Chapter 4 #2
It’s worn and faded, creased where I keep it folded.
Mom sits on the floor in our old house, her belly almost imperceptibly starting to swell with the twins.
I sit between her legs, seven years old, the biggest smile I could possibly give the camera on my face.
Beside me, Mom holds up a chubby two-year-old Chase, his feet planted on her leg, his arms reaching for me.
He’s treading a fine line between enthralled and excited, and I can imagine right after the photo was taken that I swooped him up in my arms. Behind the camera, I’m sure, Dad is waving wildly, a goofy grin on his face.
“And how are you?” I murmur.
“I’m fine.”
I sigh. He’s been like this more and more since I left home.
Short with me, rarely reaching out even when I try my best to keep in touch.
He might be upset with me for leaving him behind, leaving him to take care of the twins, but I can’t be in two places at once.
This is where I’m able to make money. As much as I wish I could be there for them financially and emotionally, this is what I can do right now.
I hope one day he understands that and forgives me.
I care most about him finding something he loves that will make him enough money to go out on his own. The last thing this family needs is another Mom or Dad.
We just have to get through a few more years of this.
Chase will finish school and get a job soon.
The twins start college next year (I hope), and then, in roughly five years, the bills will stop coming out of my ears and I’ll focus on saving for myself.
Maybe go to college. I don’t know what I’ll do if not tennis, but it’s nice to believe I’ll have the option one day.
“Del, I’ve got to go. I have class. I’ll let you know how much everything is. Will you be coming home soon?”
“Yes, I’m definitely going to try.” They’re right outside of Tampa, only an hour and a half or so away.
The problem is getting there when the one car we have is with them.
But I’ll figure it out on one of my off days.
I always do. Thanksgiving is in a couple of weeks anyway, and I’d love to spend it with them.
He lets out what sounds like a scoff. “Okay, see you whenever.”
“W—wait! The twins, how are they? How’s school?” I talked to Hazel a couple of days ago, but it’s been longer than that since I spoke to Finn.
“They have phones too, you know. You can call them.”
I sigh again. I know that, but I also know they’re busy, and I don’t want to bother them. “Right. Yeah. I’ll do that.”
“Bye.”
“See you soon. I lov—”
He hangs up before I’m able to finish the thought, and once again, I have to push away the frustration. It’s not his fault. We’re all dealing with a lot.
I’m five years older than him, but sometimes I feel like a young mom with an unruly teen.
When we were younger, before Mom left, Chase and I were inseparable.
The best of friends. I’d go to school while he went to daycare (on the weeks we could afford it) or a neighbor’s house, and when the bus dropped me at home, Chase would come running to hug me.
He’d spend all evening with me, from cleaning the house, to cooking when Mom had a late double shift, to watching cartoons on our decrepit TV while I did my homework.
But then the twins were born, and Mom…struggled.
The limited free time I had went toward wrangling the twins, figuring out how to mix formula and feed babies when I was a young child myself.
Learning how to change diapers. Putting them to bed and waking up in the middle of the night when one of them woke the other.
Figuring out what their many different cries meant.
Dad only helped a quarter of the time, if that, so even when I could be physically present beside Chase, my attention was no longer on him as much.
As we got older, going to school became my reprieve.
There, I had Austin, and tennis, and my teachers, almost all of whom I loved.
But at home, life became learning first aid, memorizing important addresses and phone numbers of the adults in our neighborhood, packing lunches, signing report cards when Dad was too drunk to, helping with homework, and taking care of them when they were sick.
I tried my best to be the one to bear it all, not wanting Chase to lose out on his childhood when I’d had eight good years with Mom before things had changed. I felt guilty. Chase and the twins deserved someone raising them too, rather than having to raise themselves.
Then I started playing tennis, training harder and harder.
Going to tournaments so I could go pro when I turned eighteen.
A lot of that work fell to Chase. I should’ve done more, but all I can do now is take the luck I was afforded—befriending Austin, being taken in by his parents, being coached up to the pros by them and their tennis friends—and turn it into the saving grace we Andersons needed to break the cycle of neglect.
Maybe I should play mixed. With the new deal, getting into the quarterfinals could give me enough money early in the season so that I won’t have to stress about Chase’s tuition. If even Nic thinks it’s a good idea to try, I should seriously think about it.
I need to talk to Austin.