Jessica Sankiewicz - If Only We

Grandma wants to hear all about the job at River’s Bend, so Lyndsay and I take turns talking about it, her a little more than me. Grandma doesn’t notice my lack of stories. After I help put dishes into the dishwasher, she says, “So I hear we’ve got a new room to view.”

Kaitlin and I exchange a glance. She has a little bit of worry in her eyes, but I flash her a smile to put her at ease. “There is,” I say slowly.

“Well, come on, let’s have a look-see.” We all make our way up the stairs. My heart is beating rapidly, and I want to cross my fingers but can’t. As if it would make a difference.

I push Kaitlin to the front and tell her to do the honors. It is her room after all. She smiles shyly and puts her hand on the knob but hesitates. She is still worried about the reaction. When I nod to her, she opens the door and clicks on the light.

Her room has been transformed into a palace.

The dark purple encases the room in a royal glory. It bypasses the lilac by miles with its deep hue. The throw pillows match the walls, and the gold edging just adds to the regal effect. Overall, it turned out greater than I imagined.

I'm not the only one who thinks so. As everyone peers into the room with wide eyes and an open mouth, smiles start to emerge. Grandma is the first to speak. “Land sakes, my dear, this is elegant.”

“This is such a beautiful color, Kait,” Maurice says.

Lyndsay gives me a thumbs-up.

“You have impeccable taste,” Faith says as she gives Kaitlin a side hug.

I don’t make eye contact with my mom. I am still terrified of the reaction myself. Knowing she won’t make a scene with company doesn’t stop the possibility of a death stare. Her silence is making me wary.

Kaitlin is speechless. She stares into her room at her bed and the two pillows. She looks at me. “Where did you get the pillows?” she asks with bright eyes.

“Oh,” I say nonchalantly, “I found them at a boutique. One, well, actually, two of a kind. There weren’t any others left.” I didn’t want to lie again but I know if I say I made them, they will want to know when. We don’t have a sewing machine here, and the times I'm at Lyndsay’s are the times I'm supposed to be elsewhere.

“You two sure know how to decorate a room,” Grandma says with a smile. She turns to my mom. “I can see you’re rubbing off on these two, Joy.”

I cringe, expecting the worst.

“You’re absolutely right, Mother. I taught them well.”

My eyes widen as I finally look to my mom. She has a kind smile on her face.

Maurice declares, “Looks like the next step is to pick out new bed-sheets to match the wall and new pillows.”

“Really?” Kaitlin asks with a bounce. Maurice nods. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!” she says as she hugs him tightly. Then she turns and bolts over to me. Her arms wrap around me just as tight, and she says, “Thank you so much for the pillows. I love them.”

I melt at her words. Who knew how much an insignificant thing such as paint color would affect this? I had imagined her being happy. I had imagined her being grateful. I didn’t imagine this. It's all I can do to hold back the tears.

I squeeze her back and say, “You’re welcome.”

My mom hasn't said a word about the color switch since the room reveal. In fact, I even overheard Grandma tell my mom later that night that she was proud of her for allowing her stepdaughter to choose her own color. I think Grandma's words may have struck a nerve, in a good way, letting my mom know how important it is to let the little things go. As obsessive as my mom is about her house, I like to believe she has come to terms with it better than I thought possible. Talk about a sigh of relief.

I also haven't heard from Chevy yet. He promised he would call when he got back. He should have been back Thursday night, or Friday if he got a late start. Maybe I shouldn’t be too concerned. He could just be busy with work, or his phone died, or…I don’t know what else. I tried calling him Tuesday but it went straight to voicemail without ringing. I shrugged it off, thinking that maybe he turned it off while working. The same thing happened later when I tried again. I asked Lyndsay what I should do. She told me not to worry and that he'll call me back when he can.

Easier said than done.

As I walk up to Lyndsay’s house Wednesday morning, Faith is standing in the doorway to greet me. “Guess what?”

I look at her apprehensively as I step inside. “What?” I ask slowly.

“A coworker of mine saw your pillows and now she wants some of her own.”

What is she talking about? “Wait, what? How did she see them?”

She deviously smiles. “I snapped a few photos of those pillows before we left last week and shared them with the girls at work. They all thought they were adorable. When I told them my niece made them, they were floored. They kept saying how you are so talented.” She smiles proudly. “One of them is in the process of redecorating her master bedroom. She said a couple of your pillows would be a perfect accent.”

I wave my hands in front of her to stop her. “Hold on, let me see if I’m understanding this correctly. Somebody wants me to make something for them?”

She nods.

A sewing project I will be paid for? When I started this endeavor, I imagined it taking a little bit of time before it goes anywhere.

I beam. “This is great! What kind of pillows does she want?”

“She said she liked the style of the ones you made, only her colors would be deep red with black trim. She’s going to email me some pictures of the room as a reference.”

“How much is she going to pay?”

When she tells me, my jaw drops.

Faith laughs at my reaction. “Don’t be so surprised! We need to go to a craft show sometime. That is pretty much the average.”

Shows how much I know about these things. I was expecting maybe half that. “Thank you, Aunt Faith. This is just great.”

