everyone else wants their time with Mikayla too, so I make myself scarce for the moment.

When I return to the dining room everyone is taking their seats for dinner. I slip into an empty chair at the end of the table next to Ted, the mailroom dude—my replacement when I left to go on tour last fall with Rook. He's a quiet guy, but super mellow, I think it's all the weed he smokes.
 

Dinner is excellent. Ma went all out. It's special-occasion fancy, with whole steamed lobster for the shellfish fiends and some kind of pasta dish that I call
heavenly-mind-blowing-noodle-fucking-fantasy
for me. And wine. Lots of wine.

Dinner segues into dessert, which segues into more wine, which segues into ... you guessed it ... more wine. Even though my cough still clutches at my throat, and is persistent as hell, I'm enjoying myself. A bottle or two of red will do that.
 

After a quick stop in the restroom to empty the bladder, I step outside for a cigarette. Ted's already outside smoking, too. He finishes up before I do and announces, "I gotta take a piss, bro," and walks away. I turn and take a final drag before tossing what's left out into the street. When I turn back I walk right into Impatient.
 

"Whoa, hey," I say. Then, "Sorry," because I knocked her off balance. Her high-heeled shoes don't help matters.

She nods quickly as she rights herself. "Audrey's looking for you. They're cutting the cake for Mikayla."

I rub my belly, because there's always room for cake. "Sweet." I could do with some cake. And besides that, I'm pleasantly buzzed.
 

A loud train whistle emits from my pocket. It's Franco's text alert. I slip out my cell and take a look as we walk back into the restaurant. The message reads,
Been here 5 minutes and already got laid!
Attached is a photo of Franco, Jamie, and Robbie standing at the entrance of a hotel wearing colorful leis around their necks. Looks like they made it to Hawaii.

I laugh and text back,
Enjoy it loser. It's the only action your sorry ass will get all week.

After I hit send, I look up at Impatient who's looking at me questioningly. She doesn't want to be, but I can tell that she's curious.

I shrug, still smiling from Franco's text. "What?"

She shakes her head like she's going to blow me off, but then asks, "Franco?"

I nod. "How'd you know?"

"You're smiling. He's the only person that can get you to smile like that." She walks away, back into the restaurant, before I can question her. So I ponder it a second. She's right. That shithead is my link to any shred of happiness lately.

Saturday, July 1

(Gus)

I have that nagging voice in my head still, pleading with me to call Keller again. It's persistent, but has really amped up in both enthusiasm and bossiness this week. And this morning it's managed to bully every other thought out of my head.
 

It's early morning, so I grab my cigarettes, lighter, and phone, and head out to the deck. After I smoke a cigarette, I bring up his number on my cell. I was going to text, but my fingers are shaking so damn bad that I can't type, so I opt for a call instead. I'm dreading hearing his voice, because it's going to open up the Bright Side wound. Keller was her boyfriend. He sat there holding one of her hands, me holding the other, when she died. When cancer stole her from us. He's a good guy, but I can't separate him from Bright Side in my mind. I can't think about him independently. The damn guy loved her fiercely. Which is why I need to call him. He's the only person who can relate to my grief, my pain. On the other end, the phone rings. And rings. No answer. I almost hang up, but then I realize that my stomach is in knots and I don't want to go through this again later, so when I hear the prompt to leave a voicemail, I start talking. "Keller. Dude, it's Gus. Long time no talk." I pause and nausea roils inside. "Yeah ... so ... I was just calling to see how you and Miss Stella are doing? Give me a call sometime, so I know ... that everything's okay in Minnesota. You know ... that you guys are okay. Okay. Later."
 

I press the red circle on the touchscreen to end the call. I want to throw my phone over the deck railing, as far as I can, but I squeeze it in my palm instead, and then slam it face down on the wooden tabletop.

And then I light another cigarette. That phone call was a bad idea. My heart can't handle it.

When I finish up my smoke, I decide that breakfast is in order.
 

Impatient is in the kitchen. She's dressed in running shorts and a loose, long-sleeved T-shirt. Her face is flushed and I can see beads of sweat on her forehead. She's drinking a glass of water. I find myself wondering how scarred her arms are because I've never seen her in anything other than long-sleeves. And it's fucking hot outside.
 

"Hey," I say. It's our standard greeting, if we decide not to substitute it for a non-verbal nod. It works. It's what we do. It's how we tolerate each other, I guess.