Day ten? Fifteen? Of not speaking to Kyle is going as expected—terribly. He’s sent me several texts since my injury, but I haven’t dared to open them yet. It’s been three days since the last one, though, and I can’t say I’m surprised he’s stopped. I’m the worst friend ever, after all.
But the whole mess with Kyle is only a pebble in my shoe compared to the text I woke up to this morning.
My mother wants to see me. After a year of no contact, and even longer of not meeting face-to-face, she’s now decided it’s time to barrel into her daughter’s life, acting as if nothing was amiss.
“Hey, princess.” My brother’s voice greets me from the other side of the line. He sounds happy, which is a shame because I’m about to ruin his mood for the rest of the day. Or the week. “How’s that ankle?”
“Better. I can move it a little,” I respond. It hurts a bit today, but I don’t need to worry him further. I love Sammy, but he’s such a dad. “Are you at work?”
“I’m on my lunch break.”
I already knew this, but I wanted to confirm.
“I’m tattooing Aaron again, so he won’t mind if I stay on the phone a little longer.”
Aaron is Grace’s older cousin, although they grew up as close as siblings—I call him Uncle Aaron for a reason.
“What’s he going for?” I ask as I adjust myself on the bed. After giving my pillowcase a quick sniff, I make a mental note to call one of my friends to help me change the sheets because this is getting gross.
“Hanna’s footprint on his chest,” my brother says.
Hanna is Aaron’s third child and only daughter, born four years ago, and she’s the most adorable thing I’ve ever seen. She definitely gets her stunning looks from my aunt Emily though, no matter how much Aaron insists she’s all him.
“That’s cute.” I clear my throat and decide I don’t want to keep stalling. “Hey, guess who texted me today.”
The air shifts. We aren’t even in the same state, but somehow, I feel it. My brother knows.
A loud sigh drifts over to me. “Mom?”
“Yep.”
Another sigh, this time a little louder and a lot more frustrated. “What does she want?”
My fingers find a loose thread in the blanket I usually throw over my bed. “She said she wanted to meet but didn’t tell me when or where.”
“What did you answer?”
I gulp. “I haven’t. Yet.”
My palms start sweating, and I remind myself my brother isn’t going to chew me out for this. Ever since he became my legal guardian when I was four, he’s made sure I saw our mother whenever I could. He never spoke ill of her in front of me, never tried to pit me against her. It’s always been important to him that we had a good mother-daughter relationship, despite the circumstances.
He stopped trying, eventually, and I can’t blame him for it. I’m at fault for that. She made sure I knew that crystal clear.
“What do you want to do?” His voice turns somber, and I internally curse myself for it. I knew I was going to ruin his good mood, but I can’t not tell my brother. Without him I’m lost.
“I don’t know,” I mutter. When it comes to my mother, I can’t seem to tell right from wrong. My head and my heart are too tired to make the effort. “What do you think I should do?”
“I won’t tell you how to deal with this, Maddie. This is your life, and this is your relationship. I don’t have a say in it.”
He called me Maddie.
Maddie.
I haven’t heard my name on his lips in… I can’t remember the last time my brother didn’t call me “princess” or any other of his endearing nicknames. Why does it feel like he’s just stabbed me in the chest?
I get that he’s pissed about our mother not having contacted us in a while, and I know he’s not angry at me, but… Fuck. Maddie?
“Okay.” I swallow past the uncomfortable lump in my throat. “I’ll let you know what I want to do when I decide.”
“Don’t be upset, peanut. What’s wrong?” His voice turns softer, less frustrated, and it makes me feel a little better.
“Nothing,” I lie, and I bet my left arm he can smell the bullshit a mile away. “I’m just exhausted. It’s been a long week.”
He hums like he knows I’m not telling him the whole story. To be fair, I don’t think I know it myself. “So physical therapy is going well? Is Dr. Simmons as good as they say?”
He’s good with his hands, all right.
Wait.
No.
Stop, Maddie. He’s like, a hundred years old.
“He’s…great.” I clear my throat and hope my brother is too tired to notice my voice sounds a bit higher for some inexplicable reason. “He’s really good. Progress is slow, but I’m optimistic.”
“That’s what I want to hear,” he beams.
My mouth tilts up just barely. “We’ll talk later, okay?”
“Okay, princess.” He hesitates. “Whatever you decide about Mom…”
“I’ll run it by you.”
