Scarred: A New Adult Romance (The Anderson Brothers Series Book 1) (29 page)

Warm
light from the living room’s curtained window casts a dim glow over the outside
bushes. The small white light of a TV flickers. I ring the doorbell, and
moments later, the door swings open. Uncle Adam’s giant six-foot-six frame
fills the doorway. A broad smile parts his dark, haggard face.

The
music still going, I pull the earbuds out, and they hang down the front of my
shirt.

“Kevin!”
Unc steps out and embraces me in a big bear hug.

I
tense up for a moment then relax and return the hug. Having worked on cars and
construction all his life, Unc is strong and his body feels like a brick wall.

“’Sup,
Unc,” I say, pulling out of his arms.

He
peers past me and frowns. “Still no Dominick, huh?”

I
shake my head. “Naw, he’s got some things going on, but he’s handling it.”

Unc
heads back inside, leaving the door open for me. “Your mother had an accident
in the garden yesterday. Sprained her ankle.”

“Damn.
Is she okay?”

“Yeah,
it’s just a minor strain. But the doctor told her to take it easy. I’m taking
care of her for the weekend.”

After
our father—that coward—committed suicide, Mama was left alone and scared. That was
when Uncle Adam stepped in. It’s hard to imagine, even now, that this man is my
father’s brother. Unc is nothing like my father. Many times I've wondered if
Uncle Adam was really my father instead of that other son of a bitch.

He’s your dad, like it or
not,
Unc
had said.
But don’t think for a moment
that I am like him. You three might as well be my sons, and I love you all very
much.

Uncle
Adam really did love us, still does, and I don’t think I ever heard those words
uttered from my real father’s mouth.

Unc
leads me through the living room, where the TV is tuned in to an old sci-fi
movie. My throat tightens as the familiar sights, smells, and sounds of my
childhood fill my senses. The tail of the cat clock hanging on the drab grey
wall in the kitchen still grinds steadily back and forth. Framed photos from
family trips line the narrow hallway leading to the master bedroom, along with
ones of Dominick, Michael, and me as babies and schoolchildren. At the end of
the hall, a large family portrait hangs prominently. We seem happy, with Mama
holding baby Dom and smiling, but that happiness was all a front. At the sight
of it, I choke back angry tears.

I
sneer at the way Pops appears in that portrait. His smile looks fake, plastered
on, as if he knew exactly what he was going to do to his family.

“Kevin,”
Unc calls, pulling me back to the present. I didn’t realize I’d been standing
and staring for so long.

I
snap my head to him. “Sorry. I just … ”

He
stands at the door to the master bedroom, his hand on the knob. “No, son. Don’t
you dare apologize. This is your home. Now, go see your mother.” He opens the
door.

I
swallow then moisten my lips. The room has changed since I first left home. The
old white draperies have been switched for teal ones. The once-drab white walls
are repainted to a sea blue with white trim. The furniture has been rearranged,
and some new furniture added. The twin walk-in closets have been reconstructed
into a single big one. I helped Uncle Adam with the painting and construction
on that job. It was a fun project and helped ease the pain a little.

The
bedside lamp sheds its warm glow over Mama’s bronze face. She’s sitting up in
bed, her bandaged foot propped up on a pillow, her eyes focused on the thick,
dog-eared Bible open in her lap. She got serious with the religion stuff after
Pops died.

Her
big brown eyes meet mine, over the top of her reading glasses, as I approach
her bedside. Beaming, she bookmarks her Bible and sets it aside. “Kevin? Oh,
honey, you’re back!”

“Hi,
Mama,” I mumble, hugging her and kissing her on the cheek. She’s almost fifty,
but the only wrinkles on her face are around her eyes and are probably due to
all the crying she’s done over the years. She still smells like Mama—all
flowery and sweet. I close my eyes and feel them start to burn as memories take
over. How could that son of a bitch of a father hurt this beautiful woman? And
how could Dominick and I ever be mad at her for what she did? I forgave her,
but Dom … well, his demons still run rampant.

I
look at her swollen foot and ankle. “Uncle Adam said you had an accident. Are
you okay?”

“Yes,
baby. I was planting some new flowers and stepped on a spade. Carelessness on
my part.” She holds my hands and takes me in fully. “How are you doing?”

