Chapter 30
There was an urgent pounding on the front door later that night, startling me.
“Who’s that?” my mom asked, like I could see through walls. It was almost time for us to start her nighttime routine, which took at least an hour.
“I’m not sure.” I got up and answered the door to see Tara on the porch.
“Hi,” she said. “Can you come out tonight?”
“Um…”
She poked her head into the house. “Hi, Andrea!”
My mom’s face lit up. “Hi, Tara. Come in.”
Tara stepped inside and gave my mom a hug.
Mom immediately turned off the television. “How are you, dear?”
“I’m good. I want to steal your daughter tonight. Can I?”
“Of course.”
“No,” I said, confused at both Tara for asking and my mom for agreeing. “Not right now, Tara, we have a nighttime routine.”
“You and your routines,” Tara said.
“She lives and dies by them,” Mom said.
I opened my mouth to object when Tara said, “Oh!” She pointed to the still-yet-to-be-used scooter in the corner.
“These things are so cool.” She put one knee on the raised pad and drove it around the living room.
“Is it helping you a lot? Have you mastered it? I bet you have.” She steered it to the couch and then stepped to the side.
“Tara, she…” I started to say she’d never used it, but my mom slid herself to the edge of the couch and then reached for the handles. And before I knew it, her casted leg was resting on the pad, supported by her knee, and her hands were gripping the handles.
“Why is this coffee table right here?” Tara asked. “It’s a complete hazard.” In several swift motions, she had the coffee table tucked into the far corner of the room, out of the way. “Better,” she said. “Now, let’s see your stuff, Andrea.”
My mom tentatively pushed against the floor. I took a step forward to stand close in case she fell, but Tara grabbed me by the arm, stopping me. “She’s fine,” she mouthed to me.
My heart was racing as I watched, worried about her dizziness. I did not want to witness her crashing to the floor. But she didn’t. She moved slowly at first but then with more confidence around the living room.
Tara clapped. “That’s amazing! You’re a natural.”
“Good job, Mom,” I said.
“So I can steal your daughter for the night?”
“Her left arm is still weak, so I don’t know if she can…”
Tara walked forward and stepped in front of my mom. “Push against my hand.” She held her right hand in front of my mom’s left. Mom pushed against her hand. “How do you feel, Andrea? Do you think you can do your nighttime routine tonight without Ms. Helicopter Daughter over here?”
My mom let out a dry laugh. “I do.”
“Great. But call us if you need us, okay?”
Tara dragged me toward the door.
“I’m not even properly dressed,” I said.
“Okay, you have ten minutes. Hurry.” She released me and I went to my bedroom.
I felt uneasiness churning in my chest. I didn’t want to leave.
Sure, I had left her for several hours here and there, but not when she had to actually accomplish tasks.
Tara hadn’t been here to see how dizzy my mom got—even if it was in her head.
She hadn’t held her after she fell. She hadn’t watched her suffer in pain, sometimes silently, sometimes not.
But if she thought my mom was ready and my mom thought she was ready, maybe I really was being overprotective, hovering. She was going to have to start taking care of herself again at some point, after all.
As I was leaving ten minutes later, I looked back over my shoulder at my mom, who was still standing there, gripping the handles of the scooter, watching us go, and my uneasiness grew.
“This isn’t a karaoke restaurant,” I said.
Tara had taken me to a restaurant to “celebrate” the completion of the therapy challenge.
I thought it was a thank-you gesture, but when we arrived, Michael and Elijah were already there, and on the table in front of them was some sort of large speaker.
It wasn’t until my eyes followed the cord that was attached to a microphone at the end that I realized what it was.
“We talked to the manager,” Michael said. “And it’s all good.”
Why didn’t I believe him? Elijah was smiling beside him like this was an everyday occurrence.
“The other customers aren’t going to be happy,” I said.
“A bet is a bet, Sutton,” Michael said. “Are you the type who follows through or aren’t you?”
I groaned. “Fine, but can I get at least three alcoholic beverages in me before this goes down?”
Elijah laughed. “At least.”
I sat down next to him. “I hate you.”
He kissed me. “You can punish me later.”
The waitress came by and we ordered drinks and some appetizers. It was past dinnertime, but we all agreed that we could eat.
It took me two drinks to feel any sort of loosening of my tight muscles, but that was about all I felt as I looked at the speaker that Michael had moved to the bench seat between him and Tara.
As our waitress walked by, I called out, “Excuse me!”
She turned.
“Can I get another margarita?” I held up my glass, which only had a few ice cubes in it.
“Sure thing,” she said. “Anyone else?”
“I’m driving,” Tara said.
“Me too, I’m good,” Elijah said. They’d both had only one drink. Michael ordered another with me and added some shots for both of us as well.
I decided I was okay with that.
“And you’re good on appetizers?” she asked, looking at the only half-eaten plates of coconut shrimp and chips and guac.
“We’re good,” Elijah said. “Thank you.”
“Who thinks smashing cake in faces is a good wedding tradition?” Michael asked.
Tara rolled her eyes. “Do you know how much I’m spending on makeup? You will not smash cake in my face.”
“Yes,” I agreed, picking up a chip and holding it in the air. “I’m definitely team no-smash.”
Elijah chuckled beside me.
“What about you, Eli?” Michael asked, grabbing him by the scruff of the neck in a playful gesture.
