Crushed (18 page)

Mom makes a big deal out of greeting everyone by name, asking about their families and what not. I just hang back, waiting.

When she’s satisfied she’s remembered every important detail of her employees’ lives, Mom enters the house and surveys the scene. She won’t say anything in front of the others, but if she finds one thing not to her liking, Leticia will get an earful later.

“Hey, Mom? I’m gonna go to my room, okay?”

She waves me away like I’m the help. Fantastic.

My bag is already in my room. Since I don’t like people unpacking my stuff, Mom ordered the staff to not touch my things. They used to unpack for me, but now they just leave it. Which means everything stays in my bag.

I guess most kids would love to vacation in Hawaii. Not me. It’s like forced confinement. None of my friends are here. My parents are around sometimes. Mostly, it’s just me and Leticia. Actually, it’s pretty much always just me and Leticia.

A knock on the door. “Hi Honey, Daddy and I are going to the Club to meet with the Beckermans, and Daddy wants you to come. Mr. Beckerman went to Princeton with Daddy.”

We haven’t even been here for two hours and already it’s go, go, go. “Sure.”

Anything, even lunch with my parents’ friends, is better than hanging around an oversized house by myself.

“Sporty casual, Fletch. No t-shirts,” Mom says. “We’ll meet you at the car in ten minutes.”

Shit. I don’t know if I packed a polo or not. I dig through the bag, tossing my clothes on the floor. I find a pair of plaid shorts and a pink polo tucked into the bottom. They’re new, which means Leticia probably bought and packed them for me.

I hold up the pink polo. Why the hell not? I’m secure in my masculinity.

Lunch is a non-event. Mrs. Beckerman and Mom talk about their causes (Mom’s into Save the Music; Mrs. Beckerman wants to make sure inner-city kids can read) while Dad and Mr. Beckerman relive their college days in agonizing detail. 

Lucky for me, Mr. Beckerman heads up one of Princeton’s Alumni Schools Committees. 

“Did you get your application in yet, Fletcher?” Mr. Beckerman is a large man. Not fat, just large. He’s broad and tall, and dwarfs the straight back dining room chair he sits on.

“I did. Right before I got sick. Didn’t want to miss the suggested deadline.”

He gives Dad a knowing glance. Next to Mr. Beckerman, Dad appears emaciated instead of the hundred-and-ninety pounds I know he is. We’re built the same – tall and lanky, but he has more muscle. 

I’m guessing, from the way Mr. Beckerman kisses his ass, Dad’s bank account has a few more zeros in it.

“Then there’s no reason we can’t do a little interview.” An interview. Shit. I’m so not prepared. “Nothing to worry about, Fletch. It’s just a conversation. That’s all.”

My head bobs along in agreement. 

We’ve finished our main courses, and the waiter has brought out the aperitif menu. Dad says, “Why don’t we leave Fletch and Dano alone, and take our drinks in the bar?”

He pulls out Mrs. Beckerman’s chair, then Mom’s, and the three of them leave me alone with the oversized man. 

Well, fuck me. Dad could have at least given me a heads up.

“Tell me Fletch, how’s life at Harker? Are your courses challenging?”

I’m not sure what to say. ‘Yes’ makes it sound like I can’t handle the work. ‘No’ may seem like Harker isn’t rigorous enough. “Ummm…I’m taking mainly AP classes this year. They’re tough, but I’m doing well in all of them.”

“That’s good to hear.” His huge hand wraps around his drink, dwarfing the glass.

Mr. Beckerman asks me questions for another half hour or so. Most questions are about my plans for the future: do I see myself following my dad into the tech field; what are my favorite subjects; and what sports do I play? I half expect him to ask me about my sex life. Like, are you man enough to come to Princeton? 

When he’s done, Mr. Beckerman pushes his chair away from the table, signaling the end of our discussion, “Let’s go find the rest of our party.”

They’re in the bar. Mom’s laughing a little too loud, a sure sign she’s buzzed. 

“What do you want, Fletch?” Dad asks.

“Do they have beer on tap?”

“Guinness.” Dad and I have the same taste in beer. Probably because I learned to drink from him. He always leaves the bottom of his beer and when I was younger, I’d pick up his empties and drain them. “You’re not at school. Have something more appropriate.”

By appropriate, he doesn’t mean those brightly colored frozen drinks with an umbrella. He means a real drink. 

“Whiskey,” I say, more like a question.