The rest of the day is spent in planning the pillows. In the excitement of my first sale, I start to plot out more ideas. They begin to flow out, a new wave of creativity at my fingertips. I had no idea how much I would love designing and sewing things myself. The stuff I made when I was little was fun but it's different now. Different maybe because I’m older and have a better sense of color and design.

When it becomes time to go home, I take the long route so I can drive by Chevy’s house. Upon seeing his car in the driveway, I am relieved he's home safe. Part of me is a little hurt that I haven't heard from him since he's obviously home. I'd like to stop in but I don’t want to come across as needy. I've already left him a couple voicemails and one text message, and even that many feels like too many.

I'm about to give up hope.

Upon opening my eyes Saturday, I have zero motivation to do anything. I can’t work on my project. I can’t go to the store for material until tomorrow. I lay on my bed browsing through fashion magazines. At least I can work on ideas.

It’s mid afternoon when the doorbell rings. Since no one else is home, I have to get up to answer it. Why does this have to happen when I’m comfortable? I trudge down the stairs to the door.

I'm not prepared to find Chevy standing on the other side.

After a week of wondering where he was, here he stands in front of me.

I must have been staring for a while because he raises his eyebrows and says, “Adrienne, are you going to let me in?”

I blink a few times, shaking myself out of the shock. “Of course,” I say, holding the door open so he can step in. “I’m just surprised to see you here.”

“I could imagine,” he says. “Could we go somewhere and talk?”

This takes me aback, but I nod. “Sure,” I say as I lead him upstairs to my room. On the way up, I wonder what it is that he wants to say. His presence after being away is creating a new kind of nervousness inside of me. I pick up the mess of magazines strewn out to make room for us to sit on my bed.

Once he sits, I ask, “What is it that you want to talk about?”

He is quiet for a moment. “I guess, first of all, I’m sorry I didn’t call you back. If I could have called, I would have. I’ve been grounded.”

“Grounded? What happened?”

He lets out a sigh. “To put it plainly, I was irresponsible. I spent an extra day in New York and, instead of calling my parents to let them know, I just showed up a day later. I didn’t think anything of it. I mean, it was only one day, right? When I got home, I was reamed out. My mom was worried and my dad was pissed because he needed me to work. ” He holds out his hand and touches his index finger. “They took away my phone.” Then he touches his middle finger. “They took away my car.” Then he touches his ring finger. “And I wasn’t allowed to leave the house unless it was for work.”

“That’s no good.”

“I know. They lifted the grounding this morning. I have my phone back, and obviously, I can go places again. But I don’t have my car since my dad has the keys and he’s not home.”

Doesn’t have his car? Then that means... “Wait…did you walk here?”

“Yeah.”

He could have just called. He could have even sent a text. “You didn’t have to come all the way over here to tell me this.”

He squirms a bit. “Maybe for that. I have something else to tell you. Or ask you.” He shakes his head. “I guess I just need advice.”

Something isn’t right, and while I am concerned, part of me is touched that he wants my advice. “I’m listening,” I tell him.

He carefully weaves his fingers together in front of him and leans forward. “That night I came home, my dad left the house after yelling at me.” He presses his lips together. “He came home drunk. It wasn’t the first time he has done that—getting mad and drinking—but it has become more frequent. That time was the first time he went somewhere to drink and drove while drunk, though.”

At hearing his words, it suddenly feels as though something has struck me in the chest. Nothing could have prepared me for this. I look away from Chevy at the wall in shock at this revelation.

Drinking. Drunk driving. Car accident. Death.

All this time I was imagining a car accident that was just that—a car accident. All this time I was thinking I just needed to make sure he didn’t drive that night. Never did I stop to think there could have been a reason, that something else could be the cause of it. That must be it. This has to be it. It’s the only thing that makes sense. Nobody told me any other details. Maybe nobody wanted to disclose that information. It all makes sense now.

“He’s been out almost every night since,” he continues, leaning back. “Two days ago, he knocked a couple things over on his way into the kitchen. He was in a rage over something, we never found out what. He just walked out of the room and crashed on the living-room couch. My mom is concerned but afraid to say anything. I want to say something but I have no idea what, or if it will make a difference. I’m afraid it's just going to get worse. I don’t want it to escalate any further. He’s my father, and I love him.” On impulse, I reach out and cover his hand with mine. He looks down at it, then up at me. He says, “I wish there was something I could do. Something I could do to change all of this around.”

There is something I can do to change this around. I have been given the chance to make a difference. Of all the things I am changing, this one is by far the most important. I know what I need to do. “Have you ever thought about an intervention?” I ask.

“An intervention?”

“Yeah, an intervention,” I repeat. “Where you gather up all of his loved ones and together you convince him to get help. Sometimes it has more of an impact on a person when they see the effects of what they’re doing to the people that mean the most to them.”

“I don’t know,” he says, letting out a long breath. “It sounds like a great idea, but I don’t even know how to do one.”

“It shouldn’t be too hard. I mean, on TV they usually just gather friends and family together along with a mediator who’s there to keep everything together.”

He holds his free hand out. “I’m not sure if he’ll even listen.”