Sway (18 page)

But the second he lets go and only halfway looks at me, I do. Somehow, someway I’m pieced back together in two breaths. A few extra parts are broken that weren’t before, but I’m together all the same.

The hug didn’t make things better. The kiss only made things more difficult.

When I try to smile over at Ben, the hope on his face fades.

He knows his idea didn’t work.

*

After Caleb drops me off, I forgo the apartment and head for my car instead. I can’t face Lucy’s questions right now, nor can I listen to any shallow talk of Caleb and his hotness. I
know
the guy is hot. The guy is practically perfect, and not only in the looks department. But my heart is two minutes away from breaking in half, and all my life, there’s been only one person who knows, without fail, every good and perfect way to piece it back together. I pull into my parent’s driveway. Right now, I want my mom.

My mother’s car sits in the driveway next to mine. My father’s Volvo is parked in the garage. Only then do I remember that today is Monday. My parent’s day off, the day they spend resting and relaxing and rejuvenating for the busy week ahead. That day might be Sunday for most American families, but we’re not like most people. For obvious reasons, Sunday is one of our busiest days of the week.

But I don’t want to think about that now.

I walk through the front door and toss my purse on the bottom step of the iron staircase. An Oklahoma City Thunder game plays on the big-screen television, and my father sits on the corner of the sectional leather sofa with his feet propped up on the table in front of him and his hands behind his head. I feel a small amount of comfort from the familiar sight and take a minute to revel in the normalcy of the picture my childhood home makes. But then my father shoots forward and shouts at the television, effectively turning the nice moment into something that makes me cringe. Boys and their sports. No matter the age, they’re all the same.

“Are we losing again?” I say, coming up behind him to give him a backwards hug. Surprised, he flips around to look over his shoulder at me.

“What are you doing here on a Monday afternoon? Shouldn’t you be at school?”

“I didn’t have a class today.” Technically, it’s true. I didn’t have a class because I didn’t
go
to one. The semantics of my words aren’t important.

“Well, I’m glad to see you. We never got a chance to talk after that speech last week.” He reaches for the remote and turns the volume down. His look grows concerned. “Was something wrong with you that day? You didn’t seem like yourself.”

For a moment, I pretend to think back on the day as though it’s hard to recall. When an appropriate amount of time has passed, just like Caleb did with Ben earlier, I make something up. Not exactly a lie, just an omission of the full truth.

“I just wasn’t feeling well, I guess. Upset stomach.” I don’t add that it was spurred on by nervousness from my deep infatuation with the pastor of the foster center. Another thing he doesn’t need to know. “Is Mom here?”

On cue, she calls from the kitchen. “Don, is Kate in there with you?” She walks out of the kitchen carrying a red mixing bowl, stirring something with a white plastic spoon, and a smile takes over her face when she sees me. Even at age forty-five my mother is beautiful, and it’s easy to see why my father fell for her all those years ago. Since then, they’ve had the perfect love story—never a separation, rarely a fight, and no obstacles, large or small, to get in their way. Just the sight of the two of them in the room makes me feel a little better.

Most people say I look like my mother. I suppose I agree.

“What are you doing here on a Monday afternoon?” she asks, focusing once again on the bowl. “Don’t you have a class?”

Unable to stomach another lie, not even a half-one, I brush off the question and chew on my thumbnail, forcing my voice to sound upbeat. “What are you making? It smells good.” Despite her fit frame, food is my mother’s passion, and like I hoped, in no time she’s completely forgotten about school and my lack of making it a priority.

“I’m making a lemon cake for no other reason than I want one. And when I’m done, I just might eat the whole thing. Do you want to stay and—”

She stops. Frowns at me. I know that frown; I should have known my mother would see through me. Stupid thumbnail habit. I drop my arm.

Too late. She cocks her head to the side and rakes my face with her eyes, trying in the span of four seconds to locate the source of my damage and scramble for a way to fix me. When she comes up empty, she settles for the old standby. The one I came here hoping to find in the first place.

“Do you want to come in the kitchen and help me ice the cake?”

Ice the cake
. It’s our code word for
tell me your problems
. My mother used that phrase for the first time when Sarah Simmons pulled my dress up in front of my whole first grade class, and all the boys laughed at my Hello Kitty underwear with the tear up one side. I cried for two hours that afternoon, alternately licking mocha icing off an old wooden spoon and dipping it back into the bowl while I poured out my seven-year-old heartbreak. My mother never once scolded me for the saliva-laced frosting I applied all over the triple-layer chocolate cake she made for an upcoming dinner party. I think she knew I couldn’t handle the lecture.

If only I could be that same little girl right now, whose biggest worry was public embarrassment in front of a few laughing friends rather than private heartbreak that could potentially involve the entire country.

If the whole country ever found out. Which it won’t. Because there’s no story to tell except a short one, which is really the most disappointing kind of story, because the words always run out before you can really begin to fall in love with the two main characters. As they say, art has a way of imitating life.

My mother hands me the bowl of lemon buttercream and reaches for a spoon. She waits until I’ve spread frosting on the first layer before she finally brings it up.

“Do you want to talk about what’s bothering you?”

I don’t. But I do it anyway.

