Embrace (Evolve Series #2) (22 page)

“Every two songs?”

“Sawyer!”

“Fine,” he rips his seatbelt out a little too hard,
“but no boy bands.”

I’m already driving at this point, my Backstreet Boy
playlist starting to shake the windows because I can. Sawyer tosses his head
back against the seat with a dramatic groan, kicking his feet up on the
dashboard. I know his big ass is uncomfortable right now, his knees scrunched
up almost touching his chin, but I also know he’s putting on a pout show that’s
awful important to him.

“So where are we going?” he frumpily asks.

I turn down his torture, aka the music. “I’ll tell
you, but unless I say different, it’s between you and me. Okay?”

“Laney, you know the drill. If he asks, I won’t lie
to him.”

“Well, he’d have to use a damn phone before he could
ask, right? Maybe by the time he gets around to doing that, I’ll have decided
he can know.”

“Did y’all have a fight?”

“Actually, no,” I pause to slap the hand sneaking
for the music, “we didn’t. So I don’t know what’s up.”

“Shit, Laney, should we stop at the next store and
check the back of milk cartons? I know my boy, and he wouldn’t ever ignore
you.”

“He’s probably just busy with work.” I shrug my
shoulders, not quite buying my own answer. It is odd, Dane usually texts me at
least five times by this hour, and the mornings I don’t wake up with him curled
around me, I wake up to a “Good Morning” call or text.

“On a Sunday?”

“He gets calls on Sundays all the time.”

“Why didn’t you stay with him last night anyway?”

“I don’t know.” Hmmm now that he mentions it, why
didn’t Dane demand I stay with him on a Saturday night? I honestly hadn’t even
been thinking logistics when he dropped me off, but now that’s it brought to my
attention, something’s not computing.

“I’m gonna text him just in case.”

“Knock yourself out; he won’t answer.”

His big fingers are tapping away on his phone and I
steal a quick glance and laugh; Sawyer’s a one finger typing bandit. I turn the
music back up, but he lunges for it desperately.

“No, no more, please! I’ll be good, I swear,” he
begs. “Back to my original question, where are we going?”

I suck in as much air as my expanding lungs will
hold, then let it out in a calming, smooth exhale. “We’re going to see my
mother. Well,
I’m
going to see my mother, you have to wait outside when
we get there. Their rules, not mine.”

“Whose rules?” He mouth twists in question.

His reaction confirms it for me; Dane hadn’t told
him my business, which I was pretty confident in, but it’s nice to have my
trust reinforced.

“My mother’s not well. She left when I was very
little and I never knew why, or where she’d gone.”

I pause, waiting for him to say something, but he
stays silent.

“Dane tracked her down, found out she has trouble.”
I refuse to say exactly what, ‘cause honestly, I don’t know enough to explain
any questions he would have. “She lives in a special home where they can help
her.”

That’s as much as he’s getting, and I can’t believe
I told him that much. But Sawyer’s all bark and no bite, one of the greatest
guys I know, and I trust him.

“Do you go visit her often?”

“Never. This will be the first time I’ve seen her in
almost a decade.”

He lets out a long whistle, rubbing a hand over his
almost shaved head. “Why today, now? Dane should be here with you for this,
Gidge, not my insensitive ass.”

Insensitive
my
ass. Who does he think he’s
kidding? If you somehow get Sawyer, I just realized I don’t know his middle
name, Beckett to take you into that caring, protective, hilarious, loyal bubble
of his…you’ve struck gold. I’m very lucky to have him as a friend.

“One, we’ve already established why Dane’s not with
me. Two, I am perfectly capable of making rash, emotional decisions by myself.
And three,” I switch hands on the wheel to use my right for the jovial shoulder
push I give him, “you’re not nearly as insensitive as you give yourself credit
for there, Biggun’. In fact, I’m grateful to know you, have you here.”

Definite PMDD. I could write a tampon commercial
write now.

“Plus, I’m fucking hot.”