“What? No.” He almost sounds offended. “What I was going to say is that I’m here for you no matter what you decide. We all are, all right? Do what’s best for you, and don’t think about anyone else.”
I gulp. “I’ll do that.”
“Good.” He doesn’t sound too convinced, but he doesn’t press either. “Text me later. I love you.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose, a massive headache coming out of the blue and blinding all my senses. “I love you too, Sammy.”
And just as if my mother been summoned by a strong force of the universe, not even five minutes after ending the call with my brother, my phone buzzes with a new text.
Mom: I’ll be in Norcastle Friday. Are you free for dinner? You pick the place.
I intertwine my fingers to stop my hands from trembling. It doesn’t work.
✽✽✽
Something that used to surprise my therapist back in Warlington was that, despite having been only four, I remember quite a few details of my time living with my parents.
I recall the smell of my mother’s cheese omelets—my favorite food from childhood—and the sound of alcohol as she poured it into a glass every night. She thought I was asleep when she did it, but I always ventured out of bed for a while because I wanted to find out what adults did while kids slept. I was never too impressed.
As for my father, no happy memories remain. Mainly because we made none together, or as a family of three for that matter.
Something I do remember about him, though, is his face. I’ve never forgotten it because I still see it in my restless dreams.
Pete is—or was, I don’t know if he’s still alive—a few years older than my mother, and it showed, despite my mom not being the most healthy-looking woman her age. Drinking so much took its toll on her in more ways than one.
My father was tall—but not taller than my brother—and balding the last time I saw him, with a limp body. His crooked nose, as well as his thin lips, gave him a mean look that was pretty accurate to what lay underneath the surface.
The strong smell of smoke that always clung to his clothes, and the way he wore socks with holes in them inside the house. I remember him being at home a lot because, from what I’ve been told, he used to lose his jobs often; that didn’t mean he ever made time to play with me. He never paid me any attention at all, as if I were just another cockroach under the fridge he was too lazy to kill.
Despite his obvious dislike for my father, Sammy never bad-mouthed him while I was growing up. He wanted me to have a good relationship with both of my parents, even if at least one of them didn’t deserve it. He wanted me to have that choice, but his efforts didn’t pay off.
I hate Pete with every fiber of my being. Not only for what he did—and didn’t do—to me, but also for the way he treated my mother. How he neglected her, and how he made her already decaying mental health even worse.
A mother that is about to walk in any minute now.
Monica’s Pub is the only place I could think of to have dinner with my mom. I feel safe here, my former workplace, and Monica knows enough about my relationship with my remaining parent to step in if I give her a panicked look. She never asks too many questions either, which is a plus.
Agreeing to meet her is probably not a smart idea. As Dr. Simmons insisted, I should be resting as much as I can, but my mother is too unpredictable for me to let this opportunity pass me by. Who knows when the next time she remembers she has a daughter will be.
And yes, technically I could text her sometimes too. I used to do that—until I went ten months without a reply and didn’t see the point in reaching out anymore.
There’s a fine line between being a good person—a good daughter—and being foolish.
I fidget with the menu between my nervous hands before setting it aside, not knowing why I picked it up in the first place. I know every dish by heart.
“You good, honey?” Monica sets a glass of cold water in front of me. She’s in her late forties, has a blond perm, and is by far one of the coolest, most selfless people I know. I lucked out the day she hired me to be a part-time waitress here because she “liked my energy.”
I manage a small shrug. “I could be better.”
She opens her mouth to say something else, but she doesn’t get the chance because the door chimes and my mother walks in.
Here we go. Showtime.
Larissa Callaghan looks around the pub, her eyes full of disdain like it physically disgusts her to be here, and I mentally slap myself for not thinking of this sooner. According to my brother, she’s been sober for the past few years, but what if she’s one of those people who relapses as soon as she sees a bottle of whiskey?
I’m such a shit daughter.
“We can go somewhere else,” I blurt out when she reaches my table, the first words I’ve spoken to her in a year.
My mother lowers herself into the cushioned seat in front of me with far more poise than I remember her ever having and gives me a small, lopsided smile. “This place is fine.”
She sets her bag next to her, and it’s only when she notices I haven’t uttered another word that she clears her throat. “How have you been, sweetie?”
I wrap my hands around the cold glass just to feel like I’m holding onto something solid. “I’m in physical therapy for my ankle.” Straight to the point. Ice broken.
