I wait for what feels like an eternity for her to return. When she does, it’s with about four other hospital staff. They all try to look busy, but I know they just want to get a look at the girl they all watched on TV as her life slipped away.
It has been like this all my life. Some look at me with pity, some with curiosity, and some as if I am a freak. I always assume it’s because of my choice to keep Noah.
“I’m Dr. Gray. Come with me?”
“Where?” I ask, not moving.
“To speak to your aunt.”
I point to Noah’s room. “My four-year-old, very sweet, very smart little boy is lying in bed, and I walked in there without being questioned by anyone. I’m not leaving here unless someone sits with him.” I look at the staff. “And that someone better not look at him the way you have all looked at me.”
“I can assure you this is a professional—”
I look around and point to the oldest nurse on staff. “Will you sit with him?”
“Yes, dear, I will.”
Assured, I follow Dr. Gray down the hall where she opens a door, and we walk in to find Margie sitting up.
“I told you not to come. Told you he was fine.”
“But you? You’re not fine, are you?” I ask, standing at the foot of her hospital bed.
“The pain from my TMJ has been bothering me, so I took some pain pills to help me out. You know how Noah can be,” she whispers. “I didn’t realize how exhausted I was until—”
“I spoke to you on the phone less than six hours ago. You didn’t sound exhausted.”
“I think I had a bad reaction to my medication, young lady, and your tone is not appreciated.”
“You driving with my son in this state is not appreciated,” I spit back at her.
I turn to Dr. Gray. “Is my son well enough to go home?”
“He has pneumonia and shouldn’t be at his school for at least a week. Treatments every six hours. His record indicates that he has been through this before. Take him to his pediatrician in a week for a follow up, sooner if needed,” she says.
“My aunt?” I ask without looking at Margie.
“She should stay the night.”
“Thank you, Dr. Gray. I’d like a moment alone with my aunt please, and then I will be out to take Noah home.”
As soon as she leaves, I look back at Margie.
“You have no right to speak to me the way you just did. Do you know what could happen if they told the authorities I was driving with Noah? I could be arrested, Sonya. Think! You have no one but family,” she snaps. “And if it wasn’t for me, you wouldn’t have him.”
“But that didn’t matter to you today when you drove with him. That didn’t mean a damn thing to you,” I give her attitude back.
She looks at me almost smugly. “Well, well, well, what has happened to you in the past few weeks? That kind of attitude only comes from a girl who thinks she is a woman. We both know what happened the last time you—”
“Stop,” I say, knowing where she is going and hating it.
“Truth hurt, Sonya? Your mother had your looks and see where it got her? She’s off finding the next man to fund her choice of lifestyles while the rest of us—the ones she dragged into this whole thing—suffer. We take twenty dollars here, fifty there, and eat it up like a dog getting a tasty, little treat, but never a full bowl. Did you find someone, Sonya? And if yes, do you remember what happened the last time you thought love could save you from the hell of a mansion on the hill, hidden behind the security of a gate—”
“Stop,” I plead.
“You need to stop.” She points at me with a look of disgust.
I dig deep for courage. This woman may have saved me from living in a home or facing my peers by enabling me with home school, but she put my son—my Noah—at risk today.
“You need to get help. Don’t come home until you do.”
“How dare you—”
“Where is the fifteen thousand dollars that was in the account, Margie? Where is the money that I needed to get home today?” I snap, snatching her purse off the windowsill and looking for the keys.
“What are you doing?”
“Getting my keys so I can drive Noah home.”
As I start to walk away, her voice stops me.
“Your cousins needed help. We are family; they are my children. I chose to come here and help you, uproot them from where they grew up, and look what has become of their lives, Sonya. Selfish, selfish Sonya. If they need help, we give it to them.”
Remembering Finn’s words, I look at her. “If they are hungry, they should work for it like everyone else does. I have a mortgage on a house that was paid for because they needed help. When is enough, enough?”
Her eyes grow wide and angry. “When I can take care of them like I do you and Noah.”
I turn and walk toward the door.
“Don’t you walk away from me!”
I repeat what I said before, “Don’t come home until you are clean.”
I waited outside the hospital until she sent me a text. She said she will call me she is going to take her boy home, but he has to be out of school for ten days. She also told me she will call me later. She was short and to the point, and as a guy, I appreciate that. However, as someone trying to figure out where this path is leading, it kind of fucked with me.
I pull down the dusty gravel road toward what used to be home at the very end of a dead end road. I laugh at the irony.
Coming here wasn’t easy. It brings back memories and heightened emotions.
Nothing has changed except the few houses look older and less taken care of. I still see the remains of the old mobile mansion. The place went up when good old Mom stepped outside while she was cooking up meth. No clue what the hell she even came out for. It wasn’t like she was bringing lemonade to me and the old man. She was probably fucked up and lost. Lucky for her, she didn’t die inside the tin can, but was it really? Her life was a joke. She was a waste of fucking air. Now she’s living it up with a different man every couple months, last I knew. I stopped giving a shit six years ago.
I pull over before I get too close, just to take in the place where I grew up. Yes, grew up, and fast, too. I had to.
The old porch is still standing and the ground is still charred. No idea why Dad hasn’t tried to do some work, bring in some soil or something to cover it, or at least torch the porch so it isn’t still taking up space. The whole place is a fucking eyesore.
Do I hate my mother? Maybe. Do I blame her for all the shit that went wrong in my life over the last ten or so years? Abso-fucking-lutely. Do I dwell on it, let it draw me down? No. I stayed the fuck away and went after what I wanted, and now I have it. I am living my dream, one not bought from selling drugs or selling out, but earned from the blood, sweat, and tears of many, many years.
I throw the SUV in drive and hit the gas, the tires kicking up loose gravel. I speed past the burned can and to the left, toward the garage.
There are about five cars in the old driveway waiting for the old man or the owners to pick them up and about twenty heaps of shit in the field beside the garage.
Throwing the car in park, I get out and walk toward the door that says, ‘Beckett and Son.’ I open the door and the bell jingles, though it’s not much of a warning that someone is coming in when the air compressor is blatting and the grease gun is whining.
The smell of oil fills my senses and gone is the scent of her.
I see Dad bent over a car with the hood open, a shop rag hanging from his back pocket.
“Yo! Old man!” I yell to him like I always did back then.
I hear his deep laugh, and he takes a step back before standing.
“Not much older than you, boy.” He smiles, wiping his hands on the rag. “Sixteen when I—”
“Got her knocked up,” I finish his sentence and smile.
“What’s the difference between a pregnant woman and a light bulb, son?”
“Can’t unscrew a pregnant woman,” I answer.
“Wouldn’t want to, either. Something good came out of her.”