Surrender to You (14 page)

Instead of asking what I really wanted to know, I asked a question I knew she wouldn't mind answering.

“What was the band called?” I asked.

“Rutger Rose. Not my idea.”

“Not bad. Not badass, but not bad.”

“They weren't too bad. The lead singer, Dan, had some real nice pipes. A nice ass, too.”

“I think most hair bands in the eighties required tight pants and nice asses. What about the other band members?” Yep, I could be sly when I tried.

“There was Quincy on keyboards—I had to move heaven and earth to keep him with us. He hated all the smaller gigs we had. Aaron was on the drums, and my Frank played bass.”

“A decent size.” I could imagine my mom, around my age, traveling around with a band. My heart sank a bit. Had she chosen that life instead of taking care of me?

Instead of letting my thoughts fester, I grabbed my phone, searched the band name on the Internet, and found a few hits. Including some pictures.

“Is this the band?” I asked.

I showed her an image of four guys, most of them thin and wearing enough guyliner to put a makeup artist out of business.

“Oh, yeah.” A smile really brightened her face. “That tall guy in the front with purple leather is Dan, the black guy is Quincy, and the short guy in the back is Aaron. The guy on the left is my Frank.”

She took the phone from me when I backed up. She stared at the picture for a bit. I was just as transfixed on the man who was my father. Before, I'd only had a name and known he was dead. Now I had a picture.

“I can't believe some dumbass made a fan page.” She scrolled down the page. “They never played at venues bigger than a few hundred people.”

So they never made it big.
How sad.

“Oh wow, this is
old
.” I glanced over her shoulder and saw a woman with beautiful curly red hair. She sat on the back of a truck with band equipment all around her. Her crop top and hair-sprayed locks screamed eighties, but she was gorgeous by any standard.

“That's you,” I whispered.

“I didn't think anyone would have this picture.” Her voice grew quiet. “I could barely run a comb through that thing.”

I couldn't either, which was why I had my hair pressed, but looking at the glow in her eyes and the way she smiled at the camera made me smile, too. I waited for her to say more, but she clammed up. Maybe she was remembering better times. Old photos did that to me, too. Sophie had kept a few pics from when we lived in our old apartment in NYC. Every time I saw them though, I never saw our exuberant faces—I only recalled how hard we had to work to pay the rent and scrape together money for food.

Our youth should've been a golden time in our lives. The reality was far bleaker.

“Do you want more broth?” I finally asked.

“Naw, I'm good.” She got up and headed back to the bathroom.

I used the time to clean up her room and then moved into the kitchen, but when she left the bathroom, she went into the bedroom and didn't come back out again.

At least she'd opened up a bit.

The next day, I couldn't shake the image of my mother sitting on the back of that truck, the light shining on her red hair. All day at work, the Rutger Rose fan page distracted me. They were nothing more than a bar rock band that never hit it big, but it was my mom's image that stayed with me.

By the end of the day, I couldn't take it anymore.

The salon in the hotel was booked solid for the rest of the month, but one of the ladies took pity on me when she saw my hairline.

“You work at the concierge desk, right?” one of the hair stylists asked.

“Yeah, I'm the assistant chef concierge.”

She made a face and touched my hairline. “You can't go out like that, girl.”

Since I had yet to make time to get my hair handled, I'd been wearing a headband. I had forgotten it today, which meant I'd spent most of the day flashing horrible hair. The straight to frizzy had to be ghastly.

“Come back in an hour,” the woman declared. “I'll work on two people at once.”

So I came back in an hour, ready to do something I hadn't done in a long time: I was going back to my natural hair color.

The stylist was busy, as she'd told me, but one of the assistants washed my hair first.

Next came the hard part. My hair had been dyed blond and straightened, which meant a longer dyeing time. As I sat in the chair, I hoped my mom would remember to eat dinner.

The temptation to call the house to check on her was there, but she likely wouldn't answer the phone. When I was there, she never answered the phone unless she recognized the number.

Five hours later, my hair hung to my shoulders in thick curls.

“Are you sure you don't want me to press it straighter?” the lady asked.

“Nope, I'm ready for a change,” I declared.

When she turned my chair around and I saw myself, I smiled again and again.

My makeup was gone and my cheeks were peppered with freckles. My naked lips stretched into a smile.

This was the Carlie I remembered.

By the time I left the salon, it was late at night. I still called Patty. She didn't answer so I gave in and drove to the house.

Is she all right?
In a panic, I was mad at myself for not checking up on her.

I arrived to a house in darkness.

The kitchenette was clean and I noticed she hadn't warmed up any food. I peeked in on her. Her lamp was on and she was curled on her side.