A barely there frown appears on her forehead before she notices the crutches at my side. She gasps. “Maddie! What happened to you? Are you okay? When did this happen?”
An uncomfortable feeling crawls up my spine, and I shift on my seat. “I injured myself while dancing a few weeks ago.”
There’s no point in telling her about the audition I missed. It’s not like she’s ever been that invested in my education, and it would lead to too many questions I don’t have the strength to answer tonight.
She shakes her head like she can’t believe it. “You said you’re in physical therapy for it. Is it working?”
“Yes.” That is one truth I couldn’t be more grateful for.
“How come you’re in Norcastle?” I change topics before taking a sip of water to clear my clogged throat. She lives in Warlington, just like my brother and Grace.
“I’m not staying for long,” she says as she flags down one of the waitresses. “Dave had to come here for business, and I convinced him to stop by today so I could see you.”
My stomach twists unexpectedly. “Who’s Dave?”
Monica arrives to get our order before she can answer. I ask for the usual—a burger with extra cheese—and my mother only orders an iced tea. “You don’t want to order anything to eat with that?” Monica asks, swiftly looking my way.
My mother gives a tight smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “No, thank you. Just an iced tea would be great.”
When she suggested we meet up for dinner, I didn’t think I would be the only one actually having dinner. But okay.
Once Monica leaves, my mother turns to me. “Dave is my boyfriend, honey. We’ve been together for a year. He’s the cook in the new restaurant I started working at, and we just…clicked, I guess. He’s getting a promotion, so he had to travel for a training course, and I came with him. You know how it goes.” She lets out a small chuckle as if anything she’s just said is funny. It’s really not.
My mother has proved time and again that she has horrible taste in men. Not because she picks the ugly ones—that would be the least of her problems—but because she always ends up with the assholes. My father is very much included in that category. He might be at top of it actually. Although Sammy’s own dad might be number one, seeing as how he abandoned them before my brother was even born. That couldn’t have been easy on our mom, given how they were only sixteen.
She never lasts long with any of them either, but the consequences of their asshole ways do. My brother says she’s never loved herself enough to set any kind of healthy boundaries. I agree, and I’m grateful that I was raised in a very different environment.
“He’s a good man,” she adds when I say nothing.
I just nod. Nothing nice would come out of my mouth, and it’s not like she would listen anyway, so there’s no point.
A couple of minutes of awkward silence pass by until she asks, “So, um, you graduated a few months ago, right? Have you found a job yet?”
I take another sip of water. At this rate, it will be empty before my burger gets here. “I’m figuring it out,” I opt for, which is better than confessing I didn’t listen to my body and now I’m paying the consequences. “I work here sometimes.”
Her trimmed eyebrows shoot up at that. I’ve never seen them done before, and it surprises me to see her look so polished and collected. But I refuse to think this is it, the moment she decides she’s ready to get her life together. It never is.
“What is it that you do? Waitressing?”
I nod. “The owner is the woman who came by to take our order. She’s a good boss. I always get out on time, and it pays as well as you’d expect. The tips are good.” It feels weird, I’ve just realized, to have a face-to-face conversation with my mother after so long. “But I’m not working right now because of my ankle.”
“I see.”
A few moments later, Monica arrives with the iced tea and my burger. “Enjoy.” She winks at me, and I only manage to give her a sad excuse of a smile in return.
“If you don’t mind me asking,” my mother starts as I take the first bite. “How do you pay for rent if you’re not working right now? Do you live with roommates, or…?”
She knows the answer to this. She does, but she wants me to say it for some reason.
I chew slowly, taking my time before swallowing my food with some more water. And then I say what she wants to hear. “Sammy pays for it.”
Her lips thin at the mention of my brother’s name. I don’t know why, since it’s the exact answer she’s looking for. The answer she knew she was going to get.
“Business must be going well, then, since he can financially support his daughter and his sister.” There’s a hint of bitterness in her voice, almost as if she hated the idea of her own son being successful in life.
I don’t know what happened between them for our mother to have turned so bitter toward him, or if anything’s happened at all, but I don’t like it. I’ll always be on my brother’s side, which is why I refuse to reveal any details about his life.
“Yeah.” If she’s only meeting up with me to fish for crumbs about Sammy, she’s going to leave this pub very, very disappointed. “How’s work?” I ask her to shift the focus of our conversation.
It works. “Luckily, great. It’s tough to find a job at my age, but I’m happy at the restaurant for now. It doesn’t bring much money to the table, but it’s fine since Dave and I split the bills.”