“I can see both sides. People can get so uptight at weddings.”
“Exactly,” Michael said.
I looked at Elijah. “Seriously?”
“I mean, I get not wanting to ruin your makeup too. Especially after all that work.”
“So diplomatic,” I said, squeezing his side.
The waitress came back with our drinks, and Michael grabbed his shot right away and held it out for me to tap with my glass. I did and we both downed them. I cringed with the burn but then laughed.
Tara, still obviously hung up on our conversation, said, “You will not smash cake in my face. It’s humiliating.”
He raised his hands in the air. “Fine. Fine. I won’t. But speaking of humiliating…” He placed the speaker on the edge of the table and held out the microphone to me.
“What are my song choices?” I asked, hoping to stall for just a little bit longer. I took two more big mouthfuls of my drink.
“We just hook up a phone,” he said, “so you can really pick whatever.”
That almost made it harder. My phone was already on the table, face up. I’d been checking it regularly in case my mom called or messaged. I picked it up and searched for popular karaoke songs.
“Just think of something you know well,” Elijah said. “Something you sing in the car or shower, maybe?”
“I do neither.”
“Really?” he asked. “Never?”
“Are you surprised?” Tara said with a laugh.
“It’s not a bad or good thing,” he said to Tara, most likely feeling the need to defend me. “Just a neutral.”
“That sounds like therapy talk,” she said. “Did you learn that in therapy?”
“Maybe I did,” he said.
“With the therapist who couldn’t even tell you were strangers?” Michael said. “Might not want to take anything you learned there too seriously.”
“It was good,” Elijah said.
“You’re a therapy convert now?” Michael asked.
“Possibly,” he said. “It wasn’t that bad. Helpful even.”
I smiled, glad he was trying to convince Michael now too. I squeezed his knee under the table, and he pressed his thigh against mine.
“See, Michael,” Tara said. “It’s not so bad. And four short weeks. Four!”
“Pass,” Michael said.
“Ugh,” she said. “You’re so maddening sometimes.”
“All the time,” I said, then realized I’d said that out loud. I was more intoxicated than I realized. “Just kidding,” I added quickly. “I’m just annoyed you’re making me sing.”
He laughed.
I continued scrolling through the song list on my phone. “How about ‘Mamma Mia’?” I said. I’d watched that movie a dozen times and loved ABBA. Maybe I could hold the tune or, at the very least, the beat. I took another swig of my drink.
And then it was happening. Michael was standing up and turning some knobs and speaking into the microphone.
“Attention, restaurant-goers. My poor friend here was on the losing end of a very important bet, and her punishment is to sing for a restaurant full of people who were not expecting to hear singing tonight.”
That last bit was completely untrue. I was always under the impression we were going to an actual venue for this kind of thing. That other people would also be participating. But Michael was Michael, and it was more than obvious he was well versed in doling out humiliation. It was his specialty.
“So give it up for the songstress herself—Sutton.”
There was some light clapping and a small “woot!” from the other tables.
I stood, breathing deeply, trying to remind myself that I could have fun. These people would never see me again. This was happening. I could do this.
Elijah plugged his phone into the speaker and pushed play. The intro to the song started playing.
“Forgive me,” I said into the mic. “For ruining your dinner.”
The good news was that the actual vocals started as I did.
They were light in the background, but they helped a lot.
What didn’t help was how the whole restaurant just stared, blank-faced.
The words were coming out of my mouth, I was stepping back and forth to the beat, my free hand moving through the air like I had done this before, but dead eyes stared back at me.
When I got to the chorus, I held the mic toward the restaurant. Nothing.
Elijah chimed in loudly with the chorus to my right.
I smiled gratefully over at him. Tara was just staring at me.
Her eyes narrowed a bit. Like she couldn’t believe I was doing this.
It made me stutter a few lines. I averted my gaze and looked back at the restaurant patrons who, in comparison, seemed less judgmental.
“Nothing?” I said into the microphone as the prelude to the next verse played.
“Are you done yet?” someone called from across the room.
Maybe it was some sort of rebellion that kicked in with those words, but I said, “I might do two songs now!” and then launched into the verse.
“Please, no!” someone else said.
I sang louder, adding more steps to my dance.
“Yes!” Elijah called.
This time, when I got to the chorus, I walked to the next table and held the microphone out for the closest guy. To my surprise, he actually sang a line. And then the next person did as well.
“Thank you!” I said into the mic, continuing the chorus myself. “Mamma Mia, I will never make a bet with Michael again,” I sang into the microphone.
“You made this one with Elijah!” Michael called.
That’s right, I had. I lowered the mic and said to Elijah, “Same sentiment applies to you.”
He just smiled.
“Thank god for alcohol,” I said back into the mic, trying to figure out where I was in the song.
Someone across the room cheered, “Yay, alcohol!” And finally, finally, the song came to an end. I gave a dramatic bow and handed the mic back to Michael before I collapsed into my seat.
“That was awesome,” Elijah said, draping his arm over my shoulder. “You are full of surprises.”
“You really are,” Tara said, throwing a wadded napkin at me. She was trying to joke, but it seemed half-hearted. Had I done something wrong?
“Do you still hate me?” Elijah whispered in my ear.
“Ask me when I’m sober.” I looked at my phone screen, double-checking for messages and missed calls.
“She’s fine,” he said.
“I hope so.”