Dad flags the waitress. “A Glenfiddich 30. Neat.” 

Mr. Beckerman swirls his drink in his hand. No one questions the fact that Dad just ordered a forty-five dollar drink for his underage son. 

I sip the amber liquid, enjoying the warmth spreading through my body, and zone out. The liquor and jet lag are getting to me, but I keep smiling and nodding when required, which isn’t very often. Mr. Beckerman and Dad are too busy discussing some merger or something.

Finally, after what seems like hours, Dad and Mr. Beckerman shake hands. Mom and Mrs. Beckerman air kiss each other, and I thank Mr. Beckerman for his time and tell Mrs. Beckerman it was a pleasure to meet her.

Just like I’m supposed to.

When they’re gone, Dad hits me on the back. “You did well, Fletch. We’re going to make a Princeton man out of you.”

I smile, because that sounds nice. I want to make Dad happy. 

We stumble outside and Dad says the fresh Hawaiian air will sober us up. He dismisses our driver, and we walk back to the house. It’s about a mile. We’re walking up this little hill when Mom kicks off her shoes and starts running in her sundress. She’s laughing like it’s the funniest thing in the world. Dad chases after her, pretending she’s too fast for him. When he catches her, he scoops her up in his arms and kisses her.

Behind them, I stop to pick up Mom’s shoes. They’re Louboutins. She’d be pissed if she lost them.

The sun’s setting behind them, all pink and orange and purple. My parents kind of look like one of those cheesy romantic pictures. Dad whispers into Mom’s ear, and she throws her head back and giggles. 

Two things occur to me. First, my parents truly love each other. They’ve been together since they were sixteen years old — had me when they were both barely twenty-one — and they still love each other; still want to spend all their free time together. 

The other thing I realize: they’ve forgotten all about me.

25

As soon as we disembark at SFO, Dad heads straight to work, leaving Mom and me to deal with the luggage retrieval. Actually, we’re just sitting in our car, waiting for the driver to get the bags. Mom can’t be bothered to actually do it herself.

I curl my hand around the worn strap of my backpack. Inside are three shell necklaces — one each for Paige, Calista, and Ellie. I wanted to get Ellie a little something, but worried it would be “non-friend-ish” if I didn’t give the other girls gifts too. 

“Are you sleepy?” Mom asks as her fingers fly across the keyboard of her phone. The “whoosh” sound of a sent email fills the space around us, and she slides her phone into her purse.

I rub the back of my neck and pull my shoulders back, stretching the muscles across my chest. “A little. Flying always makes me groggy.”

“You should go to bed when we get home. Try to get back on California time before Monday.”

I nod. “I probably will.” Outside, the familiar winter rain pounds the car. “Dad working late?”

“Most likely. He’s…” She hesitates. “Very busy right now.”

When isn’t Dad very busy?

“Do you want to have dinner with me before you turn in?” Mom asks.

I pat my stomach. “Sounds good. Fill me up before you send me back to Harker and prison food.”

Mom laughs. “Oh, Fletch. It’s not that bad.”

***

Saturday, I hang out with my old friends. After a few unsuccessful hours trying to skate down the Arguello hill without flipping out into traffic or bailing, we call it quits and say our goodbyes since I’m heading back to Harker in the morning. With my skateboard tucked under my arm, I jog the four blocks up Washington to my house. As usual, the front rooms are lit up, but that doesn’t tell me if anyone is actually home. 

I enter through the side door and drop my board next to some fancy bench thing I’ve never seen anyone sit on. Some people have usable furniture and some people have random shit that never gets used. Most of our stuff falls in the later category.

My stomach growls as I wander through the cavernous dining room to the kitchen. When I open the fridge, a plate with my name on it greets me.
Hello, dinner
.

While the slightly Mediterranean-smelling chicken with olives reheats, I hit the bathroom. On my way back to the kitchen, I spy Mom folded into an oversized chair in the library. She’s sitting at an angle, her head turned toward the fire, blanket over her lap. 

“Mom,” I say softly in case she’s fallen asleep.

She turns her head and blinks like she’s not entirely sure I’m real. Her eyes, red and swollen, focus on me.

“Fletch?” Her voice wavers. “You’re home early. I thought you’d be out all night.”

“It got too cold.”

Her head moves in slow motion. There’s a bottle of red wine, nearly empty, sitting on the table next to her.

