48. Penelope
forty-eight
penelope
I should have seen this coming. Disasters always strike me in threes.
First, Ant took the scarred pieces of my heart out and tap danced on top of them like Gene Kelly. Then, I got word that there was a hiccup with construction on my place—they missed a leak, and repairs are going to be pushed back at least another four weeks. The icing on the cake was mom’s accident. She may as well have taken all three.
My brother and I aren’t as close as we used to be when he lived with Mom and me. When his name lit up my screen, I knew something had to be wrong. As Connor and I sift through the junk all over her stairs, it’s easy to see how she tripped down them in the first place. Trash is everywhere, like she hasn’t bothered to clean the place since the guy she followed to Vegas dumped her, just like I predicted he would. I can barely walk, let alone stand the smell.
“How’d she let it get like this?” Connor asks, lifting his hand beneath his nose as we uncover what used to be a box of strawberries before the mold overtook it. “Was it this bad growing up?”
I bite my tongue, knowing that scolding my brother for going with his dad isn’t fair at all.
“I think we kept it a little more under control. She fell apart without us here.”
“Not our problem,” he clips, retreating to the front hallway where we left shopping bags of cleaning supplies, including a box of gloves. We get to work, and I wonder how long we’ll have until Mom wakes up. She has a broken wrist, some bumps and bruises, but the kicker will be the bruise this gives to her ego and to her attitude. I bring up the mental blockers I had growing up, the ones that deflect all of her nasty comments like pebbles against a stone fortress.
“Pen! Penelope Jayne! ”
Connor and I eye one another from across the kitchen that we’ve barely made a dent in, lifting opposite brows at the same rate. Must be a Barker family trait.
“Good luck.” I believe his sincerity.
I enter Mom’s room with my arms folded in defense.
“What do you need, Mom?”
She’s sitting up in bed, lost in the mound of pillows we propped behind her when we got home from the ER.
“The remote, for starters. And would you fix these pillows? I’m fucking uncomfortable.”
“It’s probably because of the fall, not the pillows,” I say, more to myself than to her. “Here. I hurt my arm earlier this year. It helps if you prop it up?—”
She yanks her arm away from where I’m trying to help, muttering something about doing it herself , and ends up in the same position she just called uncomfortable. I find her the remote, and she turns on Jerry Springer. I think I’m home free, and am about to ask what she wants for dinner, when her words freeze ice in my veins.
“I heard you signed a new deal for them books of yours.”
Once upon a time, I thought sharing my books with my mom would finally make her proud of me. It was during that trip to Florida that she put the final nail in the coffin: Nothing I did would ever make her proud unless it benefitted her. In the end, that’s the wrong deadly sin. My mother is greedy and selfish. Which begs the question: What am I even doing here?
Being verbally berated and taking it like a punching bag , my subconscious taunts me.
Still, I don’t move my feet. I stand there like I’m twelve years old and take it.
“For all I ever did for you, you could send a little of that my way, Penelope. Your poor mother’s living in filth that put me in the hospital.”
If I continue biting my tongue, I’m going to make it bleed. You did this to yourself, dies along with my own pride. If I keep this up, it won’t be the sin that kills me, but the regret at all I’ve left unsaid.
“Mom, my books are?—”
“After all I did for you? You’d have none of this without me.”
I have had this argument with my mother a million times over inside my head. Every single time, I finally gain the courage to tell her off. To put her in her place. To remind her that, at the age of fifteen, I had done something right by calling the police. It was the freest I’d ever felt, living with the Ellises for those few short weeks.
But when faced with your demons, you can either run, hide, or fight. I’d been able to stand up to Anthony, but standing before my mother, I feel myself shrinking again.
As something deep inside me relaxes at the thought of him, whimpers for him to be standing beside me, I wonder if he was ever my enemy at all.
I bite my tongue, this time to keep the tears in—or to feel physical pain to outweigh the pain on my heart. I don’t think the poor thing can take on much more.
“You wouldn’t have Deb’s place without me anyway. Let me know when you decide how I’m getting out of here.”
I flee, past my brother, down the hall into the spare room. She is the reason I don’t cry, the reason I have learned to lock down my emotions so that they don’t get the better of me. But face down in the mattress, I sob until sleep finally puts me out of my misery.
Sleep seems to make me more miserable, if that’s even possible.
I dream of Ant.
At first, he’s feeding me cheeseballs while my arm is in a cast, but then all of a sudden, the cheeseballs turn to stones, and he’s tossing them like baseballs against a glass wall that, upon further inspection, is shaped like a heart. He grins from the other side, maniacally, as one can only do in a dream or a horror movie, asking me over and over again, Is that enough? Can you take it, boss? I startle awake, gasping for breath, clutching my hand against my chest. I sweat through my shirt.
One glance at the clock says it’s after six. She’ll be expecting dinner soon, and at the thought, my stomach growls. As I inhale and exhale to bring my heart rate down, I wonder if I’m still dreaming, because I swear I can smell Debbie Ellis’s famous lasagna. She made it three times when I stayed with them, and something about those noodles became a comfort memory to me.
