Chapter 11
Seth
I wish she was ugly. If she smelled bad, that wouldn’t hurt either, but since I saw her at the adoption party, this idea started to take root. I tried to push it out of my head, but it won’t go away. Seeing Chastain and Coach married and happy, got me thinking that maybe commitment isn’t so bad. I have a daughter that I’m responsible for, and I owe it to her to give her the best childhood possible.
I don’t want her raised by nannies and hired help while I’m on the road for half the year. I don’t want her to grow up and be resentful like I am toward my own father. Though maybe I wouldn’t be so resentful if he was out of the house working instead of sitting on the couch, drinking beers and shirking his responsibilities.
We step inside the house, and the first thing I notice is how loud it is. The second is that it’s an old house and in need of many repairs. The furniture is old and is only slightly better than the crap I had in my trailer growing up. The walls could use a fresh coat of paint, and the carpet could stand to be replaced, but despite that, the house feels welcoming. It might need repairs, but it’s clean and everything is in order.
“Mom!” I hear a woman say. “You need a shower.” The words are shouted from the back of the house. She’s loud because I can hear her clearly over the blasting television.
“Okay, you can go now,” Layla says. For the first time since we’ve met, she touches me. She wraps her hand around my wrist and tries to pull me toward the door. I look down at her and roll my eyes. I don’t pull my wrist away though. Her hand feels nice. It’s soft and warm on my skin.
“You’re gonna give yourself a hernia trying to pull me,” I warn.
“You saw me inside so you can go.” She pulls again. I twist my wrist free with barely any effort and walk further into the house. She’s acting different now. She’s not only trying to get rid of me because she can’t stand me. She’s hiding something. I know the signs. I’ve been hiding my father most of my life.
A middle-aged woman stomps from the back of the house and opens a door down the hall. “Mom!” she screams right before an older woman runs out of the room without a stitch of clothes on. My eyes widen at the sight. I blink twice, thinking I’m seeing things, but I’m not. The naked woman stands there and stares at me, but I look away.
“Gaga!” Layla shrieks. She grabs a blanket from the couch and quickly covers the older woman with it. “Mom, what happened?” Layla asks.
“She keeps running away from me each time I try to put her in the damn tub. That’s what happened!” Layla’s mother says right before she blows her breath upward in frustration. She tries to grab the older lady, but she moves away and comes to stand in front of me.
She’s short and rail thin. Her face is covered in wrinkles and her brown eyes match the color of her skin. Someone shuts the television off, and the house suddenly gets quiet.
“I’m a certified Sethhead,” the old woman yells, surprising me. She puts her index and middle fingers on the side of her mouth and sticks out her tongue just like the rabid fangirls do. Then she thrusts her hips three times.
I laugh at the absurdity of it all. I even take it a step further and do it back to her. Whenever I do that, the Sethheads would go nuts. I did it at a game once after making a three-point basket just as the buzzer went off at the end of the game. That got us a win by one point, and Madison Square Garden went crazy. Everyone in the stands turned into a Sethhead that night. I did the dance back, and the place erupted in pandemonium.
Layla sighs, but I can see a small smile that transforms her face.
The middle-aged woman’s head snaps up and she looks at me for the first time. “Seth Wakowski is in my living room,” she exclaims. I offer her my hand and she takes it. “Layla, how come you didn’t tell me?” She gives her daughter a mischievous grin.
“He was just leaving,” Layla says.
“I thought you couldn’t stand him,” her mother says. “I don’t know why because he’s such a cutie pie.” I feel a blush. Layla’s mom reaches up and pinches my cheek. I’ve been called a lot of things, but cutie pie is not one of them.
“Mom, he’s a whore,” Layla says as if that should explain her dislike of me.
“I’m Stella,” her mom says. “Are you a whore?” she asks me. She looks a lot like Layla with dark eyes and dark hair.
“No, ma’am,” I tell her. “I’m a basketball player.”
Layla huffs.
The old lady runs away to the other side of the house while screaming, “Sethhead!”
“I have to get her in the tub and put her to bed before I lose my shit,” her mother whispers. “Layla, you go ahead and entertain your date.”
“Mom!” Layla yells. “As if I would touch him with a ten-foot pole.”
