Intertwined, p.21
Intertwined, page 21
Nick stepped forward, a surge of anticipation shooting through him. “Yeah, you know him?”
She shrugged and wrestled a cigarette from her pack. She lit it, breathing deep before releasing a plume of smoke. “Who’s he to you?”
Nick hesitated. “My dad.”
The woman’s gaze swept the length of him. “I seen him around. Been a while, though. Going on four years, maybe more.” She took another drag off her cigarette, exhaling through her crooked nose. “Last I heard he was headed to Branson to find Jesus.”
Nick frowned. “Branson?”
She gave a chesty laugh that ended in a cough. “On account someone told him that’s where Jesus lived. Anyway,” the woman tossed her cigarette on the ground, “he’ll be back. They save a room for him, you know.” With that, she turned on her heel and headed inside.
Feet bolted to the ground, countless questions swarmed Nick’s brain as he watched her leave. Nausea swept over him as he closed his hand around his dad’s dog-tags. The warm metal pressed into his palm as the woman’s words pricked his heart. He looked at Tammy. “Can he really be alive? Is he . . . is my dad insane?”
Chapter 34
Standing at the kitchen sink conquering last night’s dishes, Tammy glanced at the clock. 7:45 a.m. and still no pattering feet coming for breakfast. Her kids were exhausted—as usual—after their overnight with Brody. According to Becky, she and Tylan had stayed up until well after midnight the night before. Watching television. Unsupervised. Tammy cringed, thinking of all the late-night talk shows and infomercials they had likely been exposed to.
She heaved a heavy sigh and wiped her hands on a towel. Swallowing back the surge of bitterness that soured her stomach and set her nerves on edge, she headed toward her kids’ bedrooms.
Becky sat on her bed, shoulders slumped, her diary opened in front of her.
“Hey, there.” Tammy crossed the room and sat beside her. “What’s going on, sweetie?” She resisted the urge to glance at what her daughter had written.
Becky lifted downcast eyes and gave a slight, almost indiscernible nod.
“Tough visit?”
She shrugged. Chewing on her pinky nail, she looked at her journal. “Dad’s not a Christian, is he?”
A lump lodged in Tammy’s throat. “No.”
“That’s why he . . . they . . . act the way they do.”
Adrenaline surged through Tammy. “Did something happen?”
“No. He and his girlfriend are just different, that’s all. They act so happy, but they’re really not. I can see it.”
The air expelled from Tammy’s lungs. After all this time, all her fears, all Brody’s irresponsible and ungodly behavior . . . Becky’s revelation could only come from one place. Tears sprang to Tammy’s eyes as she remembered the angry, faithless thoughts that had swirled through her head only days before. Thank You, Lord.
“I remember how the two of you used to fight.”
That they had. Over church, tithing, what television shows the kids should watch, whether or not they needed to read their Bible. Though their marriage had been rocky from the start, the moment she chose to follow Christ, the battle lines had been drawn.
Becky traced her finger along the threading in her comforter. “Can we pray for him?”
Tammy’s stomach soured. Pray for him? The man who’d betrayed her, abandoned her to raise her kids alone, who treated his children like . . . like . . . Her heart wrenched as she studied Becky’s sweet face, her soft eyes, filled with tears. Oh, my baby girl. How could she teach forgiveness and love if she couldn’t model it herself?
But she couldn’t go there. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
Wrapping an arm around Becky’s shoulder, she pulled her close. “You pray.”
Becky nodded and dipped her head, her hair tickling Tammy’s neck, just like when she was little.
“God, please save my dad so he and I can be close. So . . . so . . . he can quit having so many girlfriends and being so sad inside.”
A simple prayer, but one that cut deep into Tammy’s soul. Becky was right. The only way Brody could change—the only way he would ever be the dad her kids needed—was if God got a hold of him. What he needed wasn’t a change of attitude, but a change of heart.
Tears surfacing, she pulled her daughter close and kissed her temple. “I love you.” Holding her at arm’s length, she looked into her daughter’s beautiful eyes. “When did you get so grown up on me?”
