Let Me: An O'Brien Family Novel (The O'Brien Family Book 2) (3 page)

But me, I see it, and I feel it every time I come home.

I pull into the spot closest to my house, struggling to keep my chin up, even though I feel more like cowering. Does my mother embarrass me? If I’m being honest, yes, and I absolutely hate myself for feeling this way.

I want to have that mother my friends do. The one I can gush all over Facebook about on Mother’s Day. The type of mother I can thank for giving me advice, taking me to lunch, and sharing her wisdom with me. I don’t have that kind of mother. But my God, I really want to.

My mother doesn’t give me advice. She gives advice to people who aren’t there. She rarely talks to me, but when she does, she calls me “Laurita” her dead sister. When she smiles, it’s because she sees something that only exists in her mind.

I handle it. All of it. And for the most part I think I do an okay job. But when she weeps . . . I feel those tears down to my soul.

My breath is visible as I hurry along. I step around a patch of ice, careful not to sink my new boots in the piles of snow pushed to the side. When I was little, I thought my mother was fun. She would play dress-up with me and pretend she was a famous actress or singer. But when I became a teen, she would still dress up, except instead of pretending, she believed she was that starlet, that person the whole world over adored.

She was the “eccentric” one for a long while. And for a time, we just accepted her as being quirky. It wasn’t until she attempted suicide that we realized just how sick she really is.

No. My mother isn’t well, and my heart breaks because of it.

I smile politely when I see Señora Estefan rush toward me. She was on “Flor watch” today, a job she takes seriously.

“Ay,
niña
,” she says, her hands falling to her sides when she sees me. “I’m sorry to text you, I know you’re working. But I couldn’t reach your Papi.”

“It’s okay,” I say, even though it’s likely not. “Where is she?”

She purses her lips, making a face that tells me that whatever she has to show me isn’t good. “She’s in Mr. Toleman’s backyard.”

My eyes widen briefly. “How did she get into his backyard?” I ask, allowing her to lead me forward.

“She knocked on his door, asking if she could pick mangoes from his tree.” Her eyes cut my way. “You know he doesn’t have a mango tree, right?”

It’s all I can do to keep my shoulders from slumping. “
Si
,
Señora
. I know.”

“Well,” she continues. “Since she was out on her own, he realized you and your father weren’t home so he invited her in until he could track me down. One thing led to another, and, well, you’ll see.”

Oh, no.

The crowd gathered near Mr. Toleman’s house part as I approach. It’s not a large group, only about seven of our elderly neighbors, but it’s a lot of people when you’re feeling self-conscious and a lot of eyes to have on you even during the best of times. And trust me, these aren’t the best of times.

I know they’re older and this is as exciting as their day gets for them, but I wish it didn’t have to come at my mother’s expense.

“Good morning,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady and hang on to what remains of my polite smile.

“
Hola
,
mija
,” “Hi, Sol,” “Good morning”, they all say at once.

These are people who’ve known me all my life. People who bought candy bars and lemonade from me, and whose doors I’d knock on every Halloween. These were the neighbors who attended my
quinceañera,
friends who clapped for me when I stepped out of my house wearing my cap and gown, and who waved to me when I left for college. They’re people who care about me and who I care about in return.

Maybe that’s why it hurts to see them now, and for them to see my mother the way she is. I avoid their stares, however well-intended and however judgmental, and race up the steps when Mr. Toleman opens his front door.

“Hello, Mr. Toleman.” I put on a brave face because I can around him. This is the same man who high-fived me every time I made honor roll.

“Hi, Sol,” he says. He frowns at the people gathered at the bottom of his stoop. “Ya should be ashamed of yourselves. Get on outta here. Can’t you see this is a family matter?”

“It involves the neighborhood,” Señora Montes fires back.

“No, it involves Sol’s mama,” he points out.

His tone is firm, but I think it’s his words that cause the crowd to disperse. It’s all I can do not to hug him.

“Thank you for looking after my mother,” I say when he shuts the door behind me and Señora Estefan.

He nods, arthritis causing a limp to his step as he moves down the dark hall. Like the other homes on the street, there’s a living room to the left and a staircase that leads up to three bedrooms and a bathroom on the right. We pass a half bath, but as we reach the tiny kitchen, he pauses to glance over his shoulder. “She didn’t seem right when she came to my door. I was afraid to let her leave.”

