He held Brenna before anyone else in my family even saw her.
He and I are much more alike than me and Emma, who in many ways is a mini version of my mother. But he also has a healthier relationship with my parents than I ever did—maybe because he’s the baby, or maybe because he’s the boy, or maybe because things changed once I left. After nearly two years of secret visits to my house, he confessed to them that he was in contact with me and with his niece. He even showed them pictures.
Brenna was getting older. She was becoming a little person. A smart little person. She was starting to ask questions: “Where does Uncle Jack live?” “Do I have grandparents?” And “Why don’t we see our family on Christmas, like the families on TV?”
She met my parents for the first time just days before her fourth birthday, on the same front-porch steps I’d stormed away from years before, her little hands grasping for the American Girl doll my dad held out for her. Anyone could see the elation on her face, that her world was expanding beyond just me and Jack.
That’s when I finally realized how selfish I’d been, withholding her from them. I wasn’t just hurting them. I was hurting her.
A silent understanding passed between my mother and me that day—a truce of kinds. We’ve never actually talked about what happened, but communication has always been a problem for us anyway. I’d call what we have now “civilized.”
That they dropped everything and rushed over here to take me to the hospital today? This is far from normal for us.
It takes me twenty minutes to get ready, the struggle with the most mundane tasks of pulling a shirt over my head and brushing my long hair beyond frustrating given my handicap.
When I emerge, my dad is still glued to the news. “It’s over. We’re finished for the season. Probably for the next five years,” he grumbles.
“That’s what happens when you give young men who already think they’re invincible all that money.” Mom’s head is in my fridge, rearranging the condiments. Brenna’s laundry has been sorted and folded, the worn floors look like someone’s run a mop over them, and the books on my shelf and the shoes by the door are straightened. She moved fast, to get all that done while I wasn’t watching.
I’m equal parts thankful and affronted.
“Stable condition . . . what does that even mean? Why won’t they tell us more? I think fans have the right to know! We’re the ones buying the goddamn tickets and the merchandise that pay these insane salaries! Hell, he could have a dozen broken bones in his body.” My dad isn’t one to say much, except when he’s agitated.
He must be really agitated right now.
He turns to me, a freshly brewed cup of coffee in hand. “What do you think, Cath?” He lifts the mug to his lips before I can warn him against drinking it.
As his mouth twists with disgust with the first sip I cringe, offering a soft “Sorry.” I picked up the single-serve Keurig at a garage sale for ten dollars, thinking I’d scored an amazing deal. Turns out the seller was looking to make a quick buck off trash, and I now have the worst coffee brewer known to man.
Shaking his head to himself, he sets the cup on a side table, dismissing it entirely. “How bad off did he seem?”
“He was pretty banged up.” God only knows what internal damages he sustained.
“Did he tell you who he was?”
“No. He wasn’t conscious.”
My dad frowns. “What about when you helped him get out of the car . . . He must have said something.”
“No. He never woke up.”
“Well, he must have. I mean . . . the guy’s two hundred and twenty pounds of solid muscle and you’re . . .” His gaze slides over my slender five-foot-four, hundred-and-ten-pound frame.
I shrug. “I don’t know. I was pulling on him and screaming, and then all of a sudden we were tumbling into the ditch. I guess he could have woken up just for that second? It was so hot in there, that probably brought him around. You know, self-preservation and all. I mean, he was seconds from dying, otherwise.” The more I think about it, he must have come to and lifted himself out.
“Who was seconds from dying?” Brenna chirps, pirouetting through the space.
I rope my good arm around my daughter and plant a kiss on her forehead, reminding myself that those little ears are always perked. “Can you go and make your bed for me, please?”
My eyes trail her slight body as she trots off, excited to have another task. That should occupy her for at least three minutes.
When I turn back, I find both my parents simply staring at me. They’ve been doing that a lot since I opened the door for them this morning. “What?”
They share a look. It’s my mother who answers, naturally. “We just can’t believe you did what you did. We’re—”
“I know, okay? I don’t need a lecture. It already makes me sick to my stomach, just thinking about it. It was stupid and risky and I should have thought more about Brenna and—”
“Cath!” My dad hollers. He shakes his head at me in disbelief. “She’s not trying to give you grief!”
“I was going to say, that what you did was selfless. And brave.” Then my mom does something so foreign, so unlike her—unlike us, and our relationship. She reaches for my shoulder and pulls me into an awkward hug. “You should be proud of what you did.”
I simply stand there, stiff and confused, by both her actions and her words. Do I feel proud? No, ‘proud’ doesn’t seem like the right word. Relieved that I don’t have Brett Madden’s death weighing on my conscience is more like it. And that feels selfish.
“Yes, what you did was crazy and reckless, and we”—she cuts her words off with a sharp inhale, as if she’s catching herself—“you should be proud. We are proud.”
I can’t say when the last time was I heard those words come out of my mother’s mouth. If I had to wager, I’d say that I’ve never heard anything that resembled them.
I feel my cheeks flush. “I guess I am, maybe, a little? I don’t know. I just don’t want the attention this is going to bring. For me and Brenna, and you guys. I’m afraid of what it’ll turn into.” I remember waking up to the sound of glass smashing, as someone threw a brick through the living room window. And how my dad lost his job at the paint factory after his supervisor, a good friend of Scott’s father, cited him on a bunch of bogus infractions. And how Emma wasn’t awarded the academic award when she graduated from eighth grade that spring, even though her marks were far higher than the next-best student. My mother was right—the Philips family practically owns this town, and they didn’t seem to be the type to simply let things go and move on.
“This is very different from what happened before.” My dad’s knowing look tells me he hasn’t forgotten it either. He got another job fast enough—on an automotive line, this time.
“I know, but I don’t want to give people a reason to drag that all out.”