The Fourteen Day Soul Detox (4 page)

The water turned off and I heard
Cameron singing something to himself in the bathroom.

Peeking in on him, I found him drying
himself off and singing in a low country voice.

A chuckle escaped from my mouth.

Wrapping the towel around his waist, he
turned away from me swaying his hips back and forth.

“Woohoo,” I called.

He flexed his muscles, then flashed me
a smile over his shoulder and dropped the towel.

I laughed. “I feel like I should
go get some dollar bills.”

“Dollar bills? That hurts,”
he chuckled.

“I’d give you twenties if I
had them,” I said, grabbing the only remaining semi-clean towel
off the floor and hanging it back up. I kissed his shoulder before
leaving the bathroom.

Even though I would be heading out to
meet my sister for lunch in less than an hour, I headed into the
kitchen and made myself some oatmeal. Dumping the peaches and cream
packet into the bowl, I filled it with water and put it into the
microwave.

“I’m kind of disappointed I
won’t be able to drop by your shop at lunchtime today,”
Cameron said when he emerged a minute later fully dressed.

“You can still stop by to grab
coffee when I’m not there,” I said as I took the oatmeal
out of the microwave.

He stopped right in front of me. “Yeah,
maybe I will,” he said, then kissed me over my oatmeal bowl.
“You working at the bar tomorrow night?”

“Yeah,” I said, spooning
some oatmeal into my mouth.

“Okay, I can get here at around
five-fifteen with dinner, that okay?” he said.

“Cameron, you don’t need to
babysit every time. I mean, Susan and Beza would do it, or Amy, it
doesn’t always have to be you,” I said.

He gave me another kiss. “Fuck
that,” he said.

“I just feel bad,” I said.

“Well don’t.” He
paused for a second. “Is it okay if I give you your present
when I see you tomorrow?”

“Yeah, sure,” I said.

“I just want to be there when you
open it, and I’m already late.”

“Of course,” I said.

After crossing the room, he turned
back. He stood at the door for a second, hand on the knob, looking at
me intently.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,”
I said, giving him a little wave and a straight-lipped smile.

“Yeah, baby, see you then.”
He opened the door, and left.

Staring at the front door, I slowly
ate the peaches and cream oatmeal. Setting the bowl in the sink, I
ran water into it. I glanced into the otherwise empty sink, then at
the clean kitchen table. “Oh my god, Cameron, stop doing my
dishes,” I whispered, rolling my eyes.

I took a seat at the kitchen table,
laying my head down on my arms. Looking up to the shelf above my
refrigerator, my gaze found the black brass urn sitting there. A
large circle brass moon silhouetted a black howling wolf on the
otherwise black urn.

When I picked it out, I remember my dad
saying, ‘That looks like something you’d pick up in one
of those new-agey wannabe Indian gift shops.’ My stepmother
Sharon had smacked his arm saying to me, ‘Don’t listen to
your father, honey, it’s beautiful.’

Still, I don’t know what had
possessed me to buy that one. It did look like a Native American
wannabe picture. Like those patterns you found on ‘color your
own felt’ posters at a superstore. Yet the urn had called to me
in a weird way, a way I couldn’t refuse.

The tears didn’t rip out of me
this time, just slid out, dripping onto my arm. My phone buzzed in my
pocket, and I pulled it out.

I wiped my face with my hands, looking
down at where a text from my sister lit up the screen.

Amy:
You
should leave in five minutes to make it to the restaurant on time.

I glared at my phone.

After a minute, I texted back:
Are
you going to even be there? Or is this a birthday lunch party of one?

Amy:
Of
course I’m going to be there.

Me:
It’s
just that you uninvited everyone else.

Amy:
I’ll
explain when you get there. You should probably leave now.

Me:
You
could have handled it better, Susan thought you uninvited her because
she’s gay.

Amy:
My
goodness, I am not homophobic. Why does everyone always think that?
Don’t answer that. You should have already left by now. We’ll
talk when you get to the restaurant.

Me:
Okay,
will do.

Amy:
Stop
texting and get in your car.

I smiled at my phone.

Then I texted:
I
might have to go to the bathroom first.

Amy:
Then
go.