“Patty?” I whispered. Her face was in a grimace and she was breathing fast. “Are you all right?”

“I'm fine,” she murmured.

“I called the house, but you didn't pick up.”

“I didn't feel like getting up.”

I guess I was upset for nothing.
I chuckled softly. “I can imagine.”

I fetched her some medication and water. “Here you go.”

She looked at me, blinked, and then accepted her medication. “You changed your hair.”

“Yeah, I did.”

I left her to sleep. Instead of driving back to the city, though, I curled up on her couch. Hearing her breathing in the other room finally set me at ease. Normally I would've set my alarm clocks, but this time I didn't care.

The hotel sale was moving forward smoothly. The two teams from Asia continued to express interest, but neither of them had the type of portfolio I was interested in.

Carlie had been in and out of the hotel and we'd had little time to connect. Keeping myself busy with work seemed the best. Everything I wanted was right in front of me. All I had to do was sell the Goodfellow Tower and move on to the next project.

When I was thinking about Carlie, I'd distract myself with the next sites. So far, sites in London and South Korea had caught my interest.

This was my zone, though. I could focus on numbers, planning, and construction and not think about the woman who was pulling me deeper into her life.

Wendy entered my office with the latest notes from the meeting. “Is there anything else I can do for you today?”

I shook my head.

“You've been buried in work for the past few days. Would you like for me to clear your evening so you can relax? Maybe have dinner with that pretty lady I saw you with the other day?”

I never had pretty ladies coming around my office. I kept any relationships on the twenty-second floor at best.

I shook my head. “No need to clear my schedule. I have no plans tonight.” I truly didn't. Carlie was spending more time with her mother and it wasn't my place to tell her otherwise.

“Understood, Mr. Goodfellow. I'll get you those numbers for the Seoul site then.”

I jumped back into my work, ready to move on if necessary.

I woke up horrifically late. And in pain, too.

Mom's couch didn't have springs anymore, so my poor back had become one with the bumpy surface. The coils groaned as I turned over. The room was bathed in light—my first bad sign—and the house was quiet. Mom hadn't gotten up yet as I'd hoped.

I checked my cellphone and the time was far later than I wanted it to be. As in ten
A.M.
later.

I rolled off the couch and managed not to fall onto the floor. Rubbing my back didn't reduce the ache from lying there all night.

Instead of hurrying to work though, I went into Patty's room to check on her.

She was in the same position I'd left her in. Curled up on her side. How long had she slept like that?

“Patty?” I approached her, but she didn't move. I got closer until I was practically near enough to hear the slight rise and fall of her breath. Tentatively, I reached out and touched her side. Her skin was warm, but her sour sweat made me wrinkle my nose.

Was she even taking care of herself?

Let the home care person you hired take care of this,
I reminded myself. But the lady wouldn't get here until the afternoon and my mom hadn't gotten up in a long time.

I glanced at my watch again. I was already late anyway. It didn't matter. I left the bedroom and got some broth cooking on the stove. While that warmed up, I made a phone call to Mom's doctor. Then I started the shower.

Once I knocked out those tasks, I marched back into the room. “Time to get up, Patty.”

By the time I shook her a few times, she muttered and finally stirred. “I'm tired.”

“Yeah, I'm tired, too. We partied pretty hard last night.”

That got a laugh out of her. “Did we have exotic dancers?”

“Fuck yeah. You slept through the guy with the foot-long dick, though.”

“I always miss the big-dick ones.” I helped her out of bed.

“How's your stomach?” I asked.

“Shitty,” she muttered.

“After you shower, we're going to the clinic to get you checked out. I called ahead for a sick visit.”

I couldn't see her while she ambled to the bathroom, but I could feel her looking at me. I didn't turn around until she reached the bathroom.

“Do you need help?” I called to her.

“Not unless you plan to help me take a—”

“Sounds good, Patty.” I shook my head with amusement.

An hour later, I had called in to take another day off, Patty was clean again, and we were on the road back into the city for her doctor's appointment. Compared to all the chatter and complaining back at the house, Mom changed the moment we reached the medical center.

She wouldn't look at me, and she fell into a silence as she closed in on herself. Even when I pushed her in the wheelchair to her appointment, she didn't whisper a word.

Does she feel the same way about hospitals that I do?

We didn't have to wait long, and soon enough a physician checked her out. I was ready to leave the room, but Patty didn't say anything. I waited for the snide comments even during the exam. The doctor even tried to joke with her. I tried not to look during the exam, but the length of time he took to examine her abdomen made me look. Her stomach was distended and slightly discolored.

