Becca Ritchie - Addicted for Now

I stick to a safe subject. “So next semester, you’ll be at Wharton and Rose will be in New York.” They both graduated from college in May (along with Ryke), and we threw a small celebration for all of them a couple weeks ago.

Connor’s dream came true—an acceptance to Penn’s prestigious Wharton School of Business for his MBA. Rose always scoffed at grad school. She thinks it’s just a piece of paper to brag over, at least for someone who’s an heir to a fortune. So she’ll spend her time at the Calloway Couture office in New York City, commuting from Princeton, New Jersey.

“That’s the plan,” Connor says.

I’m worried for them, and I know neither Rose nor Connor would appreciate my concern. But long distance relationships are difficult, and I can see all the drives back and forth not being worth the trouble—especially if Rose continues to struggle with her intimacy issues. She conquered sleeping in the same bed as Connor during Cancun, but she has yet to make the leap to sex.

I want her to find love and the fireworks, but nothing I do or say will change her problems. I’m just her little sister, and a broken one in her eyes.

Connor’s gaze falls to the floor where a comic book is splayed—the page opened to a pair of giant naked boobs and an erect penis. “Lily.”

“I wasn’t looking at it!” I defend. “I mean, I was, but then I wasn’t.” I grimace. How can speaking be this hard? I take a deep breath and realign my thoughts. “I was flipping through it and then when I came upon the…” I frown. “…genitals. It burned my eyes and magically flung from my hands.”

“I’ll forgive you for the hyperboles if you’re telling the truth.”

“I am! Cross my heart.” I start drawing crosses over my heart with my finger, but then I get confused. “Am I supposed to draw Jesus crosses or X’s?”

“Sometimes I wonder if we speak the same language.”

“X’s,” I say with a nod, ignoring his slight. “Definitely X’s.”

He returns to the contract, and I sidle to the window, peeking through the blinds to check for paparazzi or sketchy men lurking on the side street.

I don’t know how to vanquish this fear. I have an overwhelming desire to hide in the bathroom and masturbate my anxiety away. But I want to feel like I did in Cancun. Safe and not so crazy compulsive. I yearn for that stasis again.

My new therapist doesn’t seem equipped to help me, and I can just imagine his methods to combat this fear, a monster-sized shock machine in hand. So I refuse to share my anxieties with him.

But I won’t drown in self-love either. I’m going to try something new, and just wade in my unease until I figure out how to handle the close scrutiny and media properly. Until I figure out how to breathe again.

I feel like a creep.

Sitting in my rental car for an hour and staring at the same four-story brick house. The lawn has newly mowed lines, a sign poking from the grass: McAdams Middle Honor Student.

Maine carries a breeze that beckons people outdoors, but I’m still rooted to the seat, my joints frozen solid. My biggest fear is staying in this damn sedan, coming this far and not mustering the courage to walk up the driveway.

I can smash a bottle of liquor on another guy’s door, but I can’t put one foot in front of the other to say hi to a woman. There’s irony somewhere in that. And maybe if I wasn’t scared out of my fucking mind, I’d laugh.

I rub my neck that gathers with nervous heat. I should have brought Ryke and Lily like I originally planned. When I told Lily I was looking into meeting my mother, she was nothing but supportive. They both wanted to come.

But I ended up only buying one plane ticket.

I have to do this on my own.

No one has entered or exited the house. From the outside it resembles a normal middleclass family home. It’s what I could have had. Normal.

I let out a long breath and run my hands through my hair. Just go. Just get it over with, you fucking bastard.

Before I can process what I’m doing, I climb from the car and reach the mailbox. I breathe like I’m in the middle of a five mile jog. Inhale. Exhale. One…two…three. But I’m not sprinting. I’m not running. I’m barely walking.

 My worn sneakers land on the front stoop. My legs weigh me down. My shoes, however ugly, are filled with lead.

I raise my fist to the door, falter and drop my hand to my side. Come on. Do it. I’ve replayed conversations in my head, thinking about this moment for years. Come on, Loren. Grow the fuck up.

Inhale. Exhale.

One…two…

I ring the doorbell.

The door opens. And my mind goes blank.

A woman stares at me with an identical stunned and stupefied expression. I never called her, never warned her about this meeting. I was too scared that she’d shut me down. I just wanted to see her face, hear her voice, all at the same time.

She’s young, not even forty. I search her features: slender nose, thin lips, and shiny brown hair. I suddenly realize I’m looking for me in her.

“I’m—”

“I know who you are.” Her voice is velvet, the kind you can close your eyes and fall asleep to. I bet she reads her kids bedtime stories. The thought knots my stomach. “I’ve seen you on the news.”

I wait for her to invite me in, but she grips the knob like she’s seconds from swinging the door in my face.

“What are you doing here?” she asks.

I’m not sure what reaction I expected. My dad—he told me that she didn’t want me. I thought, maybe, he was lying. I still grasp to that futile hope that she cared for me like a mother would a son.

Inhale. “I just wanted to talk.” My voice sounds coarse compared to hers. Like an animal to an angel. It fucking sucks. And I can’t stop staring at her, like she’s moments from being ripped from my memory.

“There’s nothing to talk about.” Her eyes carry apologies even if her words don’t.

“Right,” I say and nod to myself. I could walk away. I could leave it at that. I’ve seen her. What else do I need? What the fuck am I searching for? “You’re my mom.” I want to take back the words as soon as I say them.