Becky pulled away, the independent teenager in her resurfacing. “Whatever.” She rolled her eyes, a hint of a smile showing through.
She squeezed Becky and stood. “You ready for breakfast?”
Her daughter nodded, the sparkle returning to her eyes. “Yeah.”
She squeezed Becky’s hand then sauntered to the kitchen. Tylan was kneeling on the counter, an overflowing cereal bowl beside him. Flakes splattered the counter and dirtied the floor. Face scrunched and using both hands, he held a jug of milk over his bowl.
“Hold on, buddy.” Tammy rushed to his side. “Let me help you.”
He relinquished the milk and climbed down, grinding cornflakes as he went. Tammy would clean it later, once she got the kids off to school.
Breakfast served, she moved to the kids’ backpacks to check their homework logs. Grabbing Becky’s notebook, she cast her a sideways glance. “You ready for your biology final?”
Becky stared at her cereal bowl. “I . . . forgot to study.”
And Brody forgot to remind her. Tammy grabbed her daughter’s textbook and plopped it on the table and opened to the unit review. “How about you study while you eat. And at lunch.”
Becky sighed, then nodded.
Next, Tammy moved to Tylan’s backpack. He never had much homework, and even less at the end of the school year. But the kid had more fieldtrips and parties—
Oh, no. His end of school party. Was that . . . ?
She dug into his backpack and pulled up a handful of wadded papers stuffed in the bottom. Among them was a flyer for his end of school party, today’s date printed across it. Wonderful.
Hands on hips, she faced Tylan. “What time is your school party?”
He beamed, milk dribbling down his chin. “All day. Well, except for music class, ’cause of mean Mrs. Broadman.”
What exactly had Mom volunteered for? Probably a gamut of things, all highly complicated. She’d call her in a bit.
“Are you making oatmeal raisin cookies?” Tylan talked over a mouthful of food. “The ones with coconut and cinnamon? Those are my favorites!”
“No, sweetie. I’ll probably just hit the grocery store.”
His bottom lip poked out, and his shoulders hunched forward as if she’d just told him they’d be skipping Christmas. Was he worried what the other kids might think? Like maybe all the cool kids brought home-baked goods?
She sighed. “Fine.”
Tylan’s head snapped up, his cheeky grin returning. It really took very little to make him happy, and she was off for the day. In truth, it’d be fun to participate in his little shindig. Although hanging out with the other moms might prove more of a challenge. She’d never seemed to fit in with those ladies.
The low hum of a diesel engine approached followed by the swoosh of airbrakes. Tammy spun around and stared out the window. Grabbing Tylan’s backpack, she dashed out to signal the bus.
Frowning, the driver shook his head but waited long enough for Tylan to scamper out of the house and onto the bus. Becky followed a moment later to begin her short walk to school.
As soon as they left, Tammy called her mom. “Hey, I’ve got a question for you.”
“Good morning to you, too, dear.” The Wheel of Fortune theme song played in the background. “How has your week been? Have you given more thought to coming for a visit? We have Dover Days coming up, with games, carnival rides, and all sorts of food booths. I know the kids would enjoy it.”
“Listen, Mom, remember how you signed up to help with Tylan’s party?”
“Oh! Oh, my. Let me grab my—”
“No.” Tammy spoke fast, hoping to intercede before Mom made it to the garage. “I appreciate the sentiment, but there’s no time. I’m calling to find out what you volunteered for.”
“Games and snacks. I thought I’d make caterpillar cupcakes. Do you know what I’m talking about? You divide yellow cake batter into four bowls, and using food coloring, tint each one a different color. Then you bake them as normal. Make sure to preset your oven to . . .”
Tammy kneaded her forehead. Why did Mom feel the need to explain every detail?
“You know what? I’ll text you a picture and some instructions.”
“Thanks, Mom. And the game?”
“Creepy crawlers.” She giggled. “Now, this is an outdoor game. It’s not going to rain, is it? If it is, I thought they could play Buggy-charades. You’ll need several pillows and beach towels, spray bottles filled with water . . .”