“You okay?” Angry red splotches cover her neck.

She tries to smile, at least I think that’s what she’s doing. Her lips twitch, and her chin crumples. “I’m fine, honey. Just fine.”

No. Something isn’t right. Mom doesn’t drink herself into a sloppy mess before eight in the evening. At least not without Dad around. 

I sit on the leather couch across from her and put my feet on the low coffee table. Normally, she’d playfully reprimand me, telling me tables are not for feet, but she doesn’t even notice.

“How is everyone?” Mom’s perfected the art of talking without saying much of anything. Kind of like Calista.

“The same as always. Rich’s dad bought a Maserati and let him drive it the other day.” I wait from some reaction from her, anything that indicates interest, but there’s nothing. Only a blank stare into the fire. 

“Mom? You sure you’re okay?” 

“You’re a good boy, Fletch. The best. I couldn’t wish for a better son.” She turns her glazed eyes toward me. 

“Thanks.” The lines around her eyes are deeper than normal and, despite the warm glow of the fire, she’s unusually pale. 

I don't know what to do. Help her to bed? Offer her water or something to eat? Just let her keep drinking?

Silence settles between us, and the fire cracks, sending sparks into the air.

Mom rolls her wine glass between her palms before finishing the glass in a gulp. “When I look at you, I see Will at seventeen.”

“I’m eighteen,” I correct.

“That’s right, you’re an adult now.” She gestures to the bottle. “Help yourself.”

Drinking with my mom is not high on my list of things to do right now. “No thanks.”

She tops off her glass. “Do you still have a girlfriend?” Her words slur.
Oh man, Mom is tossed
. “Calista said you had a girlfriend. Emily was it?”

“Her name is Ellie, and she’s just my friend.”
But I wish she were more.

“Right. I forgot ‘friend’ is the term we use now.” She uses air quotes for the word friend. Her high, thin chuckle sounds like resignation. 

I stand and offer her my arm. She needs to sleep this off. “Let me help you upstairs.”

“Sit down. We’re not done talking.”

I recoil, unaccustomed to the hard edge in her voice. Mom never speaks to me like that. She’s always upbeat. Always cheerful. “Where’s Dad? At work?”

Her eyes narrow, and she leans forward. “Let me tell you about girls, Fletch. Calista would be good for you. She knows the rules. Unlike me, she was brought up with them.”

“What rules? What are you talking about?”

“The ones that allow men to cheat on their wives. We’re supposed to smile, pretend we don’t know, and keep quiet. But you.” She swings her glass toward me. Red wine sloshes over the side and onto her yoga pants. “
You
get to do whatever you want. Because you’re a boy. And that makes
you
. Very. Lucky.“

Uneasiness grows in the pit of my stomach.

“But women — we have to take what’s thrown at us. As long as our man brings home a paycheck, puts a roof over our head, and takes care of our kids — we can’t complain. Doesn’t matter how much we sacrifice to keep everything running smoothly, or how hard it is to be perfect all the time. No. None of it matters as long as our husbands can go off and conquer businesses, sports, women. It’s all the same.”

Some undefined feeling nibbles at the edges of my mind, and bile rises in my gut. “Mom, I think you need to stop drinking. Let me help you to bed.”

“I’m not tired, Fletch.” She slumps back into the chair. “Don’t treat me like I don’t matter. I was here first. Don’t you understand that? Me.”

I have no idea what she’s rambling about. Woman’s lib or feminism, or what?

I slip my hand around her forearm and try pulling her up, but she won’t budge. 

The way she slumps in the chair, the wine, everything about her screams defeat. “C’mon, Fletch. You’re not a dense boy. Open your eyes.” Her words hammers the sore spot growing in my brain. 

“Mom, stop it. You’re not making sense.” I offer her my hand again. “Please, let me help you upstairs.”

She crosses her arms across her chest like she’s trying to hold herself together. “Are you listening to me? I’m telling you your dad — the great Will Colson — has a hard time keeping his pants zipped up. He has a thing for fucking the cheap whores who work for him.”

Time stops. Neither of us move. Mom’s hurt gaze latches onto mine like she’s afraid to let go. I’m trying to rewind, back up, and start over. Skip the part where she accuses Dad of adultery. 

The microwave gives a reminder chirp and snaps me out of my trance.

No. Not my dad. Not my parents. She’s drunk. That’s all. “Dad loves you. I’ve seen the two of you together.”