She cringes, the door shrinking closed, but she stays beside it, wedged between the frame. And she stares at me like I’m a mistake, a black mark on her resume that she’s been trying to scrub clean. She doesn’t say it, but I can see the phrase all over her face. You’re not my son, not really.

She didn’t raise me. I was a bad part of her life that she’s been trying to forget.

She clears her throat, uncomfortable. “Did Jonathan tell you anything?”

“Not much.”

“Well…what do you want to know?”

The open-ended question takes me aback for a second. What do I want to know? Everything. I want all the answers that have been kept from me. “What happened?”

“I was a teenager…” She glances over her shoulder for a minute and then says, “I was young and was easily drawn to a guy like Jonathan. We slept together once. That’s it. And I was careless, and that’s why you’re here.”

Something nasty sits on the tip of my tongue, but I swallow down the more spiteful retort. I sweat through my shirt, so fucking hot. I wipe my brow and say, “So that’s what I am to you then?”

Her eyes flit past my body. A neighbor across the street stares hard from his mailbox, and I wonder if he’s trying to place me—figuring out where he recognizes me from.

“You can invite me in,” I offer.

She shakes her head and clears her throat again. “No. It’s best if you stay outside.”

“Right.” That’s all I can say without yelling, without screaming everything that weighs on my chest. Why didn’t you come back for me? Why didn’t you fucking care? I’m your goddamn son! I spent years without a mother, without that maternal figure. The most I had were the people who paraded in and out of my house in the mornings. Makeup-smeared, half-dressed women who had no words of wisdom for me, no answers to my problems, no sweet, nurturing voice to ease me to sleep.

“You have to understand…” Her eyes fall to the ground. “I didn’t want you.”

“Yeah, I got that,” I say sharply. My father was right. I shouldn’t have sought her out.

“I was in high school,” she says. “I was just a girl, and I planned to go to college, to have boyfriends and a life. You were going to take all of that from me.”

You were going to take all of that from me. The words ring in the pit of my ears.

I stare at the bright sky, just staring, just looking for something that will never reveal itself to me.

What the hell am I doing here? Not just here, at this house. I feel like I was born to destroy people’s lives. I did it before I even came into the world. And I did it after. You were going to take all of that from me.

“Out of respect for Jonathan, I told him that I was going to an abortion clinic.”

I shut my eyes, and a hot tear slides down my cheek. I wipe it. Exhale. “I wish you went through with it,” I suddenly say. Because then I wouldn’t have to bear this pain. My face wouldn’t twist this way. Lily wouldn’t have spent her childhood in my broken house. Her mother would have loved her as much as she did her sisters. Ryke would have grown up with two parents instead of one. My existence ruined so many people, so many things. Life would have been easier without me.

“What?” Her velvety voice spikes.

“You heard me,” I say, no longer nice. “I wish you would have killed me.”

She pales. “You don’t mean that.”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

She touches her lips for a moment, just staring at me. “Because…your father, he gave you everything.”

You have everything, Loren. Don’t be such an ungrateful little shit, Loren.

“Yeah,” I nod. “He gave me everything.” Before she can speak, I ask, “So what stopped you? Your parents? Some religious belief? Cold feet?”

“Jonathan stopped me,” she says. “He was furious with the idea of losing his child. We came to an agreement. I would have you, and then you would be his entirely. I would get the life I planned, and you’d grow up in luxury, something I wouldn’t have been able to give you on my own. I thought you would be happy.”

“Yeah, I’m still working on the happiness part.”

I wait for the flash of regret to fill her eyes, but it never comes. I’m the spoiled rotten heir, the one who drinks until he’s wasted. The one who went to rehab like it was some publicity stunt. And I have a sex addict girlfriend.

Emily quiets as a school bus rolls to the curb. The doors open and middle school kids dart out. A girl with my light brown hair and my nose adjusts her backpack, walking towards the house.

Emily forces a smile for her daughter. “Hi honey, can you go inside please?”

Her daughter squints at me, fixing her large round glasses on her nose. “Aren’t you Loren Hale?”

I hate that a middle school girl knows me. My face is all over the tabloids. Yesterday, they dissected a photograph of me leaving a restaurant hand-in-hand with Lily.

And then it hits me fully.

She’s my half-sister.

“Yeah, that’s me.”

“And you’re at my house…? Do you know my mom?”

Emily waits impatiently for her daughter, about to interject, but I do her a favor and shut down her inquiry.

“Not really,” I say. “She’s a friend of my father’s.”

“Mom,” she whispers. “You know famous people?”

Emily shrugs, her shoulders stiff.

And then my eyes catch a pin on the strap of the girl’s jean backpack. Mutant & Proud. What are the odds? “You like X-Men?”

“The cartoons,” she says. “X-Men: Evolution.”

“My girlfriend likes those too.”

“You mean your fiancée? I just read in Celebrity Crush that you’re getting married.” She rocks on her feet and pushes her glasses further up her nose as they slide down. “Is it true?”

“Yep, it’s true.”

Her eyes brighten like she’ll have something good to tell her friends tomorrow at lunch.

Emily widens the door so her daughter can pass. “Willow, inside please.”

Willow examines me with an inquisitive gaze before she resigns to her mother’s pleas. And then she slips indoors and out of sight.

“You named your daughter after a Buffy character?” Maybe we like the same things, I stupidly think. Probably because Willow strangely does.