“Why not?” Stella asks. “You can do a lot worse, and you’re always watching the videos of him and his baby.” Then her mom turns to me. “She will have a sour look on her face when it’s just you, but once that baby comes on the screen, she melts.”
I turn my head to Layla, and she won’t meet my eyes.
“No, I don’t watch him,” she says, but from the blush on her face, I know she’s lying.
Whatever her mother was going to say next is never spoken because the older lady runs through the living room, naked again. Layla’s mother runs after her, grabs her elbow, and pulls her down the hall. I hear a door slam a few seconds later.
Layla has now walked to the kitchen and has put her purse on the table. She has her back to me, and I think she might be embarrassed.
“Is that your grandma?” I ask. I already know the answer. She might be old and wrinkly, but she looks like Layla’s mom. I’m shocked when she answers me with a nod. “Does she always run around naked?” I try to play it light, but I don’t think she appreciates my question.
She faces me, looks into my eyes, sighs, and plops herself down on one of the chairs. I do the same.
“She has Alzheimer”s.” She puts her face in both hands. “She’s having fewer and fewer good days.” She stands and says, “I should go help my mom. Gaga can be a handful.” Just as the words leave her mouth, I hear a loud crash from the back of the house.
“Everything’s okay,” Layla’s mom shouts. “Enjoy your date, Lay!” she yells. “I got everything under control!” she yells again.
“As if I would ever bring a date to this house,” she says under her breath. “Thanks for dinner and for bringing me home,” she says again, dismissing me.
“Do you have help with her?” I ask. As soon as I was able, I got my father out of that dumpy trailer and into a new house. He has a housekeeper who also cooks for him. He’s only recently agreed to therapy, but he won’t go to the office. The sessions started out on Zoom, but now I pay a damn premium for the shrink to go to him.
“Between me, Mom, and my cousin, it’s still hard. We all work full-time, and we can’t risk leaving her alone anymore. We had someone, but she got agitated once and hit her, so we have no one for now. We can’t afford any of the good assisted living residences. We can barely afford the shitty ones.” Her shoulders sag, and I wish I could offer words of comfort, but all I can think of is that I’ve found my leverage. I’ve found my way in. Never in a million years did I think I’d find it this soon, but I knew coming inside was a good idea.
“I’m sorry,” I tell her. “It’s not the same, but my father has issues too.”
“Yeah, but you make thirty million dollars a year. It’s not exactly the same, Whorekowski.” She huffs and looks away from me.
“How do you know how much I make?” I ask. I know the info is only one click away. “And it’s way more than that with endorsement deals,” I throw in.
“Whatever.”
“Layla,” her mother yells so loud from the bathroom, it almost makes me jump. “There’s chocolate cake in the fridge. Give some to your boyfriend.” Her mom giggles before she closes the door.
“Oh my god,” Layla whispers. “Can she be any more embarrassing?” She looks away, shakes her head, and then shouts, “He’s not my boyfriend!” Her mother doesn’t respond, so Layla turns to me and says, “I’m sure you don’t eat cake.”
“What kind of psychopath doesn’t eat chocolate cake? I love it.” I sit back in the chair, making no moves to leave. It’s true. I love cake. I might not eat it often, but I never turn it down when it’s offered.
“There’s ice cream too,” her mother screams again.
She scoffs, but a few minutes later, she puts a plate in front of me with a decadent slice of chocolate cake and a scoop of vanilla ice cream. She hands me a spoon, and I attack. She sits across from me and eats her own dessert.
“I’m sorry about your grandma,” I say.
Her head snaps up, and for once, there’s no anger or animosity. Her eyes don’t narrow in distrust either.
“Thanks. It’s been really hard on us, especially since other family members won’t step up to help.”
“Well, it’s just me and my dad. I’m all he has,” I shrug. Dad, despite his issues, is all I had until Jasmine. “At least you have your mom and cousin.”
“I don’t know what we’re going to do. It’s already gotten to the point where we can’t leave her alone. Our jobs aren’t flexible. I’m the only one who can work from home sometimes, but it’s impossible to get anything done and take care of her at the same time.”
“Well, not that I’m comparing,” I say between bites of cake, “but it’s not easy taking care of a baby on your own either. Add being on the road half of the year to that mix. She cried every time I left for a game.”