Since…
Another headache starts building up. If she and this Dave guy split the bills, it means they are already living together. Is she going to let another man dictate her life?
I bite into my burger again and decide to ignore that comment. I don’t have the mental strength for a confrontation.
Maybe meeting her tonight was a mistake. Am I really risking my ankle’s recovery for a mother I barely know? For a mother who doesn’t seem to learn?
Her words from four years ago assault my head before I can stop it.
You never gave your mother a chance, Maddie. You pushed her away.
“I’m glad you’re doing well,” I say, banishing the demons in my head. But it’s not a lie, it really isn’t. Even if she’s never been the greatest mother, she isn’t a bad person. She isn’t evil. She just…has some issues. It would be amazing if she acknowledged them and worked to fix them like she did with her alcohol problem, but I don’t have a say in that.
I eat in silence while she sips on her drink and looks around the pub, and I wonder what she’s thinking. She might be wondering why I work here, in this dark place that smells of greasy food and pine-scented floor cleaner, but it’s not like she has any room to judge. Just because she has trimmed eyebrows now doesn’t mean she’s moved up in the food chain or something.
I feel bad for being so judgmental for all of three seconds—until she opens her mouth.
“Are you sure you want to work here? This place looks…” She glances around again and shakes her head. “I don’t know…sketchy. Maybe you should find something else, like a cute coffee shop downtown or something.”
Swallowing the last bite of my burger, I try not to snap. “Sketchy how?”
I’ve worked at Monica’s Pub since I turned nineteen, and sure, it might not look exactly cozy, but it’s far from sketchy. Monica loves this place and always makes sure both her clients and her staff are happy and in a safe, fun environment. Not once have I ever felt in danger while working here, not even when the older men get a little too drunk and flirty.
I can defend myself—Sammy and Grace made sure of it—and everyone here knows not to mess with the staff anyway. Monica won’t hesitate to kick them out of one of the cheapest bars in town, which is the last thing they want.
And it hurts, it really stings, that my mother of all people would judge where I work. My brother, I would understand, but even he agreed having a job would be good for me.
So why is my mother, someone who barely knows me, suddenly pretending to know what’s best for me? Suggesting that I find another job?
This is laughable, if only I had it in me to find it funny.
“It’s too far away from everything,” she explains.
I bite my tongue and only say, “There’s a metro stop two minutes away.” A metro stop that leaves me a block away from my apartment. It doesn’t take me longer than fifteen minutes to get here, tops.
“Yes, but I assume you end your shift late at night. The metro can be dangerous, and it’s full of…strange people sleeping there and everything.”
I count to ten in my head. Now she worries about my safety?
Where was this concern when she left an empty bottle of alcohol on the floor the day I tripped over it and had to be rushed to the ER with a bleeding head?
Where was this concern when she would leave me alone at home for hours, while she thought I was asleep, to have a few drinks at the bar down the street?
But I bite my tongue again. My brother raised me better than to lash out at people, even when I think they deserve it. He isn’t here, but I still don’t want to do something that would disappoint him if he found out. I wouldn’t put it past my mother to call him and reprimand him for the “poor way” he brought me up—as if it had been Sammy’s job to take care of me in the first place.
“Monica knows this,” I explain, aware that it will fall on deaf ears. “She lets me leave earlier, when the metro is still somewhat crowded.”
She purses her lips, like that’s not good enough, when Monica’s shown more concern about my safety in the two years I’ve known her than my own mother in twenty-one.
“I don’t know, Maddie. It still doesn’t sound safe to me. Maybe you can switch shifts so there’s still daylight when you leave?”
“I only work here part-time, and I make a lot of money on tips. People barely come here during the day, so it wouldn’t make sense.”
“How about…”
I don’t hear the rest of it. My brain tunes her out, unable to focus on anything else but him.
I don’t understand how I haven’t spotted him until now, but he’s right there.
Right there.
And his eyes are directly on me.
Dr. Simmons is here.
Shit, shit, shit.
I look away, but it’s too late.
He’s sitting with who I assume is a friend, a man who looks around his age, and the shock of seeing him dressed without his scrubs is too much. I mean, I’m not blind. I can tell he’s bulky under his PT attire, but now it’s all the more obvious. That black T-shirt is about to burst from how stretched it sits across his chest, and his arms are easily bigger than my head.
