Beauty and the Mustache (28 page)

I stared at her, trying to
determine what was at the root of this urgent request. Not
everything she said was making sense to me because she was
obviously hiding something.

Regardless, a reality that
I’d been ignoring began to seep its way into my
consciousness.

It hadn’t occurred to me
before now, likely because I was tangled and twisted in her
terminal diagnosis, and I hadn’t thought about what would come
after, but—as far as I knew—my parents were still married.
Everything that was in my mother’s name also belonged to my
father.

I let that truth sink into
my bones.

Only Momma’s name was on
the deed to the house and the bank accounts; I knew that for
certain. At least, that was the case when I was growing
up.

My parents had been
separated for two years before my grandmother died, and she’d left
everything to my mother. But my father had never given my mother a
divorce. She’d tried over the years and he’d resisted, threatened,
and made her life hell. Now I understood why. As her husband, he
stood to inherit everything.

“
Oh, Momma….” I sighed,
because I didn’t know what to do.

I didn’t want to see my
father. I didn’t want to call him. I didn’t want to have the cloud
of him hovering over her last days.

“
Ash, listen to your
momma. You need to call your daddy. I need to talk to him. He needs
to see that you all stand united and that he’s not going to be able
to manipulate any of you.”

I nodded, closed my eyes, and rubbed my
forehead with my free hand. The thought of seeing my father made me
sick to my stomach.

“
Why now?” I whispered.
“Why didn’t you divorce him years ago? Why didn’t you call him
before now?”

“
When Roscoe turned
eighteen, I filed again. I didn’t tell you about it because I
didn’t want you to worry. But we’re two years into it, Ash, and
we’re still not close to a divorce. And you know why I waited until
Roscoe came of age. You saw how it was; every time I tried to
divorce your father it was a nightmare.”

I nodded because I
remembered. The last time my mother tried to divorce my father was
when I was in high school. He didn’t just harass my mother; he
harassed all of us.

He picked up Roscoe from school then
abandoned him in a field. Roscoe was ten.

He came to my high school and checked me out
of class then took me to The Dragon Biker Bar. I spent the
afternoon frightened out of my mind. My father had men pay him for
a dance with me, which really just meant I was terrorized and
manhandled for an hour before Jackson James and his police officer
father showed up and took me home.

He went to the mill where Billy worked,
showed up drunk, and nearly got Billy fired.

The list went on and on. I
think Momma could have handled the harassment for herself, but she
couldn’t stomach watching us go through it.

“
But what if he tries
to…what if he tries to make medical decisions about your care? He’s
still your husband. Why invite him here when he can still hurt
you?”

“
He can’t, baby. Even
though we’re not divorced, we’re legally separated. The only one
who can make decisions is Andrew. That was done months
ago.”

“
Okay.” I said, feeling
close to tears again. I sucked it up, though. I didn’t cry. “Okay,
Momma. I’ll call him.”

“
Thank you, Ash.” My
mother exhaled, her eyes closed, and her body seemed to relax as
though a giant burden had been lifted.

I stood from her bedside
and was just about to cross to my cot when she said, “I have
something to tell you, Ash. It’s really important.”

I held her hand in both of
mine and squeezed. “What is it, Momma?”

“
I know you don’t like
needing people, but maybe—just this once—let yourself need someone.
Maybe let yourself need Andrew. It would help him too, I think. He
deserves to be needed by someone like you. Even if it’s just for a
short time….”

I waited for her to
continue, but she didn’t. Her hand had grown limp in mine, and I
knew she was asleep.

I watched her sleep for a
bit then went to my cot and laid on it. I didn’t sleep much that
night, for—again—obvious reasons. I tossed and turned and finally
fell asleep some hours later.

When I woke up, Drew was gone.

“
There is practically no activity that cannot be enhanced or
replaced by knitting, if you really want to get obsessive about
it.
”

―
Stephanie Pearl-McPhee,
At
Knit’s End: Meditations for Women Who Knit Too Much

If anyone had
told me five weeks ago that I would be quoting
Emily Dickenson in the woods with Drew, I would have told that
person to invest in a good psychotherapist.

If anyone had told me just
a week ago that I would be kissing Drew on the back porch of my
momma’s house as though his lips and body were my only source of
nourishment, and I would be left with a lingering craving that
could not be satiated, I would have told that person about the
alien invasion happening in Poughkeepsie. I also would’ve mentioned
that I was loyal to the kumquat trees. Because what else do you say
to the severely insane?

Yet, there I
was—consumed.

I love the fire most
because of what it leaves behind….

Ash. It leaves behind ash.

I pressed the base of my
palms against my eyes and gathered a deep breath. At present, I was
upstairs in my room, trying to take a nap before my Tuesday night
knitting group Skype call, and failing miserably. This would be the
second time I’d been able to Skype in and attend my knitting group,
and I’d been anxious all week about it, looking forward to
it.

I was tired. I had the
place, motive, and opportunity for a nap. But I couldn’t
sleep.

Earlier in the day, I’d
called my father and left a message on his cell phone. I told him
that Momma wanted to talk to him, and I hung up. Then I’d started
spreading the word to my brothers that we were going to have a
family meeting after my knitting group Skype call.

I could have been worrying
about any number of things: my father’s impending visit, breaking
the news to my brothers, my mother’s impending departure, how I was
going to butcher all those roosters. But I wasn’t.

I was thinking about Drew.

What was wrong with me?

How was it possible for me
to be feeling this way—consumed—about Drew’s kisses and words when
I was already consumed with grief for my mother and the certainty
of her death? It loomed in the distance like a deranged bully at
the end of a schoolyard.