“Is that to be expected post-surgery?” I asked, finally giving in.

“A little discoloration is to be expected.” He explained how part of her intestines had to be removed due to the bowel cancer—the cancer she'd likely contracted from a poor diet as someone with celiac disease.

“Have you been taking it easy, Patty?” the doctor asked.

Mom responded with a bunch of one-syllable answers.

I jumped in and responded when she wouldn't. Somebody had to care.

“What about your diet?” he asked.

“I've been managing her meals,” I piped up.

“Are you familiar with her new diet?” he asked.

I nodded. “I was recently diagnosed with celiac disease myself.”

“Then I'm assuming you're familiar with the diet and potential complications?” he said.

I looked away and he smiled. “You're not the first or the last patient to do that.” He marked notes on his chart. “If you have time today, I'd like to schedule time for you and your mom to meet with our staff dietitian. It won't take long and she can talk to you about your lifestyle change.”

Yes, my new life was a lifestyle change.

“Thanks, Dr. Craft,” I said since I knew Mom didn't plan to.

After that, we spent the whole day in the city, from the doctor's appointment to our meeting with the dietitian. I learned more from the dietitian than I could ever glean from the Internet.

“Just don't read the Internet unless it's from a reputable source,” was her first tip. “There's conflicting information all over the place. When in doubt, consult the reading material I give you. Depending on your condition's severity, as well as your mother's, your problems from malabsorption could be worse due to what you're eating.”

Boy, does she have a point there.

After Mom's appointment, we ate lunch downtown at one of the restaurants the dietitian recommended. The moment we left the medical center, my mom was back to her old self.

“Do they have anything good here?” she asked.

“Yeah, the steak is marvelous, and I believe Dr. Craft cleared you to eat a few bites.”

That got a smile from her. “I hope you know I'm not paying for this meal.”

“This meal wouldn't be a meal with you if you didn't say
that
anyway.” As gruff as she could be, I found I rather liked her bluntness.

She was just like me.

As I watched her eat her lunch, all the while talking unabashedly about the diners around us, I couldn't help thinking about what would happen to her tomorrow. I would eventually have to return to work. Would she get up tomorrow morning?

Quitting quickly came to mind.

You need a job, Carlie. You barely have enough money to take care of yourself. What about your business in the U.K.?

I could get a part-time job closer to where she lived. I didn't sit long on the decision. I finally had her—even if she was calling the lady across the room a weird-looking hooker.

“Do you even know what a weird-looking hooker wears?” I asked.

“I was the manager of a band,” Mom replied. “I've seen hookers, Carlie. Most of them try not to look cheap and they fail.”

I rolled my eyes and a decision was made right then and there.

I'd finally found her and leaving her behind to pursue my career wasn't gonna happen.

Warmth filled my chest and the doubts pressing down on my shoulders eased. This was what I wanted.

“Patty, how would you feel about me coming over tomorrow?” I began.

She shrugged and stirred her salad around her plate. “I don't mind.”

“What if I stayed longer than tomorrow?”

She looked up at me and I found it hard to read her expression. Did I do the same thing? “You're not that bad to be around.”

“Oh really, that's good.”

“I thought the minute you walked through that hospital door it would be all about how I left you behind. I'll be honest and say it: I chose the road over you, but I did try.” She looked away briefly. “For eight months, Frank and I tried to keep you, but we lived on the road with a bunch of grown-ass men and there was no proper place for you to sleep. Having a kid in hotel rooms around a bunch of groupies wasn't good.” She bit her lower lip. “I tried…”

I reached out for her hand. I thought she'd pull away, but she let me place my hand over hers. “I always imagined you did.”

“You were a horrible baby. You cried all the damn time.”

I almost choked on my food. “I believe that's what infants do.”

“And you never wanted to stay in one place.”

“That, too.” Now she was taking things a bit too far.

“What I'm trying to say is giving up my own kid was the hardest thing I'd ever done. I'll be honest, there were times when I hated seeing you waiting for me. Seeing you meant I couldn't be free anymore. If I gave you away, I wouldn't worry about you anymore. Out of sight, out of mind.”

“I wondered about that, too.”

Her eyebrows lowered as if she wondered what I meant.

“Does out of sight, out of mind really work, Patty?”

“Not really.” Now my mom was crying.

The hard wedge we'd placed between us didn't seem like a mountain to climb anymore.

She wiped her mouth with her napkin. “So what happens now?”

“I make sure you get back on your feet, we eat strange meals that promise to be gluten-free, and you make bad jokes at my expense.”

“I think I like this plan.”