And Sawyer brings us right back on track.

“And that,” I concede with an eye roll he can’t see.

W
hen I arrive, Joan, who I spoke with on
the phone, and a short, dark-haired woman with kind, smiling eyes named Tammy
meet me at the door. Joan hands me a badge to clip on my shirt right before she
runs a wand thingy over my body. While she does this, Tammy, apparently my
mother’s guardian and cousin, gushes on and on about the last time she saw me
and how cute I was. She could have fallen out of a tree and landed on top of me
and I wouldn’t have known her.

 “I need you to remove your keys, phone and any
jewelry from your pockets and place them in here.” She hands me a tray. “They’ll
be returned to you when you leave.”

I don’t say WTF out loud, but I know my face screams
it.

 “It’s for safety reasons,” Tammy says and pats my
shoulder, “they have to make sure nothing’s brought in that someone could use
to hurt themselves.”

How do you hurt yourself with a cell phone? No—I
don’t want to know.

“Your mom is having a really good day. She’s so
excited to see you.” Tammy wraps me in an intrusive hug that for some reason, I
allow. “I’m just so happy you came, Laney.”

I’m silent, not even attempting to come up with
something to say. You could hand me a dictionary and thesaurus right now and I
still wouldn’t be able to describe what I’m feeling. The culmination of every
fear, insecurity and personal guard I’ve carried for years is coming to a head.
By facing the woman waiting down the hall, I face the root of all it. If I face
the problem head on, I know longer have it to hide behind…and that makes me
feel completely and totally vulnerable.

Huh, I guess I can describe what I’m feeling after
all.

I follow them down the hall, stepping over the lines
where the tiles connect. You know the whole “step on a crack and you break your
mother’s back” thing? Yeah, that little ditty started playing in my head, and
so naturally, I’m now taking big steps like a moron. Like a scared little girl.

She’s sitting on the edge of her bed when we walk
in, head down and staring at her hands in her lap, which is covered with a 70s puke
green and orange quilt. Tammy announces our entry and her head lifts; now
her
I would know if she fell out of a tree on top of me. A few lines appear around
her eyes, not as brown as mine but obviously where I get the green hue mine
sometimes have. She’s very thin and frail looking and there’s hints of salt in
her brown hair…but I’d know her anywhere.

I don’t smile, nor does she. I don’t move to her,
she doesn’t rise. Neither of us speak.

My eyes move around her room, which is bigger than I
would have guessed and all hers as far as I can tell. The walls are a shrine
to…me. There are pictures of me on every wall, mostly yearbook shots or
newspaper softball articles that have been blown up and framed.

“Laney, would you like to have a seat?” Tammy asks
politely.

I shake my head no, still taking in all the
pictures, trying to dictate my scattered thoughts.

“Trish, why don’t you show Laney your album?” she
again persuades the start of a conversation; anything to break the ice.

“Do you want to see it?”

If every sense wasn’t secretly, acutely trained on
her right now, I wouldn’t have heard her.  Make no mistake—I may be staring at
the walls, making no eye contact, but I feel it when she blinks.

“Sure,” I reply, starting to think about maybe
moving closer to her.

From under the quilt, she pulls out a large
scrapbook; it was right under there, just waiting. “Laney won the Tennis Ball
Throw in 6
^th
grade at the Little Olympics. Second place in the 200
meter dash. Anchor on the Tug of War, they lost.”

Of course we lost! Kaitlyn had the flu and I was the
only girl on the team with any meat on her bones. Westwood’s girls were corn-fed
and smuggled in from the 10
^th
grade, I’m sure of it!

Two different laughs, blending in harmony, startle
me enough to turn and look. My mother’s face looks young when she smiles,
holding her side through the fit of giggles. Tammy is doing much the same.

Ohhh…apparently my rant about the steroid-laden
cheaters was out loud.

I’ve also shuffled one inch closer to her, drawn to the
melody of her amusement.

