Only One (Reed Brothers)

Carrie

I cover the mouthpiece and try not to breathe heavy enough for them to hear me. “I already made arrangements to have the beach house opened and everything. Just let me have her this summer,” my mom pleads. Her voice breaks over the line.

Please don’t let her have me this summer, I think to myself. I don’t want to go.

I haven’t seen my mother in four years. Not since she decided to leave our family. She met a man she loved more than us, and one day she just left. It was sort of like she never existed, once my dad got over his temper-fit. He threw all of her things, or at least what she left in the house, onto the fire pit in the backyard and sang “Living on a Prayer” at the top of his lungs until nothing was left but a hangover and ashes.

Dad groans. “Where are you taking her?”

Her voice is quiet. “I thought we’d go to the beach.”

Dad heaves a sigh. “Patty,” he says on a breath. I can imagine him squeezing the spot between his eyes at the top of his nose between his thumb and forefinger.

“We had a lot of good memories at the beach,” she says, her voice soft and so familiar that it makes my gut ache. But she’s not my mother anymore. She’s that woman who left. She’s that woman who never came back. “You could go with us, if you’re worried,” she says. Her voice sounds…hopeful? I don’t even know how to describe it.

“You know I can’t do that,” he says.

“Would your girlfriend mind?” she asks.

Dad doesn’t have a girlfriend. He never did after she left, but I get the feeling he told her differently. “She wouldn’t approve,” he says.

“Oh,” Mom breathes. “But I could still get Carrie? For the summer? This is the last time I’ll ask. I won’t be able to darken your doorstep after this.”

What does that mean?

“You’ll never have to deal with me again. Just let me have this last season. Please?” Her voice breaks.

“Patty,” Dad breathes. And I hear his bedsprings squeak through the phone. I can almost imagine his knees going weak, because that’s what she does to him.

“John, please?” she begs.

“Okay,” he says on a heavy exhalation. “Fine. You can have her for the summer. If…things weren’t…like they are…I would never allow it. You know that, right?”

“Yes,” she says quietly. “I know that. And I understand why.”

“I have one condition,” he says.

“What is it?”

“You have to tell her about your diagnosis before you two leave. And you have to promise to send her home the minute you’re too sick to take care of her.”

What? What’s he talking about?

“I’ll tell her.”

“We’ll tell her together.”

I step into Dad’s bedroom doorway, the phone still clutched to my ear. He’s sitting exactly like I imagined, with his index finger and thumb pressed against the bridge of his nose, his eyes closed. “You’re going to tell me what?” I ask.

“Carrie!” Mom gasps.

Dad jumps to his feet. “How long have you been listening?”

I let the cordless phone drop down to my side. “Long enough.”

I can hear my mother calling my name from down by my knee.

“We didn’t want you to find out this way,” Dad says, rushing toward me.

“Find out what?” I grit out, punctuating the words with clenches of my jaw.

Dad speaks to the phone and not to me. “You should come over, Patty. Now.”

He nods and mumbles, turning away from me to talk quietly with her for a minute. Then he turns back. “She’s on her way.” He tosses the phone onto his bed.

“What’s going on, Dad?” I ask. My heart is thumping like a crazy woodpecker lives inside my chest.

“She’s on her way, and she should be the one to tell you.”

“Tell me what?” I finally yell. He stops and looks at me. His eyes are kind. They’re always kind. Dad wears glasses and has sandy blond hair. He has a bit of a potbelly that he can’t get rid of, no matter his diet, so he doesn’t worry about it. Right now, his face is bright red and he looks like he just ran a mile.

“Your mom has cancer, Carrie,” he says, and he winces as the words come out of his mouth. He opens his arms and I fall into them. He catches me, just like he always does. All I can think as I sob into his shoulder is that I’m glad he told me before she gets here, because if she knew I cared if she lives or dies, she would have power over me again.

Dad holds me close and lets me get it all out. When I’m done, I stand back and wipe my eyes.

“Is she dying?” I ask. I bite the inside of my cheek, calmed by the metallic taste of blood when I bite too hard.

He nods. “Yes, this will be her last summer.”

“Are you sure?” I wait. The clock on the wall ticks. One. Two. Three. Four.

He nods. “I’m sure.”

“Good,” I bite out.

“You don’t mean that,” he scolds.

“Yes, I do.”

I go into my room to compose myself. My mother is on her way over to tell me she’s dying and I have to spend her last summer with her. But my mother died in my heart three years ago when she left. I refuse to mourn her twice.