“I think I might have a problem.” And in the kitchen I grew up in, with the strains of a losing ballgame and my father’s frustrated voice in the background, I tell her about everything, sparing no detail.

I’m not sure what I expect her to say—maybe delve into a lecture about why being seen with Caleb could effectively end my father’s career and all he’s worked for. Maybe express her disappointment that I would participate in something as controversial as Christmas without consulting with them. Or maybe just give me her signature disappointed look which worked really well when I was a kid and would probably still be effective today.

This is why it shakes me to the core when my mother says nothing and walks out of the room.

With silent tears falling from her eyes.

Caleb

“I Had Me a Girl”

—The Civil Wars

N
ightmares are to me what sweet dreams are to normal people. A nightly occurrence. Sometimes even—if I’m lucky enough for a nap to claim me—a mid-day one. They’re an unsettling inconvenience that even my faith in God hasn’t taken away, no matter how many times I’ve prayed for it. And they’re always, always the same.

Help me, Caleb. Stay awake, Caleb.
When the sound of the one voice you desperately want to hear suddenly whispers in your ear in the middle of the night, the only thing left to feel is turmoil. For that moment in time, faith is nothing but a distant memory.

My mother…the most loving woman in the world.

My mother…the person who sometimes scares me more than anything.

In seventeen years, the nightmares haven’t stopped. They almost did once, but that was before I met Kate. I’ve had them every night since. They show no sign of letting up, which worries me more than anything.

I slug back my fourth cup of coffee and wish for a fifth, but the canister is empty and I need to make a run to the store for more. It’s a vice I wish I didn’t rely on so heavily, but it’s a necessary evil to get me through the day, because like always, I had a worthless night’s sleep thanks to one bad dream after another, and I see no hope of a nap in my future. It would be a futile attempt anyway. My kind of naps never last more than ten minutes and usually leave me feeling worse than a tequila and whiskey-induced hangover.

It’s a feeling you never forget, even if you haven’t had one in years.

Help me, Caleb.

I drop my mug into the sink and flip on the faucet, trying to drown out the persistent cry of my mother’s voice that called to me from my bed. After all these years, it should be a long-forgotten sound, but it isn’t. I guess when you’re privy to that sort of anguish, the memory never truly fades, no matter how much you wish it would.

Instead of fading, the words get louder.
Don’t go to sleep, Caleb. I’m sorry, Caleb.
Just when I think I might scream from the mantra that plays in my head every morning until something comes along to silence it—the phone rings. I’ve never been so happy to hear the sound.

“Hello?” I assume it’s Scott because I’m already late for work, so it surprises me to hear Ben’s voice on the other end of the line.

“Are you coming today, or what?”

It’s Friday. He rarely calls me at all, but when he does, it’s always first thing Monday morning to see if I remember. Of course I remember. No matter how messed up my mind sometimes gets, it’s the one thing set in stone. The one thing I never forget.

He almost sounds annoyed. I bite back a smile at his words. “It’s Friday, Ben. I never come on Friday. You know that.”

There’s a pause on the other end of the line. “Can you come anyway? I feel like playing basketball, and you totally skipped our game last time, you and that lady with her stupid questions. She might be pretty, but she sure knows how to ruin a fun time.” His bravado is thick, but I hear the catch in his voice and I know why it’s there.

“Do you need me to come today?” I ask the question slowly so that he’ll hear my meaning. He hesitates, but eventually the tough-guy act fades. The voice of a frightened little kid takes over.

“Can you, please? I need to play basketball today.”

I scrub a hand over my eyes in an attempt to keep my emotions in check. “I need to make a coffee run, and then I’ll be there. Give me an hour.”

“Don’t be late if you know what’s good for you,” he says, his attitude firmly back in place. I grin and hang up, but just as quickly my smile fades.

A family wants to adopt Ben. After all this time in limbo—after shuffling from one foster home to another—a childless couple in their late forties has expressed an interest. More than an interest. They’ve scheduled regular visits with him, they’ve taken him on outings, and the “dating” period has morphed into a desire for a permanent relationship.

The couple is great. Married fifteen years, no criminal record, volunteers in the community. Even their mortgage is paid in full. Everything has lined up perfectly, except Ben is scared. Scared in the way I was scared. And since I know exactly how he feels, it’s time to play some basketball. Because nothing cures a bout of frenetic nerves like a pick-up game of hoops.

I call Scott on my way out the door to let him know I’m not coming.

*

I’m walking across the damp Kroger parking lot with my bag of Folgers when I see her.

I know that coat. I hate that coat.
Never mind that my pulse speeds up at the sight of it.

Kate is parked two spaces down from me, so there’s no convenient way to ignore her. Besides, I don’t want to ignore her, which makes my head pound and makes me long for that fifth cup of coffee right here, right now. I should have driven through Starbucks. I’ve got to learn to like that place.

“What are you doing?” I ask. She peers into the window of a lime green VW Beetle—not at all what I expected but why am I not surprised? My traitorous gaze rakes her up and down before I have a chance to stop it. I can imagine the outline of her hips even with that awful coat covering them up. When she turns around, I force myself to focus on her face. Another mistake since it rained this morning and sunshine is beginning to peek through the clouds. The rays are hitting directly on her head, circling it like a halo. Figures.