Gathering herself now, she turns the page. “Walker’s
walk-off made front page news in eighth grade. A two-run homer by Laney Walker
won the game and sent the Bandits to regionals. Missed that one; too far and
Tammy can’t drive at night so well.” Her fingertips trace the letters on the
yellowing page. “Laney is a power hitter, batting .480 this year. Coach Walker,
her father, expects big things for this girl.”

Her speeches are jaunty, broken, and I think
sometimes she’s reading and sometimes recollecting out loud, or maybe repeating
what she’s been told…I can’t quite figure it out.

One inch closer.

Page flip.

“’Logson lineup this year to dominate. Two freshmen
on the team the ones to watch.’”

Okay, that one was definitely verbatim from the
article.

On and on it goes until the side of my leg is now
touching the edge of her bed, and somewhere in the middle of her monologue
depicting my high school graduation, where I had no idea I was the 418
^th
person to walk on the stage, I sit down beside her.

She shuts the book and looks at me, tears filling
her eyes. “I’m sorry, Laney.”

“For?”

“Trish—” Tammy tries to cut in but gets shushed with
a brisk wave of my mother’s hand.

“For being the way that I am, for having to go. But
I’m never too far way. Did you get your flowers?”

One sentence, lots of information, and what flowers
are we talking about? I got flowers several times. I thought I had an admirer,
then a creepy stalker. Turns out I had a not-well-but-watching mom. I like the
last choice best.

“Laney?” Tammy comes to sit on the other side of me,
taking my hand. “I know this is a lot to take in, and it’s important we go
slow, talk about things over time, for your sake and your mom’s, but please
know one thing. Your mom has always loved you. She always kept up with your
life and all your great accomplishments.”

“I can tell her myself!” my mother snaps.

“Yes, of course you can,” Tammy apologizes.

It feels like it might be my turn. “I didn’t know it
was you; I thought I had a stalker. You could have signed the cards. I didn’t
know what happened to you until this past Christmas. Dane told me.”

“The young man I spoke to,” Tammy supplies.

“I know that!” My mother’s voice is still very
agitated. “Is he your boyfriend?” she asks, her question to me suddenly gentle.

I face her, now misty-eyed myself. I’m about to
discuss boys with my mother.

I’m about to discuss boys with my mother!!

Finally.

This is probably too soon and she hasn’t earned it,
except for the whole giving birth to me part, but God, do I feel like my heart
is flying—I’m having a heart-to-heart with my mom! It’s astonishing really, how
much faster the heart forgives than the mind.

“Yes,” I swallow hard, “Mom, Dane is my boyfriend.”

Her smile warms her tired face and she shyly reaches
a hand to my hair. “He’s good to you?”

“Very,” I squeak out and nod so much my head feels
like it might fall off. I sigh. “You can’t imagine.” A tear traces its way down
my cheek, maybe because I’m talking about Dane and feeling so disconnected from
him today, or maybe it’s because my mother is petting my hair.

“That’s how it should be, angel, all your heart can
hold. Laney is a good girl, never in trouble, good grades, loves her dad, so
pretty and smart. Tammy says she dresses like a lady, goes home early. Laney is
a daughter to be proud of.” Her hand continues to stroke my hair but her eyes
change, the dim light behind them now out.

What just happened? I feel like I lost her.

“I told Dad I found you. He didn’t know where you
were either. He’s not mad though.”

Great, now I have Tourette’s.

I feel Tammy’s hand come down on my shoulder so I
turn, seeing her saddened smile. “I think maybe we’re done for today, Laney.”

“I’m sorry, it just popped out. I shouldn’t—”

“Shhh, you’re fine, child. Your mama didn’t even
hear that last part. Let’s say goodbye and talk on the way out, okay?”

“Oh, okay.” I stand, confused and disoriented.

My mother is laying back now, eyes open and on me.
“Such a beautiful baby. You never cried, always just smiled and slobbered. Your
first word was ‘Dada.’ They never say ‘Mama’ first,” she comments, her laugh
laced with exhaustion.