Sitting
on the edge of the bed, I stare at her small, calloused hands over mine. “I’m
fine. I'm on my way to Portland, so I thought I’d stop in and say hi.”

“What’s
happening in Portland?”

“I've
got a radio gig down there on Wednesday.”

“Oh.”
The excitement on her face dulls. “Still doing that deejay stuff, I see.”

“Yeah,
and this upcoming gig could be my big break.”

“So
you’re not going to finish college?”

I
purse my lips. I really didn’t want to drop out in the first place, but I had a
personal obligation to Dom. Since
that
day,
I've swore on my life to protect him, and to always be there for him
whenever he needed me. I can’t concentrate on school while worrying about him
all the time. “I don’t know yet,” I finally reply.

“Kevin,
you’re twenty-four years old. It’s not too late to finish. Maybe you can try
out for the team again, get your basketball scholarship back, and—”

“Mama
… ”

“Baby,
I don’t want to see you throw your life away. You have so much going for you.
The Lord blessed you with a talent, and you’re not using it.”

I
scowl. “I’m not throwing my life away, Mama. I’m happy doing what I’m doing.
I’m living comfortably with what I earn from my deejaying.”

“But
you need a college education. You’re not going to get a decent job at a high
school level. What happens when you get tired of deejaying? Then what? Going to
get some dead-end job, living paycheck-to-paycheck for the rest of your life?
How will you support yourself and your wife? Your children?”

“Whoa.”
I pull my hands from hers. “Wife and kids? You’re thinking a little too far
into the future, Mama. How about we think about the here and now?”

She
smiles softly. “I want grandbabies someday, Kevin. Is there a special someone
that’s caught your eye?”

“Uhh,
not really.” It’s partly true. I meet tons of girls every time I work, but most
of them become a blur. Except this one girl named Trinity Brown. She’s cute,
deliciously chubby, follows me to my downtown gigs, and is always the first in
line to get into a club I’m spinning at. She’s someone I can never forget.

“Well,”
Mama says, “one day you will meet that special person, and you’ll need to find
a better way to support the both of you once deejaying is no longer your
passion.”

I
stiffen.
Fuck that.
“I’ll never get
tired of deejaying. Music is my life. It’s the only thing that keeps me sane
right now. You should be happy for me.”

She
clasps her hands together on her lap. “Baby, I don’t want you or your brothers
to be satisfied with just getting by in life.”

I
clench my jaw. Being a deejay isn't “just getting by in life.” It’s a fun and
exciting life for me, and I wouldn’t want any other kind of job.

But
then I think maybe it’s
not
too late
to try out for the team. And I only need seven more credits to graduate. “I’ll
think about going back. I’ll talk to Coach Langley about trying out again.”

The
smile returns to her face. “Oh, baby, that’s all I ask. Please don’t throw your
talent away. Maybe one day I’ll see you on TV playing pro.”

I
laugh. “I’m not
that
good, Mama. The
pro guys are no joke. Anyway, I can’t rely on basketball my whole life. I’ll
eventually get too old to play, or I might get injured. Either way, my career
would only be temporary.”

“That’s
why you need to finish school—so you can get a good job to fall back on. That
business degree will go a long way, Kevin.”

“Mama.”
I exhale slowly. “I know what I wanna do with my life. It may or may not be
what you intend, but I promise I’ll use my God-given talents to go as far as I
can.”

“Thank
you, baby.” She leans over and kisses my forehead. “How’s Dominick?”

I
avert my gaze and look anywhere but at her. I can’t tell her about what
happened to Dom and his girl the other night. “He’s fine.”

“He
hasn’t come to see me since he graduated from high school,” Mama says. “He’s
only called a handful of times. I try calling, but he doesn’t answer. I miss my
baby boy.”

“He’s
still mad, Mama.”

“At
me?” Her eyes start to get glassy.

I
don’t reply.

“He
thinks I don’t care about him, doesn’t he?” She covers her mouth, and a tear
rolls down her cheek. “I tried. I really tried. I just wanted my family back.
Lord Jesus, I just wanted my family back.” She closes her eyes and sniffles,
more and more tears falling.

My
vision wavers and blurs, and I pull her into an embrace. She cries on my
shoulder. “Mama.” My voice quivers, and I blink away some tears welling up in
my burning eyes.
No, damn it, I have to
be strong for her, since Pops couldn’t be.
But hearing her sobs and feeling
her warm tears causes some of my own to fall. I quickly wipe them away with the
back of my hand. “You’ll get your family back one day. It’s just … these
things take time. A long time. I’ll try talking to Dom more. I'll try to get
him to come see you.”
But not now. God,
not now.