Me:
It
might be a while.

Amy:
I
might kill you.

Me:
Happy
Birthday to me. Alright, I’ll see you in ten.

Amy:
I
really hope so.

Knowing that lunch with Amy would be
horrible if I took much longer, I got ready in a rush and left the
house. Even though I didn’t speed, I arrived at the restaurant
five minutes early.

Rolling my eyes at the time, I parked
in the little lot next to
Mickey’s—
my dad and
stepmom’s favorite harbor side restaurant. I laughed and shook
my head as I saw my father’s big Buick parked right in front of
the staircase leading up to the restaurant.

Salty, fishy air greeted me as I
climbed out of my car. After making my way through the parking lot, I
patted the side of the black Buick. “Dad, you are officially
the worst surpriser ever,” I mumbled to myself.

I started up the steps to the pier the
restaurant stood upon. A mother and her daughter passed me going the
opposite direction, and I paused to watch them. Her extended belly
screamed pregnant, and her attention was fixed on her phone as she
walked down the staircase. Her young daughter’s pigtails
flopped up and down as she rushed to keep up with her mother. She was
maybe three years old or so, and was shouting, “Mom, can I go
play with Cynthia? Mommy! Can I go play at Cynthia’s house?”

“Maybe later, sweetheart,”
the mother said while she stowed her phone in her purse.

“But why, mommy?” the girl
said, holding her hands up in question.

“Because Cynthia is at
preschool,” her mother said. “We need to go to get—”
She looked over at me, squinting and furrowing her brow.

I startled. “Sorry, excuse me,”
I told her. “Um, congratulations.” I turned back to the
steps and continued my ascent.

Seagulls plucked up what seemed to be
pieces of bread on the dock’s planks just outside the
restaurant. A happy and familiar crab greeted me on the restaurant
door as I pulled it open.

Walking through the group of people
gathering around the host stand, I said to no one in particular, “I’m
meeting people.” Not waiting for a response, I entered the main
dining area of the restaurant. Walking between tables, I scanned the
dining room for my sister and froze.

“What the…?” I
whispered under my breath. Halfway down the long wall of windows, my
half-sister Amy sat beside my mother.

I spun on my heel, ready to head back
to the entrance of the restaurant, when a strong arm wrapped around
me.

“Hey kiddo, happy birthday!”
my dad said in his booming voice. His arm wrapped firmly around my
shoulder. His sandalwood soap smell enveloped me.

“Hey Dad, thanks,” I said,
looking over at him.

I couldn’t help noticing a few
people staring at my father, which wasn’t anything new. He
stood about six-four on a short day, and had a white mustache that
took up a good third of his face.

“Your mother, stepmother and
sister are waiting to see you,” he said, leading me toward the
table with his arm.

“Wow, yeah. The thing is, I think
I left my oven on,” I said, trying to dig in my heels.

“Shoot babe, well, how about you
give me your keys and I’ll run over to your house to check? I
wouldn’t want you to miss your birthday lunch,” he said,
still leading me to the table.

I looked back toward the door. “Um,
I’ll just be a—”

“Nope,” my dad said,
leading me straight to the table. “Look who I found!” he
said to the group.

My stepmother, Sharon, and my sister,
Amy, looked up at me. There was very little of my father in Amy
except for her height, otherwise she was pretty much Sharon minus
twenty years.

Sharon gave me a guilty looking smile.
“Happy birthday, sweetheart,” she said, her Cuban accent
thicker than usual.

Amy gave me a smile I could only label
as tense.

“Aren’t you going to say
happy birthday?” I asked.

“Happy birthday, big sis,”
she said, before pinching her lips together.

“Uh, huh,” I said. I looked
over to my mother; her dark blonde hair was still the exact shade as
mine. She looked older, wrinkles gathering at the corners of her eyes
and one creasing her forehead. “Hey Mom,” I whispered.

My mother did not look up, instead she
squeezed her eyes shut, her face somewhat turned down. “Hey
sweetheart,” she said.

My father pressed down on my shoulders
and I dropped into a chair at the head of the table. We all stayed
silent as my father took the seat beside Sharon.

“You think it’s too early
for a beer?” he said, elbowing me and throwing me a
conspiratorial grin.