“Okay,” I say like I understand, even though by now I’m out of my mind with worry.

He steps aside and opens the door to his small yard. For all I was prepared to see, I wasn’t prepared to see this.

My mother, that sweet woman who used to take such pride in her appearance―who would painstakingly iron our clothes so we wouldn’t look messy, is sitting in the middle of Mr. Toleman’s yard naked, her legs tucked beneath her as she prays.

If Mr. Toleman wasn’t the man he is, he could have hurt her. He could have taken advantage of her. Jesus, anyone could have harmed her.

My eyes sting, but I refuse to break down. “Where are her clothes?” I ask, well aware of the horrible tremble to my voice.

“She buried them in the snow. I tried to keep her covered with these blankets,” he says, pointing to the pile strewn across the ground. But she keeps ripping them off.” He pauses, as if afraid to say what he says next. “Sol, from what I can figure, your mama thinks she’s at a funeral.”

A gust of wind sweeps along the row of connecting yards. It’s fucking January and my mother is kneeling naked against the frozen earth. Her lips are blue―
blue
. If it weren’t for Mr. Toleman trying to keep her warm, she’d already have hypothermia.

“Please call an ambulance,” I say, hurrying to gather the blankets.

No sooner do I cover her than she yanks the blankets from her body. I’m vaguely aware of Mr. Toleman limping into is kitchen and Señora Estefan huddling into her gray wool coat beside me. Right now my attention is on my mother as I wrestle with how best to reach her.

“Mami? Mami, can you hear me?” I ask.

She doesn’t answer, not that I really expected her to, not given her fragile state. I take a few breaths, trying to keep calm. Mr. Toleman and Señora Estefan are old school. They don’t like to cause a fuss, and prefer to keep family matters quiet. They mean well and, I don’t know, maybe called me first thinking I could control or somehow fix her. They don’t understand that what she needs is medical treatment, and a daughter who can get her act together enough to help her.

My mother is on anti-psychotic meds that my father and I force her to take. I’m serious, we literally have to open her mouth and pour them down her throat. She hates them because they dull her senses, putting her in a fog and making her feel “dopey.”

If she’s acting this way, she’s had some kind of breakdown, the meds aren’t working, or she’s figured out a way to get them out of her system. I’m leaning toward the latter, but that won’t help her now. Again, I wrap the blankets around her shoulders, and again she pulls them off.

I kneel in front of her. “Mami?” I say. “Mami, it’s me. Sol.”

Her lips move fast, muttering the Lord’s Prayer, her eyes rammed tight enough to deepen every wrinkle along her beautiful face.

“Mami?” I say again. “Mami, please open your eyes. I need to see your pretty eyes, okay?”

Like I did with Zorina, the young woman at the counseling center who played the invisible cello, I gently touch my mother’s shoulder. “Mami?”

Tears drip down her face, “You weren’t supposed to die, Laurita,” she tells me in Spanish. “You weren’t supposed to leave me.”

I bow my head, briefly. She thinks I’m her sister, the one who killed herself. “It’s me, Sol. Your daughter. Please open your eyes.”

I’m sure she won’t when she resumes he prayer, but then something shifts in her tight expression. Very slowly she opens her eyes. “
Oi
!” she says when she sees me.

Terror quickly replaces her sadness, and I realize we’re both in trouble. I speak fast, doing my best to keep my voice soft. “It’s okay. I’m not going to hurt you.”

“You’re dead,” she tells me.

Señora Estefan hitches her breath. Good for her, I can’t even breathe. “Mami,” I say. “Laurita died a long time ago. I’m Sol, you’re little girl.”

Her stare grows cold. “You’re a liar. I don’t have a child.”

Her words shouldn’t hurt me. After all, they’re coming from a woman who’s very sick. I know this, but that doesn’t stop my pain. “Mami, I’m Sol. You’re daughter.”

As I watch, my mother’s expression crumbles. “You’re dead,” she says again.

She lifts her fists, bringing them down like hammers against my shoulders. The movement is so fast, I barely catch it. Agony shoots across my chest as I go down with my mother on top of me. Her fingers grip the lapels of my red coat, using them to shake me hard. “Why did you leave me, Laurita? Why did you leave me?” she screams.

