Chapter 3 #2
Not able to resist, I fold Izzy into another big hug. I’ll win this for you, Izzy girl, and all the others like us that just need a nudge in the right direction.
After Izzy and her mom say goodbye, I start looking for Colton, knowing he and I should probably head to the security line soon. Missing our red-eye would not be a good start to our journey.
When I finally find him, he’s saying his farewells to his parents.
Colton’s back is to me, but over his shoulder, I have a clear shot of Senator Downing’s lackluster expression.
The former senator stands several inches taller than Colton in his expensive gray suit and burgundy tie.
Between his height, his ice-blue eyes, and the subtle hints of gray hair that pepper his head, Senator Downing is the picture of intimidation.
And while the senator’s never been the cuddly, teddy bear type, he’s certainly the cordial, model-citizen type, with a smile that makes people feel like their taxes are being put to good use.
But tonight, his flat mouth and disappointed gaze are homed in on Colton.
The stare alone feels too personal, and suddenly I feel like an intruder on this father-and-son moment that has my skin rising up in unpleasant bumps.
Eesh. For the first time in my life, I’m grateful I never knew my daddy. Because if he’d looked at me with that level of disappointment, I’d be content to melt into the ground, happy to be trampled on all my days by unsuspecting airport goers.
What could the golden boy possibly have done to earn that look?
I try my best to glance away from the scene, but I can’t.
I’m Southern. If curiosity killed the cat, then the South is just a bunch of ghostly felines.
Against my better judgment, I stay put in my secluded spot behind Colton’s broad shoulders and pretend to adjust the drawstring on my water-resistant shorts.
“Remember, Colton. Don’t forget you’re a Downing.” It’s a simple sentence, but the pointed way the senator says it makes it seem like it has more layers than Ji’s Easter trifle.
“Don’t worry, Father. I never have, and I never will,” Colton says flatly.
“James,” Mrs. Downing says, turning to her husband and piercing him with a meaningful stare.
Senator Downing clears his throat, looking like he’s just choked down a particularly fatty piece of meat. “And good luck.”
Colton nods in response, just as Senator Downing leans closer to him, amending his parting words. “Don’t forget what we agreed on.”
With that, Senator Downing steps away, greeting one of Colton’s old math teachers with a firm handshake.
My brows peak with curiosity. Well, if that isn’t the worst sort of cliffhanger.
Now I’m dying to know just what it was that had Senator Downing talking in such a low, secretive voice and what it was they “agreed on.” But I’d rather play hopscotch on the back of a great white shark before asking Colton or his father such a personal question, so I do my best to put it out of my head.
Mrs. Downing steps closer to her son, placing a hand on his cheek. “Just be someone that you’re proud of, Colton.”
Colton leans down to hug his mom. I take that as my cue to dart out of the way before Colton catches me lingering like the eavesdropper I am. But before I do, Mrs. Downing sees me and calls my name. “Missy.”
She glides in my direction, a picture of buttoned-up perfection with her deep-green eyes, plum-colored tweed suit, and a beautiful set of pearls around her neck.
Then her arms wrap around me, folding me into her warmth.
Her heartfelt hug catches me off guard, and I find myself wanting to sink further against her soft brown hair.
In her motherly embrace, the phantom pains of old wounds resurface. Too soon, I step back.
“Oh, beautiful Missy,” she says, placing a gentle hand on my arm. “You take care of my Colton, okay? I know you two haven’t always seen eye to eye over the years, but there is a big caring heart in there. You’ll see.”
I try to imagine myself being the recipient of Colton’s “caring heart” and end up biting my lip to stop a bark of laughter from rudely bursting out.
“I’ll keep an eye out for him.” And by that, I mean that I will happily watch as a hundred island mosquitoes make him their dinner. I smile at the mental image.
Three familiar and distinct buzzes draw my attention to my pocket. I immediately pull out my phone and am surprised to find that the Deputy Sheriff from my old hometown in Tennessee is calling me.
“Excuse me,” I say to Mrs. Downing. She gives my upper arm a soft squeeze before I turn and find a secluded space in the airport lobby. I end up shoving myself into a small alcove about twenty feet from the rest of the group.
I press down on one ear with my finger, trying to block out the noise of excited vacation goers, conveyor belts, and the six-passenger airport shuttles that glide across the tiled floor, beeping at people as they roll along.
I hold my phone up to my opposite ear. “Hello?”
“Hey, Missy, Deputy Rollins here. Word is you’re about to go on a big TV adventure. Congratulations.”
Deputy Rollins’s Tennessee accent instantly brings me back to my childhood.
With just the sound of his voice, I can almost smell his famous grits cooking on the stove as his daughter, my good friend from grade school, and I laugh under a patchwork of blankets we’d held up with chairs and broomsticks.
But despite the warmth of nostalgia, my body chills. Deputy Rollins is a sweet man, and while I wouldn’t put it past him to give me a call to see how I’m doing, he wouldn’t be calling so late on a Thursday night just for that.
Mama. I swallow. “What’s happened? Deputy, is Mama …” My voice shakes.
“Oh, Missy, your mama’s all right. I think she just had one too many drinks tonight. We found her passed out on a park bench across from the station.”
