Tangled Vines
Authors: Melissa Collins
Tangled Vines
Copyright © 2014 by Melissa Collins
All rights reserved
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of Melissa Collins, except for the use of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
“Hey, Mom,” I mumble a greeting around the carton of orange juice.
This, of course, prompts her to smack me upside the head. “I raised you better than that,” she chides playfully, as she reaches behind me into the cabinet for a glass. The funny part is that she can’t quite reach it, even on her tippy toes. Laughing at her general goofiness, I easily stretch above her and get out my own glass, like I should have in the first place.
Her broad smile is all the reward I need. She reaches up on her toes again to pop a quick kiss on my cheek. I consider not bending down, just to play around with her, but even I know that would be mean. “How was work?” she asks, pulling food out of the refrigerator.
“Hot,” is all I can manage between gulps of juice. Walking over to the trash can, I shrug as I toss the empty carton away. “Same as usual, I guess.” She offers me up a sad smile, but doesn’t say anything.
Leaning back against the counter, I cross my legs at the ankles and watch her cook. She’s a tiny thing, no more than five feet, and maybe one hundred and ten pounds on a good day. The knife she’s using to chop some veggies for a salad looks like it’s as big as her forearm. Walking over to her, I shake my head and put my hand over hers to steady it. “Sit, Mom. I’ll cook you dinner tonight, okay?”
She smiles brightly up at me, her baby blue eyes twinkling despite the exhaustion that’s always there. With the tenderness that only Mom is capable of, she pats my stubble-covered cheek and says, “That’s my boy.” In that instant, I wonder if she struggled with the largest knife in the entire kitchen, possibly in the entire world, just to get me to make the salad.
God, I love this woman. That’s why when she got a sick last year, it was an easy enough decision to move back home and give up everything I’d worked to build for myself. Before moving back to the east end of Long Island, back to where I’d grown up and promised never to return, I was finishing up my first year at a finance company in Boston where I went to college. It sounds melodramatic, but when Mom called to tell me she was sick, I ran straight home. Suddenly, everything I’d worked for, everything I’d thought I’d become, didn’t matter anymore.
Chuckling to myself about how she’s just conned me into cooking for her, I toss the tomatoes into the bowl of lettuce. As I look out the small kitchen window, my past comes back to me full-force. My father left before I was even born, so it’s always just been Mom and me. Having never known him, I can’t exactly say I hate him, but in the same breath, he left. So it’s impossible not to harbor some kind of anger for him. Mom held a decent job, but she was a single parent; that’s never easy, no matter the job. We weren’t poor, but we definitely couldn’t keep up with the Joneses of southern Long Island. That’s why when I was old enough, well, big enough really, to get a job, I started working on a local farm. It was hard physical work and it got me out of the house for the majority of the day – the perfect combination for a growing boy who hated where he lived.
But now, here I am, twenty-seven years old, living at home with my mom, working on the farm I worked on as a boy, while my framed MBA sits in a box upstairs in my childhood bedroom.
The gentle pat on my shoulder startles me out of my own thoughts. “You okay, Owen?” Mom asks, her voice soft and far away. She’s never said it, but a large part of me knows that she feels tremendous guilt for getting sick as if it was in her control. The pain in her eyes lets me know all I need to know; she feels as if she’s ruined my life.
Leaning down, I kiss the top of her head, and pull her to my side. “Better than ever,” I reassure her. “I’m just gonna grab a shower before dinner. I’ll take care of the rest when I’m done. Okay?” My eyes scan her face, making sure she understands not to lift a finger while I’m showering.
She pulls away from me, contorting her face as she does. “You better. You stink something awful, honey.” For added insult, she even pinches her nose closed, moving her hand in front of her face as if I’m actually stinking up the place.
Catching a whiff of myself on the way upstairs, even I can admit that I reek.
When I come back down to the kitchen twenty minutes later, the table is all set, the food is spread out, and Mom is propped up in her chair, utter exhaustion apparent in her face. “Mom,” exasperation colors my voice. “I told you I would take care of everything.”
Swiping a napkin over her forehead, she looks up at me. “I know, I know,” she huffs, shooing me away with her frail hand. “I just wanted to try and help out for once.” Her lips quiver as she struggles to hold back her emotions.
Dropping to my knees in front of her, I pull her hands into mine. “It’s okay, Mom. Everything will be okay.” My reassurances sound empty even to my own ears. At the doctor’s appointment the other day, they told us they still weren’t sure if the cancer was gone. When they said they still needed a few more tests, Mom broke down. “Come on. Let’s eat and forget about everything for a bit, huh?” Gently, I tip her chin up with my finger and swipe away the tears tracking down her cheeks. She nods subtly and we eat in comfortable silence.
When the phone rings an hour later, I’m elbow deep in dishes. “Ma!” I call into the living room. “Can you get that?” She doesn’t answer and the phone keeps ringing. Swiping a towel from the counter, I dry off my hands and pick up the phone.
“Hello?”
A cough sounds through the line, followed by a very formal greeting. “May I speak with Mr. Owen Carmichael?”
“This is he.” I match his formality, though the worry that it’s one of Mom’s doctors is bubbling at the surface. Realizing that he asked for me and not her calms me enough to finish the conversation.
He introduces himself as a Simon O’Neill, a lawyer. “I’m terribly sorry to inform you, but your father passed away.” Simply by mentioning him, my world tilts slightly off its axis and I sink into a chair. When the lawyer says a few hellos, I realize I haven’t said anything. In all honesty, my father has been dead to me for quite some time.
“Are you still there?”
Scrubbing a hand over my face, I clear my throat. “Uh, yeah. I’m here.” All formality is gone, replaced by shock. “What do you want?” my question a snap of anger.
“We are reading his will tomorrow. There are a few items for which we need your attention.” He rambles on telling me the address of the place I need to be tomorrow.
“And if I don’t show?” Not a single part of me is curious to see what he’s left to me. The man hasn’t been a part of my life ever, and now that he’s gone, he wants to give me something to remember him by. Isn’t that the definition of irony?
The man’s voice stammers, trying desperately to fill the awkward silence. “We’ll still need you to sign over what he’s left you,” he says, his voice laced with trepidation. I’m sure that not showing up will make things more difficult for him. And I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t at least a little interested to see what I had inherited. Because up to this point, all I can thank him for is a lifetime of struggling.
After scribbling down the address and his number, I hang up and try to let everything I’ve just learned in the last five minutes stop swirling through my brain. Mom hobbles past me. “I’m off to bed, honey. I’ll see you in the morning.” She bends down and kisses my cheek, and for the briefest second, I consider telling her what I’ve just learned, but the haggard and tired look on her face makes me think better of it. “Night, Mom.” Standing next to her, I help her down the hall into her room. She used to sleep upstairs, but since she’s been sick, it’s easier for her to stay on the first floor.
After trekking up to my own room, I flop down on the bed, fold my arms under my pillow, and contemplate the implications that tomorrow’s meeting holds. The last thought running through my head before I fall asleep is of how foolish I thought I was trying to run away from my past.
