Chapter 39 Dread-Doom Mix
dread-doom mix
Lorien
Mom is in the middle of putting together all the fixings. Dad is manning the grill, beer in hand, looking uncomfortable in some discussion with Billy. Sam is resting, as if her day of doing nothing and being waited on hand and foot took too much out of her.
It takes me ten seconds before guilt swamps me and I feel shame rise up. I’d never say that about Strider. Never. I should be as kind to my sister. Who knows what all is happening with her?
The front door opens with a “Hello?” and I’m running.
Strider has to take a step back to brace for my hug. He rocks, absorbing the impact of me throwing myself into his arms, burrowing my face into his chest.
“You took long enough,” I mumble into his collar.
“That whole working-for-a-living thing really cramps my style.”
“Same. Next time around, let’s still be siblings, but let’s be wealthy brats who travel because we’re bored.”
“Next time around, Lolo. Definitely.”
He pulls back to look at me. “You look… different.” He tilts his head to study me. “I can’t put my finger on it, but there’s something about you…” he trails off, looking over my head. “Hey, Mom.”
My brother turns me in his arms, leaving one over my shoulder, and walks with me at his side to Mom before wrapping her in his free arm and kissing her cheek. “What can I do?”
“Absolutely nothing.” She swats the air in the way that says don’t be ridiculous and meanders back the way she came.
“Dad’s making the burgers and brats. Billy’s helping.” It comes out more like a question than I meant for it to.
“As much as he can with all the control freaks around here.” Sam stands in the hallway, leaning on the wall. “Hey, big brother.”
Strider opens his arm and she folds in on his other side. “Got my best girls right here.”
Mom clears her throat from the other side of the wall to the kitchen.
“Almost all of my best girls,” he corrects.
We walk into the kitchen to see Mom staring out the window at Billy gesticulating wildly and Dad with a beer bottle to his lips tipped in an effort to drain it.
“Oh shit,” Sam says and walks out the slider to the deck.
Oh shit is right.
“What did I miss?” Strider whispers conspiratorially.
“Well,” Mom speaks directly to the windows, never looking away. “I can’t be sure, but I think Billy was instructing your dad on grilling the brats.”
“Billy from Florida?” I ask like there are multiple Billy’s. “Grouper, I get. Shrimp or oysters, okay. But brats?”
“Not helping,” Mom puts in.
Sam walks to Billy, wraps an arm around his waist and pats his stomach.
Dad sets his beer down with more force than tempered glass should withstand and zeroes his eyes to Sam’s hand.
“He’s not what I pictured,” Strider starts. “Though I don’t know what I pictured. This weekend should be interesting.”
“Your dad is struggling. Let’s do what we can to help, okay?” Mom throws the tea towel over the shoulder closest to us and turns our way. “You two are a picture.”
I beam. Strider pulls me closer with the arm around my shoulder, and I relax into my favorite person in the world.
And he is my favorite.
So why does my mind drift to the grumpy guy next door? Well, he’s not really next door anymore, is he? He’s in my life, in my house, in my bed. I stop before my mind can think in me because no doubt the blush that would flame my face would warm the whole kitchen.
It’s July in Illinois, and there’s tension outside. No one needs anything more incendiary.
We survive dinner.
We survive dessert.
Tomorrow is Strider’s birthday and we’ll do this again only at his place. Steaks, twice-baked potatoes, broccolini, and a huge salad, along with birthday cake and ice cream, like he’s turning four instead of forty.
It should be interesting since Billy has very specific ideas on gastronomy—his word, not mine. I know what it means, but who actually uses it? And who uses it to argue with their significant other’s parents upon first meeting?
Billy—that’s who.
Sam is noticeably quiet through the whole thing. And that bothers me. She’s always been opinionated, vocal, and the last one of us to worry about keeping the peace. Her standing down to let some man take on Dad regarding barbecuing comes off… odd. Very.
I’m the peacekeeper. I’m the smoother-over. And even I am uncomfortable.
“So are we doing anything tomorrow? How are we celebrating?”
Dad’s face shows relief. Billy looks appalled at the change of subject. Strider sits up a little taller.
“I hadn’t really thought of anything, but we could do a Segway tour,” my brother starts.
I laugh and throw my hand over my mouth. “Sorry. Sorry.” I wave. “I’m trying to picture the six of us meandering through Peoria on Segways and all staying upright. I can barely walk upright.”
“Executive decision. That’s what I want.
All of us to be together and attempt it.
” He pulls out his phone, clicking through.
He sticks his tongue out the side of his mouth as he thinks.
He’s done that my whole life. It’s endearing if not silly.
“Done. Reservation for six. Eleven-thirty, starting at the brewery for a beer.”
“We’re going to need it,” Dad says under his breath.
“I can’t imagine riding one. After beer, there’s no way. But I’ll be there.” Mom smiles that indulgent smile that she always gives her son.
“We— Well, we have plans,” Sam starts.