I blow out a deep breath, relief and dread coursing through me all at once. “Can I talk with her?”
“Sure thing, darlin’. She’s just using the restroom.”
Not more than three seconds later, I hear a door creak open, and Mama’s familiar voice sounds. “Thanks, Deputy Rollins. I’ll just be getting my things … Who’s that?”
“Missy,” Deputy Rollins says in a hushed voice, the speaker sounding more muffled than before.
“Did she call you? You called her? Why would you do that?” Despite the obvious attempt to stop me from hearing the conversation on their end of the phone, Mama’s disappointment is clear as day.
“This isn’t the first time I’ve found you passed out from too many drinks this month. I think you need a loved one to talk to.”
“I don’t need to talk to Missy. You shouldn’t have called her.”
“Well, at least say hi.”
I can picture the disapproving stare on Mama’s face. She clears her throat, and the muffled sound from earlier disappears.
“Hi, Missy,” Mama says in a clipped tone.
“Hi, Mama. Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. Don’t you leave tonight for your show thing?”
For a moment, I’m surprised that Mama remembers. Stupidly, a spark of hope lights inside me. But I quickly snuff it out. I’d let that tiny hope take me all the way back to Tennessee before.
Despite my best friends going off to California for college, I’d chosen to attend the University of Tennessee to see if I could rekindle the relationship I’d had with Mama as a young girl, hoping we could go back to the days of dying our hair with pink Kool-Aid in the summertime and singing Dolly Parton at the top of our lungs until our grumpy neighbor hollered at us to keep it down.
But boy, had I been wrong. Mama seemed more disenchanted with me every time I tried to visit or call.
“I should get going,” Mama says coldly.
“Mama … Deputy Rollins said he found you passed out tonight. I just … I want to make sure you’re all right.”
“I’m fine. It’s nothing you need to worry about.”
I wouldn’t call being passed out drunk multiple times in one month fine, but I have a sneaking suspicion of why, or rather, who might be the center of the issue.
“Did you and Shawn have an argument?” I ask, referring to her on-again-off-again boyfriend who is more worthy of the dumpsters behind Billy Bob’s Big Burger Joint than my mama.
“I’m fine, Missy,” she says, with an emphasis on fine.
“Mama,” I say sternly.
Mama sighs, likely remembering that I got my stubbornness from her.
This phone call isn’t going to end until I get the truth.
“Shawn’s found himself another woman. He’s just going through a little crisis.
I haven’t been keeping up my physique is all, but he’ll be back soon as I get myself together … Well, good luck on your show.”
I flinch, having a sudden flashback to all the times she’d speak like this about herself when I was growing up. How she’d tie her worth to meaningless ideas and opinions and men.
“Mama,” I say in my most firmly loving tone. “If he doesn’t like you for who you are now, then he doesn’t deserve you. You are my mama. You are brave, smart, funny, and beautiful. One day, you’ll find someone who loves you for who you are.”
She laughs sardonically. “Oh, Missy, if only we could all be as optimistic as you.”
The words are meant as a compliment, but the tone is an insult.
Mama sighs again. “Don’t you worry about me.”
“I’ve just been called out, Josie.” I hear Deputy Rollins’s distant voice as he addresses Mama. “Fire on Peach Street. If you wait here, I can drive you back home in the next hour or two. There’s water and snacks in the break room if you want them.”
“Thanks, Deputy,” Mama says.
An hour or two? I put Mama on speaker and open the Uber app.
Mama has no car and likely has less money in her bank account than I do, which is saying something.
For a moment, I wonder how she got all the way across town from the trailer park to the park by the station, but it was likely one of her “friends” from the Corner Mart where she worked that took her there, only to leave her drunk as a skunk on a bench.
Her friends aren’t exactly what I’d call saintlike.
“Mama, I’m sending you an Uber.”
“No, Missy. Don’t do that. I’m fine here,” she protests.
“It could be hours.”
“I’m capable of waiting.”
“Too late. It’s on its way.”
Mama lets out a frustrated breath. “Fine. Goodbye, Missy.” And just like that, the phone disconnects, leaving me as speechless as the day she’d told me that I’d be leaving to live with my aunt and uncle in Colorado, and I wouldn’t be returning to live with her.
I don’t know why, after eleven years of her abrupt dismissal of me, I am still surprised when she does that—hanging up the phone or refusing to let me inside her mobile home when I visit. Maybe because it still stings.
I close my eyes and try to push away the nausea roiling inside me, the way it always does after being so thoroughly rejected by her.
Then, to save myself the emotional pain, I swiftly force my thoughts down a different path and find myself looking at my phone, opening the app to my checking account.
I immediately note that the number of dollars before the decimal is down to double digits.
The Uber was more costly than I expected.
No wonder the bank wouldn’t give me a loan.
I think of The Red Curtain, Izzy, Mama, and the dream that could be. I sigh and rest my head against the cool cement wall. “Missy Jones, what are you going to do if this doesn’t work out?”
“Missy, it’s group-picture time,” Mrs. Delgado says, surprising me in the alcove. Her tiny frame strides toward me as pure delight dances in her eyes. “I’ve got everyone set up for the picture already. All you have to do is squeeze on in the center right next to Colton.”
Gee.
“How wonderful.”