Arms I touched.
A sexy, model-like Dr. Simmons is a sight I didn’t need to see.
Sexy as in, objectively sexy. Of course.
It’s difficult to see his mouth since it’s partly covered by his short beard and the bar is so dark, but I swear his lips are pressed in a thin line. Great, he’s pissed.
I mean, obviously. I don’t think his range of emotions is too wide.
“Maddie?” my mother asks as she waves a hand in front of my eyes.
I blink. “Sorry.” I’m not sorry at all. At least not for tuning out our conversation. “I… I need to use the restroom.”
She gives me a strange look but nods, and I grab my crutches as quickly as I can manage. It’s humiliating, I realize as I walk away, that he’s seeing me. Outside, when I should be resting. If he scolds the hell out of me on Monday, I will totally deserve it.
Passing by the bathrooms, I push the emergency exit at the back of the bar with my shoulder and walk outside. It’s dark, but nobody comes back here except for the rest of the staff on their smoking breaks. I take breaks, too, even though I’m not a smoker, but only because it’s unfair that they get to kill their lungs and chill for a few minutes, and I only get to work. Yeah, not happening. If they can avoid drunk old men for five minutes every hour, so can I.
I rest my head against the brick wall behind me and take a deep breath through my nose.
I should’ve known meeting my mother wouldn’t be easy, and now on top of that, Dr. Simmons knows I’ve been ignoring his instructions. Great.
A panicky sensation clings to my lungs, one I’m too familiar with but have spent years avoiding. And I’m usually successful—except that day at the clinic.
It’s one of the two things I’ve always kept from my brother, my panic attacks, if only to not add one more weight on his shoulders.
Exhale. Inhale. You’re grounded. You’re safe. You can leave your mother and call an Uber if you want. Nobody is holding you hostage here.
Knowing that I have a way out of the situation usually helps, but it proves to be a bit more difficult tonight.
I hate to say it, and I don’t want to put all this blame on her, but I can’t ignore my feelings either.
Her sudden concern for me has triggered this response, and now my chest feels like it’s burning and drowning at the same time.
I’m wondering how that’s even possible when the back door opens.
And Dr. Simmons steps out.
Into the dark alley. With me.
Shit.
He doesn’t say anything, but he sees me here. I know this because he stands away from the door, only a few feet from me, with his hands in his pockets. He doesn’t look my way.
Having him here calms my nerves, or maybe it’s just that I don’t want to embarrass myself by having another panic attack in front of him.
Either way, my brain forgets about my mother and chooses to focus on a much safer, yet also dangerous thing—his smell.
I’ve been around that wood and spice aroma and that fresh-scented shampoo fragrance so many times I could probably identify him from the smell alone, eyes closed and in a throng of people. And that’s why I suspect I’ve gone insane.
The invisible clock between us ticks by, and he still doesn’t say a word. To be fair, neither do I. My mother may be thinking I’m locked in the bathroom or have a severe case of constipation, but I don’t care. I’d rather be out here, standing in silence next to my physical therapist in a dark alley.
“Are you okay?”
His voice startles me. One would think I’d already be used to it, and I am, just not outside the clinic. It’s so deep and rough, he should consider getting those vocal cords checked out.
I’m surprised he cares enough to ask and that my ankle isn’t the first thing he mentions.
“I’ve been better.” I’m too tired to come up with a lie.
He doesn’t reply to that, and I find his broody silence oddly comforting. I get the impression that he doesn’t ask too many questions, like Monica, and that’s exactly what I need right now. Someone to just…be here. To listen and then act like I didn’t say a thing. I need the exact opposite of my brother. I love him to death, but he can be overbearing.
Dr. Simmons still doesn’t look my way as he asks, “Do you have a way to get home?”
My heart stammers inside my chest, wondering why he’s asking and why it sounds like he’d offer to drive me if I said no.
Don’t be stupid.
“I do,” I say, my throat dry. “But thanks for asking.”
He grunts something under his breath. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
No. “Yes. I’m fine, really. You can go back inside with your friend.”
I glance at him with what I’m hoping is an easy expression on my face. His, in turn, is all hard edges and unreadable stares. “Apply some ice to your ankle when you get home. It might be swollen.” A pause. Then: “Come find me if you change your mind.”
And just like that, without a spare glance or a goodbye, he turns around, hands still in his pockets, and leaves the way he came.
And me?
I’ve never been more confused.