“Not tomorrow, you don’t.” Dad’s tone brooks no argument. “Tomorrow is your brother’s birthday. If he wants to watch us tumble to the concrete, that’s what we’re doing.”
Sam looks to Billy and back to Dad. “But—”
“No buts. You can have your plans on Sunday or be done by eleven-thirty.”
Sam tenses and bites her lip. Billy opens his mouth, but Mom gets there first. “Who wants Hello Dollies? I made them fresh this morning.” She stands to clear the table.
“I do.” I don’t. They’re way too sweet, but the tension is brutal and I want out of this conversation. I stand and collect plates from my brother, sister, Billy, and Dad.
“Sounds great, Mom,” Strider says.
“Sounds lovely, Diane.”
I kiss Dad’s cheek as I pass, all the while my sister glowers.
What in the world is going on with her?
I wake the next morning with a weird feeling in my gut. This isn’t normal for me. It’s a dread-doom mix, and I can’t seem to shake it.
I tried texting Liam last night. When there was no response, I called.
I called five separate times, despite how desperate it looked or how increasingly anxious I felt.
The phone didn’t ring. I’d dial, and his voicemail would pick-up immediately.
Leave it to my husband to not even personalize his outgoing message.
So I don’t even have his voice to comfort me.
Not unless I listen to the only one he’s ever left me. It’s laced with innuendo and oozes sex.
I’m agitated enough that the frustration rattles through my body like it’s being shaken to combine. I’m stressed enough that I do what I never thought I would.
Me: Sorry for the early morning text. Have you heard from Liam?
Me: I promise we’ll start conversations another way than this. You worried or me worried.
Ayla: Why are you worried? And I was up. Sophia decided she doesn’t need rest like her mama.
Me: I’m in Illinois. Liam dropped me off at the airport yesterday morning. He didn’t mention plans in particular. But he isn’t responding to texts, and his phone goes directly to voicemail.
Ayla: He didn’t go with you?
Dang. How do I explain?
Me: I asked him not to. Family dynamics are… complicated.
Ayla: I understand that more than you know.
Ayla: When did you last hear from him?
Me: His last text was about 2:30 p.m. central time. I got a voicemail around 5:00.
Ayla: It’s like him to go radio silent. Well, actually silent. But it’s not like him not to respond. Hold on.
Sixty seconds pass as I pace my childhood bedroom, the carpet squishing under my feet and between my toes in familiar comfort.
Ayla: Any clue where he could be?
Me: No.
Ayla: I tried calling and I’ve sent a text. I’ll work on things over here and keep you posted.
Me: Thanks, Ayla.
Keeping myself busy, I find Dad on the back deck with a cup of coffee. It’s already too warm out here for any hot beverage, but old habits die hard apparently.
My Diet Coke will have to do. That and one of Mom’s breakfast biscuit sandwiches.
I fall into the chair next to my dad and with no preamble he starts. “Don’t bring home a guy like Billy, okay?”
I suck in air at the wrong time and biscuit lodges in the back of my throat. I choke and sputter, coughing in an attempt to dislodge the now-too-dry food.
“You okay, Lo?”
I shake my head only to realize I meant to nod, then wave him off. Holding up one finger, I take a deep breath through my nose, calming my autonomic nervous system for the second time in a handful of days, allowing myself to breathe and my throat to open.
My eyes are watering and my throat scrapes against itself, but I didn’t aspirate a breakfast sandwich, so I’ll call it a win.
“I take it you don’t like Billy?” I shouldn’t want to know. But my own situation is dancing under my skin and I have to ask.
“I just—” he starts but interrupts himself with a long sip from his mug and a faraway look in his eye.
“It’s hard to think of you kids as adults.
We were married and had Strider by the time we were your age.
But when it’s your babies, it’s hard to rectify accomplished adult-you with the pig-tailed you I taught to ride a bike.
Somehow, you’ll always be a little girl, even if you’re a PhD and living a time zone away.
Same with Sam. I look at her”—he takes another sip before staring into his mug—“and see the scared girl I dropped off at kindergarten. She was always brash, but that morning… That morning, she held my leg and asked if I would make her go.” He shakes his head as if erasing the memory.
“It broke me. It absolutely broke me. Mom had a shift at the hospital, and no one would trade, so it was just me. Strider had gotten on the bus here and I drove Sam to school and, to do the right thing by her, I had to pry her from my leg and told her she would love it.”
“Newsflash,” my sister starts behind me. “I hated it.”
Dad bobs his head deeply. “Broke my heart, you did. Came back crying. You were miserable for the whole year.”
“I don’t think I was made for traditional schooling.” She takes a seat on Dad’s other side.
“I don’t disagree. Now.” He emphasizes the word. “But they didn’t talk like that thirty-some years ago. There was ‘school’.” He uses his hands like he’s framing a box. “That was it. You were bigger than those walls, Sam. We should’ve understood that.”
“Dad.” My sister takes a deep breath. “Billy and I are heading to the justice of the peace in a few. We decided before we got here. Would you and Mom like to be there?”
Just like that, boom goes the dynamite.