By the time Mom finished, promising to send various Internet links and photos, Tammy had a raging headache. And she was running short of time. Luckily, she had all necessary supplies on hand. Except her towels were a sad state—sun-bleached and threadbare from too much chlorine. Oh, well. It was a kids’ party, not a five-star affair.
An hour later, she pulled into Pioneer Elementary’s parking lot, vehicle loaded. Rounding her car to the trunk, she popped the lid and surveyed her mound of clutter.
Of course, one plate of cookies had toppled. Although the plastic wrap kept them contained, they were now a crumbled mess. Grabbing what she could—she’d need to make a second trip for the rest—she scurried across the parking lot to check in at the receptionist’s office.
Her phone chimed. She tensed. Not now. Except today was her off day, unless Heartland had been flooded by a slew of referrals. Which would be just Tammy’s luck. She set her items down and pulled out her phone. Ugh. The call center’s number showed on her screen.
“Hello.” She glanced down the school hallway, decorated with drawings and paper cutouts shaped like balloons and flowers.
“Hi, Tammy, this is Courtney. I need you to go to Children’s Medical Center.”
“Everyone else is out, huh?” She checked her watch, calculating the time it would take her to pop into Tylan’s classroom, make afterschool arrangements for both kids, and reach the hospital.
Courtney laughed. “Believe it or not, things are pretty slow today. Knock on wood.”
“Great . . . Then why are you calling me?”
“What do you mean?”
“You know I’m off today, right?” Tammy turned at the sound of giggling voices. A group of kids—maybe six- or seven-years-old, bounded around the corner, carrying paper lunch sacs covered in paint and glitter. A tall blonde wearing a rainbow-colored dress led them.
“No you aren’t.”
“I am. Check the schedule.” Tammy held the phone between her ear and shoulder to free her hands to find her pocket calendar—just to be sure. Not that she hadn’t reviewed her schedule umpteen times this week—enough to have it memorized.
“I . . . uh . . . Hold on.”
“Sure.”
Courtney returned to the phone a moment later. “I’m sorry. I guess I was looking at the wrong day.”
“No problem.” Tammy’s heart lifted, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. She’d have the morning, uninterrupted, with her son. Thank You, Lord, for these small blessings.
By the time she made it to Tylan’s classroom, the party was already well underway. The children—Tylan among them—milled around the room, sheets of paper in their hands. The other moms gathered in a corner, talking and taking pictures.
Tammy set her goods among the other desserts—cookies made to look like monkeys, pretzel sticks dipped in chocolate and colorful candy bits, sandwiches cut into puzzle pieces.
Marcia Neilson approached with a gentle smile. “Oatmeal and raisin?” She inhaled. “Looks wonderful. How have you been? I haven’t seen you in a while.”
Kind Marcia, always ready to embrace the outcast. “I’ve been good, but . . .” Tammy glanced around the room. “Can you excuse me for a moment? I’ve got another load to bring in.”
“I’ll help you.”
“No need. I’ll be just a minute.”
After a quick hello to Tylan and his teacher, Tammy dashed out for her other items.
When she returned, heads turned her way, unhappy expressions on more than a few little faces. Tylan sat at his desk, shoulders slumped, face so flushed it looked ready to catch fire. A picked at oatmeal cookie sat on a napkin in front of him.
“Ew!” A girl with red braids spat a mouthful of food onto her plate.
Tammy surveyed the room, noting a handful of puckered faces. Others snickered, whispering to one another. Everyone looked at her. One of the other moms, a tall, blond with flawless skin and hair, regarded her with a slight, almost sardonic smile and raised eyebrows—like Tammy’d entered a formal dinner party dressed in pajamas.
Trisha, a boxy woman with long brown hair approached with a smirk, cinnamon raisin cookie in hand. “Do tell me, what did you put in these?”
“I . . .” Did she forget the sugar or something? Add too much salt?
Frowning, she marched across the room, grabbed a cookie, and bit off a chunk. She swallowed past a gag.
What in the—?
Snickers rippled through the classroom.
Little Billy Hanson slapped his desk. “That’s awesome.” He turned to Tylan and raised his hand in a high-five invitation.
