Page 77 of Miss Behaved
“How is your book coming along?” Mom pushes the last of her food around on her plate.
“Good, I think.” I rest my elbows on the table and cradle my chin in my hands. “I’m meeting with my publisher tomorrow in the city. Final shot at winning them over with the idea.”
Mom nods. “You will.”
Like she’s certain of it. She’s always been my number-one fan, reading every one of my books and raving about them even if my genre isn’t really her thing. It doesn’t matter to her; they’re mine, and she loves them anyway.
“I hope you’re right,” I say. “But maybe it’ll be better if they do just shut it down. I haven’t even been able to face the man, and somehow I think I’ll be able to write about him?”
“Maybe that’s exactly what you need to do to move on.” She reaches over and holds my hand.
“How did you do it?”
“I ran.” A deep frown forms on her face. “As far as I could. I knew I shouldn’t keep sending you back there, that leaving was for the best. But you had friends, and I didn’t want to be the reason you didn’t have a relationship with your father.”
“He did that for himself,” I tell her.
Mom nods. “I wasn’t lying; he was a good man once. Probably too far back for you to remember. I should have left long before I did. But I was afraid you’d resent me for cutting him out and uprooting your life.”
I plant my other hand over hers and squeeze it.
“I was fine, Mom,” I say with a forced smile.
“I hope you do get it out, whether your publishers go for it or not,” she says. “We all have to purge before we can move on.”
Her hands hold mine, and I realize her smile isn’t reaching her eyes.
“Now, let me get you some ice cream,” she says, clearing our plates.
Mom hands me an ice cream sandwich, and I’m thankful there are some childhood memories worth reliving. Like sneaking ice cream sandwiches to Monica when I spotted her reading on the porch. I crept up behind her and grabbed her shoulders, and she screamed so loud that her dad barreled out of the house with a baseball bat. He was so upset he made her come inside, and I had to eat both ice cream sandwiches alone.
That’s the problem, isn’t it?
A lifetime of memories, and all the good ones circle back to her.
Luckily, it’s not raining, because I have no idea where I’m going as I turn down another street and look at the paper Mom scribbled on. When I finally get to the address, I hop out to a surprisingly sunny day.
Three rows down, four to the right, and I come face-to-face with the man who made me incapable of trusting myself.
Mitchell B. Calloway
Husband and Father
I can appreciate that, even though it’s generally cordial to honor the dead, whoever decided on his epigraph skipped the false pretenses.
Husband and father. His life summed up in so few words. No matter that he was pretty shitty in both roles.
With the sun out, the graveyard’s not empty. It seems full even, like maybe people are jumping at the opportunity to visit loved ones when it’s not raining. Or maybe this is always how graveyards are, and people come here regardless of the weather because they genuinely care.
I wouldn’t know. I didn’t even come here for the burial.
I barely made it to the funeral, sat in the back of a not-so-crowded room, and listened to my aunts cry for a man who hadn’t been in their lives for at least fifteen years. That night, I was on a plane back to LA, and by the next morning I was crawling out of some woman’s bed.
Alcohol might have been how Dad dealt with his problems, but for me it was women.
I knew the only one who meant anything had gotten away. So I drowned myself in the presence of others. Temporary, fun, flings. Barely brushing the surface of getting close and then disappearing on them.
“I’m a piece of shit,” I mumble.