She nods in understanding before putting her spoon down and pushing her dessert away. I grab it and take a piece of her cake.
“Don’t take this the wrong way,” she says, “but you’re a good father.”
I sit up straighter at the compliment. Coach and Jeannie tell me all the time what a good parent I am. Every time I talk to my dad, he tells me the same thing, but hearing it from someone I know can’t stand me is the best feeling.
“Why would I take that the wrong way?” I ask, grinning widely.
“Because I can’t stand you, and it pains me to say it, but you are. You can’t dress her worth a damn, but she’s happy, healthy and you obviously adore her. She loves you too.”
“And you’re mad about that?” I ask with a chuckle.
“You know who you should be mad at?” She points her index finger at me. “Fate for taking away Jasmine’s mother. It’s not fair to Jasmine or you. It’s hard co-parenting with two people, it’s impossible when you’re by yourself.”
“You know from personal experience?” I know she’s single since she’s trying to find someone on that dating app. I’ve never known her to bring a guy around Jeannie and Coach, at least not when I’ve been around. I’ve scoured her social media since the adoption party, and I don’t see a man. There are only pictures of her and some family members.
“My parents are divorced. My mom had custody, and my dad has always been in my life, but sometimes, he couldn’t pick me up for the weekend like planned, and my mom would go on a rant about how useless he was.” She rolls her eyes. “Then Gaga would joke that she was more my father. That would rile my mom up even more, calling herself the default parent and that men are about as useful as titties on a bull.”
She has a sad smile, almost as if the words or the memories hurt her, but I laugh loudly at her mother’s analogy.
“At least you had family around growing up.” I take a deep breath and shake my head. I had other family around too, but they were worse than my dad. At least Dad isn’t mean or abusive. He’s just useless. “Your mom seems nice.”
Just as the words leave my mouth, her mother comes out with Gaga. Gaga seems to be subdued now. She sits on the couch, and Layla’s mom puts on a television show for her. She puts a blanket on her lap and joins us in the kitchen.
She has a wide smile on her face as she looks from me to Layla.
“Boy, Lay. When you get a boyfriend, you really get one.” She runs her hand through Layla’s hair and sweeps her bangs off her forehead. Then she turns to me and says, “There better not be any Sethheads or you’re going to have to deal with this mama bear. You got that?” She points her index finger in my face.
“Mom, can you stop? He’s not my boyfriend. He’s not even my friend. He’s a whore,” she says as if that’s some scientific fact.
“Honey, a lot of people go through a whore phase at some point. Who cares? Let him be a whore for you and only you.” Layla’s eyes widen like saucers and she lets out a loud gasp.
“Oh my god, Mom. Can you go watch TV or something?” Layla puts her hands on both her cheeks to stop her blush.
“Oh, loosen up, Layla.” She turns to me and says, “What did you think of the cake? I made it.”
“I loved it,” I say, and she puffs her chest out.
“Layla, give him a piece to take home.”
“Mom, can you go now?”
“Fine,” her mom says. “I’m going to put your grandma to bed. I won’t be back out here in case you guys want—”
“We don’t want to,” Layla says, interrupting her mother.
“Speak for yourself,” I say with a laugh. Her mom offers me a fist bump. After bumping my fist with hers, she tells us goodbye and practically skips away.
“As if I would touch you with a ten-foot pole,” she says, standing up and taking the plates away. “God, she’s so embarrassing,” she whispers. She takes out a Tupperware bowl and puts a big piece of cake in it before she gestures for me to take it.
“Well, don’t flatter yourself. I wouldn’t let you get close enough to touch me.” I stand and take a step closer to her.
“You don’t have to worry about that. As if I would let you be the—” She catches herself and closes her mouth shut.
“The what? The first guy who doesn’t want to murder you?”
She narrows her eyes at me. “Don’t worry about it because you’ll never be that guy.”
I take another step closer to her. She has her back to me while she washes the dishes. She goes stiff when I put both hands on her shoulders. She’s a bony thing, and when I squeeze her shoulders, she moans softly. I bend down and get close to her ear without touching it with my mouth and whisper, “You know what they say. Never say never.”
I then take my cake and leave.