I
pull her away and wipe the tears from her cheeks with my fingers. A small smile
touches her lips.

I
cup her face in my hands. “No more, tears, Mama. I hate it when you cry. You’ve
gotta be strong, okay? Be strong for all of us.”

She
nods and sniffs.

I
release her then get up from the bed. “I should go.”

“Kevin.”
She grabs my hand, and I look back. “Stay the night, please.”

I
draw my hand away firmly. “I can’t, Mama. I’m meeting some friends in Portland
tomorrow afternoon.”

“But
it’s late. I don’t want you driving on that interstate alone at night. Please,
baby.”

I
look up at the ceiling and sigh. She always knows how to get to my heart when
she uses that
needy mom
tone. “All
right. But I gotta leave by nine tomorrow morning.”

She
beams. “Oh, that’s fine, Kevin. Thank you.”

I
smile halfheartedly and leave the room. Returning to the living room, I
discover Uncle Adam asleep on the couch with the TV still on. I quietly head
toward the kitchen.
Might as well find
something to eat before I go to sleep.
When I reach the breakfast nook, I
halt. My eyes zero in on a spot on the wall near the baseboard. The paint in
that spot is a shade lighter than the rest of the wall.

I
remember that spot all too well. It’s the same spot the back of my head hit
after Pops grabbed me, choked me, cut me, and threw me against the wallboard. I
blacked out from the impact and thought I’d died.

I
place my hand to that spot on my head then move it down to the side of my neck,
where my father sliced me with a box cutter. Even though I’ve covered up the
scars with tattoos, they remain visible in my mind.

I
raid the fridge and wolf down a plate of chicken and rice. Uncle Adam’s still
asleep by the time I finish, so as I head to bed, I turn off all the lights and
the TV. The hallway leading to our bedrooms seems like an endless dark tunnel.
I walk by the first room and flip on the light. It’s Dom’s, and it’s every bit
the same as he left it, only a little emptier. Posters of motorcycles and his
favorite hip-hop artists hang the walls, and some of Uncle Adam’s old mechanics
books line the small bookshelf in one corner. Motorcycle magazines lie piled on
the desk and on the seat of the pushed-in chair. The bed is made, and there’s
not a single article of clothing to be seen, my only indication that Mama was
in here at some point.

I
turn off the light and move past the bathroom to the next room—Michael Jr.’s. I
clench my jaw as I flip the light switch. I don’t know why I decided to come in
here. Everything about that coward pisses me off. It’s fitting that he bears
our father’s name. Serves him right. Michael’s room is tidy as well, thanks to
Mama. His walls are bare, other than a “Basic Striking Points” chart that shows
all the vital areas on the human body and a shelf lining one of the walls,
displaying dozens of martial-arts trophies and gold medals. A pair of dumbbells
and a steel bench press bar with two twenty-pound weights are tucked under his
bed. A picture of me and Dom as kids sits on the night table.

Fuck this.
I shut off the light and
leave.

I
turn on the bedside lamp in my room. My old basketball posters are barely held
to the walls with age-old tape. The bookshelves are bare. I used them to hold
all the vinyls I collected when I was first learning how to mix. I pull open
the closet. Only a few of my middle- and high-school clothes hang there,
organized by color and pressed—more of Mama’s doing. In the corner of the
closet, I spot a bag, which holds my old two-channel mixer and turntable.
Smiling, I pull out the bag and plop down on the bed with it. I uncover the
equipment, which no longer works due to over-usage. This shit’s junk compared
to what I own now, but I guess I’ll keep it around a little longer for its
sentimental value. I stuff the equipment back into the bag and set it on the
floor next to the bed.

Sticking
the earbuds back in my ears, I switch to a new song on my player and lie back. I
instinctively reach my hand under the bed, groping for the basketball I’ve
always kept there. Palming it, I pull it out. The ball had seen its uses in the
many pickup games I’ve played in at the parks. It’s the same ball that got me my
full-ride scholarship at the University of Washington. I toss the ball up with
a perfect free-throw technique and catch it. I
do
miss the game. Sometimes I feel bummed that I’ve lost my
scholarship.