Forehead crinkled and face still slightly red, Tylan looked at Tammy before unenthusiastically returning Billy’s high five.
The distinct taste of chili powder clung to her tongue as she swallowed her grotesque bite.
Then like a slow-motion replay, she envisioned herself, frustrated and rushed, grabbing various spices from her cupboard and dumping them into the bowl.
Heat crept up her neck as realization dawned.
She’d swapped the cinnamon for chili powder.
Chapter 35
Don’t lie to me. I’m done with the games.” Nick pressed his flattened hands against the surface of Mom’s kitchen table to keep from fisting them. “What happened to Dad?”
Mom’s gaze stopped near Nick’s nose. “It’s complicated.”
“Right.” Images of homeless men swam through his mind. “My dad, insane, living in . . . God only knows. All this time, I could’ve done something—could’ve helped him.” He shook his head. “How could you? He’s my dad. My dad!”
A tear slid down Mom’s face. She wiped it away. “We married young. We’d only known each other a few months when they drew his number for Vietnam. He asked me to marry him. Said we needed to get hitched before he shipped out.” She grabbed a napkin and balled it in her hand. “I was so young. Stupid. Starry-eyed. We got married a week later—down at the city hall.
“After he came back, he started acting strange, and he only got stranger as time went on.”
“Not so romantic anymore, huh? Your husband comes back broke and you move on. Cut all ties.”
She shook her head, more tears spilling over her lashes and leaving streaks of mascara on her cheeks. “It wasn’t like that. I tried.” She spoke between sobs, dabbing her redlined eyes with her wadded napkin. “To make things work, but he’d get so agitated. He had nightmares something awful, then they started happening during the day. He saw things, talked to people that weren’t there. I got scared.” She looked Nick in the eye. “Then he started talking about running away and taking you with him.”
“That’s why we moved?”
She nodded. “He was so messed up. In the head. I thought he’d forget about us soon enough, or move on. He was always going somewhere—to Vegas, Nashville, Oklahoma.” She straightened. “Your grandfather was pretty upset. Wanted to see you. He talked me into moving back.”
“And keeping your secret.” Nick’s stomach soured. Grandpa lying about his own son. Lying to Nick.
“I was so scared, Nick. So very scared. Scared your dad would show up and take you from me. Scared you’d . . . you’d . . .”
“What? Be like him?”
She shrugged. “I didn’t know what was wrong with him—how it’d affect you. I read an article on children of sociopaths—”
“He wasn’t sociopathic, Mom. If anything, he was schizophrenic. You could’ve gotten him help.”
“I tried. You have to believe I tried.”
“He returned, didn’t he? At the beginning of my junior year? That’s why you yanked me out of school and across the state.”
She stared at him a long time before nodding. “I saw him at one of your football games, filthy, his hair all matted, beard, too. His clothes . . . He looked like a . . . a . . . vagabond.”
“You should’ve told me.”
“Can’t you see? I was trying to protect you.” She reached for his hand, but he jerked it away. “What was I supposed to do? I just wanted it all to be over, so we could move on. Have a normal life.”
“Which was it, Mom? Were you protecting me or yourself?”
“There a problem?” A low voice halted their conversation.
He looked over his shoulder. His stepdad stood in the entryway, eyes narrowed.
Nick stood, his chair screeching behind him. “I’ve heard enough. Now, if it’s not too late, I’m going to find my dad. Let him know someone cares.”
Tammy stood in Vanessa’s living room, partially filled boxes and reams of packing paper scattered around her. Her kids were in the kitchen, Tylan playing a video game, Becky with her cell phone, both devouring a bag of Cheetos.
Tammy and Vanessa had been friends—connected at the hip, people used to say—since their freshman year at college. They roomed together their junior year and had been inseparable since, going so far as to find employment in the same town.
Vanessa was there when Tammy first learned of Brody’s affair. V stood by her as she fought to hold onto her marriage, ate large quantities of ice cream with her when Brody turned ugly and demanded a divorce. Cried with her on all those fearful nights when the reality of single parenting took hold.