Your mind is playing tricks on you .
I get up, stretch out a few kinks, and freeze.
Debbie’s lasagna must be real, because Debbie’s voice is coming from down the hallway. And she does not sound happy. Creeping out of the spare room, I strain to listen.
“She doesn’t owe you anything . You made a lot of bad choices in your life, and you won the lottery when the one positive consequence of your actions was her. She is the only reason I am here right now. I am here for her . Not for you. Until she tells me to leave, I will get your pain pills with a smile on my face. But get one thing straight, Margie: she owes you nothing .”
The rest of the world fades away. I float down the hall as if my body is tethered by the sound of her voice. Debbie meets me there, her hard set eyes and the furrow of her brow a defensive mask for the pain I can see ringed there. She doesn’t see me at first, the shake of her head and the sharp curse all to herself. Right before she turns to enter the kitchen, she lifts her gaze to me.
“Hey, sweetheart.”
She comes to me with open arms, and I swear her hug pieces me back together. After a long few moments, we peel away.
“How’s the patient?” I ask. Deb shakes her head.
“How are you? ”
I fold my arms but wring my hands over my forearms and shrug.
“I don’t know.”
Because I truly don’t.
Debbie sighs, leaning her back against the wall.
“You know, your momma is my oldest friend. We’ve been through a lot together. A lot . She was the one to offer me a backyard swing set to play in when my parents were fighting. I wouldn’t have made it through their divorce without her as my rock. Wouldn’t have made it through feeling like a human tennis ball those first few years of going back and forth between their houses. It was in college when she started to really change.”
I knew that my mom and Deb were childhood best friends. I guess I just never knew the darker parts.
“Your mom’s first boyfriend was in pre-law. The way he took her out to fancy restaurants and tried to woo her with gifts changed something inside of her. When he broke it off, she started chasing that high again—and only chasing men with money. I guess she never stopped.”
Deb shakes her head.
“I’ve done my best throughout the years to help her out. I even offered her the townhouse to do with what she wanted. She could have lived in it or sold it for money. It’s like she wants someone else to take care of her, and if she’s able to do it herself, no one will take pity on her.”
Deb blinks up at me, and for the first time, I understand where Anthony gets his eyes. Hers are a striking blue—not quite holding the sea like his do, but one that reminds me of the safety of faraway places.
“Why did you invite her to Florida?” I ask.
“Because, sweetie. I wanted to see if I could talk some sense into her about you .”
My heart stutters.
“You and your brother are the only good things she’s got left. I tried to show her that. And when she told me about your books, and the dollar signs lit up in her eyes, I realized she was too far gone.”
I lean my head on her shoulder as we both sit in silence for a moment. Me, mourning the hurt from my mom. Her, mourning the possible loss of someone she once held so dear.
A clanging sound in the kitchen startles us both. We stand to go investigate, and my heart does a backflip at the sight.
Anthony is standing over the sink wearing yellow rubber gloves, and my heart melts to the floor. He turns around, almost like he knows I’m standing there holding back from running to him.
His, “Hey,” comes out husky, rattling my edges.
“Hey,” I echo, sandy with emotion. “What are you doing here?”
The spoon he’s holding drips suds onto the floor.
“Dishes.” He holds up the spoon, and my heart cracks.
“Dishes?”
He nods, once.
“I was at my mom’s when she called my dad. I brought dinner. Should be cooled off in a few. Connor went home to grab a few things to stay the night. I told him I’d hold down the fort.”
“But you’re mad at me,” I whisper, disbelief clouding the way he’s standing there in yellow rubber gloves, clearly holding himself back from reaching out.
“Oh, I am,” he nods. “Mad. Not at you though. Never at you. And you’re mad too.”
I nod, not quite ready to tell him that I’m more sad right now than anything else.
“So why are you here?” I ask again.
“Because, Pen. You don’t stop showing up for someone you love just because there’s a road block between you.”
He drops the bomb with his gaze holding mine captive, lets it settle in all the way to the core of me, and then turns back around to finish the dishes. I follow, taking tentative steps, until I realize that those four letters are stable beneath me. With firmer steps, I walk past the entryway, and am dumbfounded by what I see.
It’s spotless. Aside from the few dishes he’s finishing, the place looks immaculate. Four black garbage bags sit by the back door ready to be taken out, the floor is shiny, countertops are free of grime.
He showed up for me, even though we’re in the valley.
“The table’s all set if you want to grab drinks. I’ll take your mom’s to her. I don’t want you in there for a little while.”
I do what he asks robotically. Inside, my entire foundation is turning over.
As soon as dinner is plated, Anthony wipes down the sink and hangs the gloves over the edge, washing his hands while Connor steps in the back door with an overnight bag. At my brother’s arrival, I feel confident leaving for just a little while.
“Con, hold down the fort for a little while, okay?”
“Sure,” he says. “Where are you going?”
Squaring my shoulders, I take in Ant’s gaze. The turquoise swirls darkly. The calm before a storm. I lift my chin in challenge, and his dips in answer.
“Ant and I need to fight.”