But kissing Drew had felt
so good, and the idea of giving in….

I was quickly becoming
addicted to the way my heart picked up and my belly twisted when I
felt his eyes on me. I think I was a little in love with the way he
said my name or called me Sugar like I was sweet and he just knew
I’d taste delicious.

Frustrated and
disappointed with my behavior, I kicked off my covers with a lot
more force than was necessary and turned my face into my pillow. My
muffled growl became a muffled scream, and I punched the mattress
several times.

I glanced at the clock on
the nightstand and saw that I had only fifteen minutes until I was
supposed to call my friends on Skype. Giving up on the notion of a
nap, I grabbed my laptop and knitting bag and made my way
downstairs.

Cletus and Joe were in
with Momma. Joe was on duty, which usually meant he’d stop in for a
few minutes, maybe sit in the den for a bit and shoot the shit.
Then he usually drove off to visit another patient. Tonight he
decided to stick around. He said one of his other patients had
died, so he had more wiggle room in his schedule.

At present Cletus and Joe
were playing chess, which…I couldn’t wrap my mind around.
Regardless, they were supposed to come get me when she woke up.
Momma had slept through most of the day, and when she did wake up,
she didn’t eat hardly anything.

I’d been keeping a log of
her activities—when she slept, when she ate, how much she ate, how
long she was up, her self-reported pain level, how much morphine
she used. I hoped all the information would serve as an early
warning sign—when the time came—that the end was near. I also knew
the data gathering served as a placebo, soothed my need to control
a situation over which I had absolutely no control.

Therefore, based on all
the days that came before, today’s sleeping and lack of food intake
was a stark outlier.

I tried not to think too
much about it as I sat on the couch—where Drew had slept the night
before—and booted up my laptop. If I thought about it, I would go
crazy.

“
What are you doing?”
Roscoe asked conversationally, flopping down on the sofa next to
me.

“
I’m signing on to Skype
for my knit night.”

“
Why are you doing it out
here? I thought the wireless worked everywhere in the
house?”

“
It does. But when I tried
to do Skype from my bedroom, the video and audio kept cutting out.
The signal is best down here.”

Roscoe frowned. “Did you
tell Drew?”

“
No.” I felt a little
surge of awareness at the mention of Drew’s name, like it was a
secret, and hearing it spoken aloud was a thrill. I was truly
ridiculous.

Swatting away the
butterflies in my stomach, I opened Skype, made sure that it showed
my avatar as available, then set the laptop on the coffee table and
reached for my knitting.

“
Why not?” Roscoe
persisted. “I’m sure he’d fix it.”

“
I’m sure Drew has better
things to do with his time. Besides, I’m just thankful it works at
all. I don’t mind doing the calls out here. Why?” I glanced at my
brother. “Does it bother you? I did it here last week and no one
seemed to care.”

He shook his head. “Not at
all. I really liked your friends, especially the blonde one. They
were both hot, but Sandra scared me a little. Now, Elizabeth…she’s
the kind of health care provider I can get behind, if you know what
I mean.”

“
Ugh.” I rolled my eyes.
“You’re gross.”

“
I’m not gross. I’m at
peace with my sexuality, and I’d like to give others a piece of it
as well, spread a little peace around, get several pieces out
there.”

I stifled a giggle and
smacked him on the arm. “Well, I’ll be sure to tell
Elizabeth’s
husband
about your feelings.”

“
She’s married?” He
sounded forlorn.

“
Yes. Here, if you stick
around you can meet him. They’re just about to call me.”

“
No thanks.” He snorted,
paused, then narrowed his eyes at me. “What’s he like? Is he a
doctor too? I bet they play doctor together.”

“
Ugh! Really, Roscoe?
Really?”

“
Seriously, what’s he
like?”

I inhaled a deep breath
and held it, thought about how I would describe Nico to someone
who’d never met him. It was difficult because I didn’t know where
to start.

Nico was a famous
comedian. And he was hot. And sweet. And completely, totally, in
love with Elizabeth.

“
He’s great,” I finally
said. “They have crazy schedules and hardly see each other. He
learned how to crochet so that he could join our knitting group and
spend more time with her.”

“
He learned how to crochet
just to please a woman?”

I smacked Roscoe again.
“Yes. He learned how to crochet—for a woman. And you’re a
dumbass.”

“
I would never do that,”
Roscoe said with a smirk. “Talk about losing your man
card.”

I grunted and sighed. My little brother
would learn one day that falling madly in love with a woman and
cherishing her was how a boy earned his man card.

The indicator on the
screen announced that a call was coming through, so I clicked on
the button to accept the call. An image of Elizabeth and Nico’s
penthouse materialized on the screen, and my heart was warmed by
the sight. Sandra, Elizabeth, Janie, Fiona, Marie, and Nico were
all sitting on the large sectional in the family room; a bay window
in the background provided a stunning view of downtown.

It was Chicago. It was
knit night. My friends were there. It looked like home.

“
Ah! It’s you!” Marie
smiled a huge smile and tossed her blonde curls behind her back.
“Look at your beautiful face. I’ve missed it.” She blew me a
kiss.

Marie always looked like
she’d just stepped out of the pages of
Vogue
. Her ambition and her ferocious
need for independence could make her come across as cool and
calculating. Personally, I thought she was a badass.

“
Hey, girl.” I returned
her smile and sighed, feeling content in a way that I’d missed
since stepping on that plane to Tennessee. “Where is
Kat?”

“
She’s getting beverages.”
Marie tipped her head in the direction of Elizabeth’s kitchen,
outside the frame.