“You better be kidding, Mike,”
Sharon whispered.

“A beer sounds pretty good right
now, Dad,” I said.

“So—” Amy said,
drawing out the word, “How does it feel to be thirty?”

“Pretty much the same as
twenty-nine,” I said, trying to unfold my napkin from my
silverware in jerky motions. The silverware was wrapped so tight, I
gave up.

“Hello, I see you’re all
here now,” a cheery, blond, college-aged looking guy said as he
stopped by our table. He beamed at me. “Can I get you something
to drink?”

“Iced-tea please, and some
water,” I said.

“Water for the table,” Amy
said.

“You all look nice,” I
said, glancing around. I was definitely underdressed for my present
company. Sharon and Amy were each in three-piece suits and my mother
wore a trendy-looking bohemian-style top and slacks. Well, I was
underdressed for the company, except for my dad. He wore jeans and a
T-shirt just like I did, though his was collared and quite a bit
better quality than my work shirt.

“Thank you sweetheart, you look
very nice too,” Sharon said.

My mother finally opened her eyes, her
gaze moving over me. A tear dropped from her eye, and she turned
away. “You’ve lost so much weight,” she commented.

I rocked back in my chair. “Seriously,
Mom?” I said under my breath.

“Like twenty pounds,” she
said.

“Not twenty pounds. And,
seriously, we haven’t talked in nine months and that’s
the first thing you say to me?”

Her mouth opened, jaw falling slack
before her brow furrowed. “And whose fault is that, Jay Jay?”

“So you decide to ambush me?”

She leaned toward me from across the
table. “You won’t answer my phone calls.”

“Because I need some space right
now,” I whispered.

“Your birthday is a special day
for me too, Jay Jay. You and Sarah are all the family I have left,”
she said.

“You can see Sarah anytime at the
school. I know you do,” I grumbled.

“It’s not the same, and I
don’t see her all that much, just in the hallways between
classes. I am all alone,” she whispered.

“No you’re not, Mom. I know
you spend every Sunday with Susan.”

“I love Susie, she’s like a
daughter to me, but she’s not my daughter.” She reached
across the table, touching my hand. “You shut me out.”

“I can’t do this,” I
said, pulling my hand away from hers and starting to stand.

“Jamie,” my dad said,
looking up sharply, “Sit.”

“Really, Dad? I didn’t
expect this of you,” I said.

“Just because your mother and my
marriage didn’t work out, doesn’t mean that we stopped
being a team when it comes to you. All three of us are a team,”
he said, throwing an arm around Sharon. “And we all think it’s
about time you stopped punishing your mother for doing the right
thing.”

“Yeah, okay, sure,” I said,
grabbing my purse and turning around. I almost smacked into the
waiter as I turned around.

“I’m so sorry ma’am,
but we’re out of iced tea,” he said.

“Oh, good, because I’m
actually leaving,” I told him, before stepping around him.
“Thanks anyway.”

“Jamie,” I heard my father
say in a warning tone.

“Ground me, fire me, I don’t
care, Dad. But, I’m not staying here,” I said, and walked
away from the table, shaking my head. I rushed through the lunch
crowd, squeezing between bodies.

When I exited the restaurant, the fishy
smell seemed stronger, as if it had intensified while I was in the
restaurant.

Rushing down the dock steps, I jogged
through the parking lot and unlocked my car. Once inside, my urgency
drained and I slumped forward in my seat. My head rested on the
steering wheel, as I took deep breaths in and out.

I wasn’t that surprised when the
door to my car opened and shut again.

“What the hell is wrong with you,
Amy?” I said, not looking up but knowing from her floral
perfume that it was her.

“Your mom called me a week ago;
she wanted to see you on your birthday. What was I supposed to say to
her?”

“Um, ‘no’ would have
worked,” I said, head still on the steering wheel.

“Actually, no, it wouldn’t
have. If I ever treat my mom as bad as you treat yours, I hope
someone shoots me in the head,” she said.

“Do you want to shoot me in the
head, Amy? Because let me tell you, that’d be a better birthday
present than the one you got me,” I said. “You couldn’t
have warned me?”