The Final Piece (5 page)

The hair on the back of my neck rises in defensive awareness. This is why I don’t talk. Every time I open my mouth, someone takes it as an invitation to get me to “open up.”

“I don’t need this crap from you, Ryan. You don’t know a thing about me,” my words bite.

Ryan looks at me wearily but continues like I didn’t just rip off his head.

“I hear you are a big music fan.” He turns his attention back to our task. “There are some great bands coming to the Iowa State Fair this summer.”

Sitting back on my haunches, I watch him place the last of the cherries back in the basket. Where is the sharp-tongued tormentor I am accustomed to? He catches me sizing him up, trying to figure out his angle.

“I’m not going to talk about anything else, Beth.” He reaches over and I flinch as he pulls a leaf from my hair. “We will only talk about the things you want to talk about, okay?”

I cast my eyes down, unable to look at him. I don’t want him to see tears and almost make a run for the house.

“Why?” my voice is small and pitiful.

“Because, you could clearly use a friend. If we can convince the masses that you aren’t as fragile as they’re thinking, we may just see the shore of Lake Panorama sometime this year.” He rolls his eyes dramatically and it makes me laugh. It feels so good to laugh I don’t bother with a defensive retort.

“Trust me,” he pleads, and there is sincerity in his tone that has me believing him. With a faith I didn’t know I still possessed, I lift my head and smile.

“Ok, Ryan. I’ll trust you.”

Chapter 7

We enter the house through the kitchen door with our cherries, carrying on about the Iowa State Fair concert series. As I make my way to the kitchen sink, a trio appears in the doorway. I know it’s Tommy with Pops and Gran, but I ignore them and keep talking to Ryan.

“Don’t you think they should have stopped at the last tour?” I ask while I busy myself with washing cherries. “What’s that line?
It’s better to burn out than to fade away.”

“Go Beth! Way to quote one of the greatest hair bands of the ‘80s,” Ryan shoots his hand up and down invisible frets, while strumming his fingers across his stomach. Air guitar quickly turns into head banging. I watch him thrash around the tiny kitchen.

“Oh my God, you are such a tool!” I giggle, throwing my dishtowel at him. It lands with precision on top of his head, covering his face. Howls of maniacal laughter rip from me, and I grip the countertop to keep from keeling over.

“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 grounds 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.”