I was smiling, I hadn’t really thought about it. I was also sore and tired, had a hickey on my collarbone, and my favorite pair of black underwear was in the trash. I would also never be able to rock my knee-high boots again without having X-rated recollections of last night. I still wasn’t a hundred percent sold on the fact I could get involved with a guy who had disappointed me so much in the past, that I could trust all these things he was making me feel about him and about myself, but there was no denying I felt lighter, more normal than I ever had with a guy before.
He was the only one I had managed to have a normal, sexy, and sensual time with and I wanted that, wanted more than that really, if he was willing to offer it up. Not only did I desire this Nash, I think I actually liked him and had to admit that I cared about him. We were so entangled in this entire thorny mess I wasn’t sure how either one of us could get out of it without drawing some kind of blood and suffering pricks of irritation.
I didn’t have the luxury of turning it over in my head to the point of exhaustion. My second shift was just as busy as my first, and by the time I crawled home, I was too tired to function, let alone contemplate what I was going to do about Nash or about us. I worked the next two days in a row, and though I wanted to text Nash or give him a call to let him know I was at least thinking about him, I couldn’t seem to find the right words. On the third day I decided to do something out of the box. I sent him flowers to the tattoo shop, a pretty bouquet of roses in red, yellow, and orange that matched the fire tattooed all over him. The colors were fitting in another way as well. Red meant romance and maybe even love, yellow was kindness and friendship, and the orange passion and enthusiasm … we had those last two covered for sure. I did it partly because the idea of sending a big, tattooed brute of a guy flowers made me laugh, and partly because I wanted to show him that he was on my mind.
I didn’t stop to think if he would think it was dumb, didn’t get insecure or worry about how he would take it. I just did it and sent along a card that simply said: Thanks. I was thankful for the ride, thankful for the night in my bed, and mostly thankful for him just being him. I hoped he would understand all of it.
By the end of the day, I got a picture text message of the giant bouquet sitting in the center of the desk in the very masculine shop. No one was in the picture, but several pairs of tattooed hands were in the background throwing up the devil horns in approval. It made me laugh. Nash’s response was short and sweet:
Never got flowers before … They are as pretty as you are.
Thank you.
I didn’t know what to say to that, but it made me feel like everything I thought I knew about myself was wrong. I sent him back a smiley face and went back to work. Work was always my go-to when I had things in my life that I couldn’t seem to get a handle on.
When I got home that night I was going to call him finally but was waylaid by an emergency phone call from Faith. Apparently my mom had run into Dad’s new girlfriend at the grocery store and an ugly scene had ensued. Things had been broken, property had been damaged, and my mom ended up with assault charges leveled at her. Faith had begged Dad to convince his girlfriend not to press charges, knowing Mom would pay for the things in the store she had destroyed, but he was zero help. He wanted Mom to get help, to get over it, and I couldn’t say I totally disagreed with him. The whole situation sounded ridiculous and completely out of control. My mom had gone too far, and my words about not wanting to bail her out of jail were coming back to haunt me.
It was either have Faith load all the kids up in the car and drive her pregnant self to Brookside in order to bail Mom out, or bite the bullet and do it myself. Of course that was the only option even though it was absolutely something I didn’t want to do. So I left work, drove up to the mountain, and went and bailed my mother out of the slammer. It was ludicrous and like something off a cheesy reality-TV show, and it made me really wish I had managed to find the time to touch base with Nash because for some reason, talking to him always made me feel better.
My mother was less than thrilled to see me. Maybe because she was embarrassed. Maybe because she was covered in some kind of unidentified sticky substance and was sporting smudged makeup and an unmistakable black eye. Or maybe it was because she was led into the waiting room of the tiny precinct by a police officer younger than me still wearing handcuffs and looking pitiful. Or maybe it was because he was calmly telling her not to miss her court date and that she might want to consider starting anger management classes because the judge was sure to require them for her.
She caught sight of me and her head dropped a little. I took her arm and guided her out the front door and into my car. She didn’t say a word to me, but I could see that she was crying silently. I was torn between the urge to hug her and the urge to throttle her, but my frustration at her, the situation, and the state of the family had reached its breaking point.
I huffed out a sigh and looked at her out of the corner of my eye.
“Okay, Mom. I need to know what the plan here is. Are you just going to keep chasing every kind of pill you can get prescribed to you with a gallon of wine every day and use that as an excuse for all your behavior? Are you going to cross the line and actually hurt someone, maybe even yourself? Are you so lost in hurt and anger that you’re going to miss being a part of your daughter’s pregnancy because she is scared of what you might do? I hate to break the news to you, Mom, but no one … I mean NO ONE … is going to be willing to ride to your rescue anymore if you keep this up. At some point accountability needs to come into play.”
She didn’t respond, just continued to sit quietly crying in the passenger seat while ignoring me. I didn’t know what else to say to her. This had gotten so far out of hand too long ago and I wasn’t sure how to pull it all back in. When we got to her house I pulled into the driveway and turned to look at her. She sniffled a little and looked at me out of red-rimmed eyes.
“Your dad was my high school sweetheart. We dated all through college and I sacrificed everything so he could go to dental school. I gave him a beautiful family, and I thought we were happy. It hurts so much worse when I think about the idea that he just fell out of love with me than the fact that he moved on. How can someone’s feelings for another person just go away, Saint? After everything?”
My heart twisted for her.
“I don’t know, Mom, and I can’t pretend to understand how badly Dad hurt you, but I do know what you’re doing isn’t making you or anyone else feel better about it. Dad might have fallen out of love, but you still have two daughters who love you and grandkids who miss having a happy and healthy grandma to spend time with. We matter, too, Mom, and all of us hate to see what you’re doing to yourself.”