I clutch her arms, digging my nails into her skin. “Mami, stop. Mami, listen to me―you have to listen to me.”

I’m not sure if she hears me, not above Señora Estefan’s screams, not over Mr. Toleman’s frantic yells, and not with the encroaching sirens blasting down the row of homes.

My mother isn’t well. My mother is very sick. But I
have
to make her better.

.

CHAPTER 4

Finn

My legs burn as I reach my last of six miles. I slow to a swift walk, using the last two blocks to cool down. My reward for getting up at five to run? A four egg white omelet with cheese and spinach at Suvio’s Diner. It doesn’t sound like much, but when you’re cutting weight and you feel like shit, you take what you can get.

The cowbell above the door rings when I shove it open. That thing has hung there for as long as I can remember. It wouldn’t be Suvio’s without that familiar clang.

“Hey, Finnie,” Suvio calls from the back. “You want the usual, champ?”

I grin. It also wouldn’t be the same without the Philly hospitality, the kind that comes from people who’ve known you forever. “Yeah, Suv. Thanks.”

“Have a seat. I’ll be right with you,” he says.

I’m about to slide into a spot at the front counter when I notice Sol sitting in the booth in the back. The diner is a local favorite so I’m somewhat surprised I haven’t seen her here before. Then again, she’s been in school, trying to make something of herself. Can’t say I’m not glad to see her, though.

Sunlight trickles in from the window, lighting the strands of her hair brushing against her cheeks and her large gray-blue eyes. She smiles when she notices me standing there, adding an extra glimmer to her pretty stare. For a second, I think she’s going to wave me over, but then she glances back down to whatever she’s typing on her iPad. She probably doesn’t want to assume I’ll sit with her. And maybe she’s a little shy about asking.

Good thing for both of us, the last thing I am is shy.

I march forward. She’s wearing a lavender sweater and a pink scarf. The colors soften her further, not that she needs it. Sol has that whole angelic face thing going on, with an underlying sensuality that no heterosexual man in his right mind could resist.

When I saw her the other day, despite all that she was friendly and sweet, she didn’t exactly melt against me. I thought maybe she was seeing someone. When I asked Sofia about it, she told me Sol doesn’t date much which shocks me. Someone like Sol can have her pick of guys, so I’m not quite sure she hasn’t done more picking. More than once I’ve had guys mention how hot they think she is, not that I liked them noticing.

“Hey,” I say, sliding into the seat across from her. “Mind if I join you?”

She laughs a little, flipping her iPad closed and placing it into her big purse. “Looks like you already have.”

She adjusts the scarf she’s wearing, the fringed ends brushing just above her breasts. Ordinarily, my attention would fixate to her curves a little longer, but instead it returns to her smile. Like at the clinic, it lacks that extreme gleam I used to always see. It doesn’t seem right for her to be without it, so I decide it’s my duty to draw a little sunshine back into that smile. What can I say, just call me a hero.

I motion her way. “I take it you’re a morning person? Up to conquer the day and all that shit.”

“Not even a little bit,” she answers as I reach for the edges of my sweatshirt and pull. “I just had some work to catch up on.”

Her voice cuts off when I partially remove my T-shirt in the process of yanking off my sweatshirt. It’s not intentional, but I’ll admit, I like the results. I grin when I catch Sol jerking her focus from the muscles lining my chest and forcing it back onto my face.

I tug my tight T-shirt back in place slowly. “Like what you see?” I ask, adding a wink.

This time she laughs for real, despite how her face turns pink. “You’re . . .”

“Hot?” I offer.

She laughs again. “I was going to say―”

“Alpha male sexy with Greek god-like charm?” I ask, cutting her off again.

She grins, but doesn’t exactly deny it. “Did you spontaneously pick out all those adjectives? Or do you keep them handy to impress the ladies?”

I think my quickness surprised her, but I can’t say she’s completely off. “Some reporter wrote it about Gerard Butler,” I admit. “But I thought it was fitting enough.”

This time she covers her mouth to hold back her laughter. “You’re something else,” she says, dropping her hand away.

“I’ve been called worse,” I admit. “Thanks, Suv,” I add when he drops off a giant glass of water and my omelet. “You want something?” I ask Sol.