I have almost enough time to fix my hair and my makeup before she arrives. I hear the knock on the front door, but I refuse to go out until they make me. Mom and Dad talk softly in the kitchen and I can smell coffee brewing. My mom is a coffee fanatic, but my dad hates it.

A knock sounds on my door. “Hey, Carrie,” Dad calls. I don’t answer, so he cracks open the door and sticks his head inside. “Your mom wants to see you,” he says. He shoots me a glare when he sees that I’m in my jammies, under the covers.

“What?” I ask, throwing my hands up.

“Get up,” he says. He’s suddenly that dad. He’s the one that has a sharp tone and a never-say-die attitude. When he’s that dad, I have to listen. I throw my book down and toss the covers back. I stomp past him, just because I can. “Carrie,” he says softly.

“What?” I ask when he grabs my arm to stop me.

He shakes his head. “Never mind.” He motions for me to proceed. “You don’t have to make this difficult, you know?” he tells my back as he follows me down the hallway.

“I’m not the one who made it difficult,” I hiss back over my shoulder.

Then I see her.

I stop.

She’s sitting at the table with a mug of coffee cupped in her hands. She looks up at me, and there are already tears in her eyes.

“Hi, Carrie,” she says quietly. She doesn’t get up or move toward me or reach out for me in any way.

“Hi, Patty,” I toss back. I go to the fridge and get a bottle of water.

Dad winces, but Mom chuckles. I didn’t expect that.

The last time I saw my mom, she was pleasantly plump. She wore Spanx and loose-fitting shirts and pants with elastic waistbands.

Now she’s not her.

She’s someone else.

She’s someone skinny with short, patchy blond hair that sticks out at odd angles. She raises her hand and absently strokes across the top of her head when she sees me staring at it. I step closer to Dad. I want him to touch me. I want him to ground me. I want him to make it all right. But he just hitches his hip on the counter.

Mom clears her throat. “So, about the summer,” she says. She swallows so loudly that I can hear it.

“About the summer,” I parrot. I don’t know what else to do or say. I lift my water bottle to my lips and take a drink.

“So, you don’t want to go with me, do you?” she asks. She looks hopefully up at me.

“No.”

“You’re eighteen. I can’t force you.” She shrugs.

“I can,” Dad murmurs. I look up at him and he glares back at me. I want to stick my tongue out at him, but he’s that dad right now.

“We can go sailing,” she sings. “We can fly kites. You always did like to fly kites.”

“When I was eight.”

“We can take long walks on the beach. You used to love to look for seashells.”

“When I was five.”

“Some of your friends still live there.”

“Which ones?” I ask, before I remember that I’m supposed to remain aloof.

“Amber and Rose.” She looks up at me from lash-less eyelids. “And that boy you used to like.”

“When I was fourteen.”

“We could leave right after graduation. I’ll pick you up, and we can all go to dinner to celebrate, and then we can go to the beach.”

I look up at Dad. “Are you going, too?”

He shakes his head and pretends to sort through the mail. “Not this time.”

But isn’t this supposed to be the last time?

“So, it’s settled,” Mom sings again. She swipes a hand beneath her nose and sniffles. “We’re going to the beach.”

“Yay,” I say, deadpan.

“Carrie,” Dad growls.

I force the corners of my lips to turn up. “Yay,” I sing, pumping my fist in the air. “We’re going to the beach!” I look up at Dad. “Can I go back to my room now?”

He glances toward my mother and she just shrugs. He leans over and kisses my forehead. He smells like wood chips and aftershave.

I start toward the hallway, and my mom’s voice calls to me.

“Carrie,” she says. I look back toward her. “I think I’m supposed to tell you that I’m dying and that this will be my last hurrah and that I want you to share it with me. But I’m just going to tell you that I want to spend the summer with you, even if you act like this the whole time, because I’ll take what I can get.”

Tears start to burn my eyes and I blink them back furiously. “I’ll go,” I whisper.

Dad puts his hands on my shoulders from behind and squeezes. “But she vows not to enjoy a single minute of it.”

Mom laughs. But it’s a sound with no joy in it at all. “I’ll take it.”

I nod and run toward my room. I go inside it and lean heavily against the wall. I leave my door cracked so I can hear what they’re talking about. But they’re so quiet that I can’t hear a thing. I do know, however, that my mom doesn’t leave until the early hours of the morning.