She pursed her lips together wiggling them back and forth as if she was seriously considering her answer to that question. Finally, she let out a heavy sigh. “I guess I owe you an explanation, and you’re old enough now to hear it.”
My eyes focused in on something in her hand. She was gently rubbing the edges of it with her fingers and holding it close to her body.
“What’s that?” I asked, pointing at the object. I noticed the way her shoulders slumped, her gaze following my finger to the picture.
Mom blew out a long, exhausting breath of air like she was trying to expel some kind of demon or smoke from her lungs. It was something she did when she was angry or frustrated. She would take these deep breaths and blow them out, over and over, until she felt like she had a grip on the situation. “Come and sit down for a second,” she insisted, patting the wooden stool next to her and spinning back toward the breakfast bar. “I want to show you something.”
Her voice was different than usual. It seemed weak, a little bit broken maybe, and that made my already aching heart twist a little more. I hurried over pulling myself up onto the stool and finally getting a look at the picture she’d been holding onto so tightly. She pushed all the other papers and things away leaving a clean space and placed it on the marble counter and sliding it toward me.
I picked it up gently with my fingers, the picture looking like it was reasonably old. “I don’t get it,” I said quietly as I examined the photo. It was taken on the Las Vegas strip in front of the Las Vegas sign. We’d been down there a couple of times during summer vacations and done all the touristy things. “Who is that?” I asked curiously, pointing at the young woman in the picture. Her hair was straight and inky black and cut into a sharp bob. It had this Catherine Zeta-Jones inChicagovibe, but maybe just a little longer and minus the sixties style clothing. She was wearing a pair of Daisy Dukes and a sparkling blue bikini top.
I turned to look at Mom, and she had an amused smile on her face. “That’s me, you weirdo.” She laughed. “Who else would it be?”
I leaned back, my eyes wide and my mouth hanging open. “Excuse me, but when did you ever have black hair?” I asked, narrowing my eyes on her straight, ashy blonde locks.
“I wasn’t always a parent, you know,” she replied with a splash of sarcasm in her voice. “Before your grandparents died, I had a different life, one where I went out and had fun.”
Taking a couple of breaths, I tried to calm myself, but it wasn’t just the hair and the fact she was dressed like a hussy that were my only concerns.
She wasn’t the only person in the picture.
There was a man with her.
My mom was tucked into his body, her arms wrapped around his waist while his face was turned to the side and dipped to her ear. His arm hung around her neck and over her shoulder casually, but also kind of like he was showing everyone who she belonged to.
“That’s your dad,” she whispered, leaning in closely and peering over my shoulder at the photo with a nostalgic look on her face. I heard the words she’d said. I think in my mind, I already knew who he was before she said it, but I still felt my stomach try to leap up and out of my mouth.
He had dark glasses on, and with the way he was turned away from the camera, most of his face was hidden, but I still examined every inch that I could see. The short, spiky beard which covered his jawline and mouth I imagined was probably tickling the hell out of my mom’s face, and I wondered if that’s why her smile was so huge.
“Is he kissing you?” I inquired, my voice soft with awe and interest.
Mom sat back, her hand going to her mouth to cover her laughter like she was shocked it had bubbled up unexpectedly. She composed herself and cleared her throat. “Um… no… he was just whispering—”
She didn’t have to finish the sentence. I held up my hand screwing up my nose in disgust. “Um, no… do not finish that, please.”
My mom, the fucking prude, about to tell me about what my father was whispering in her ear that had her looking so bright and excited. I could already tell from the look of him, his leather jacket, his tattoos, and his denim jeans, he was not likely to be the type to be whispering sweet nothings.
“Hold on one second. Are you trying to tell me you were in a relationship with a biker?” I asked accusingly, given all the shit she’d given my Uncle Leo and the club. I lifted the picture closer to my face and narrowed my eyes, searching for any sign of a club emblem.
“One… don’t talk to me with that tone,” she scolded, jabbing me in the ribs and making me almost leap up off the stool. “And no, we were not in a relationship. I knew Huntsman for all of three days.”
“You hussy!”
“Meyah Kimberly Benson!”
I cringed at the use of my full name. “Come on, Mom, I need more. Don’t cut me off now that you’ve finally decided to share. Was this why you were so upset the other night when you said…” the words were right on my tongue, but I didn’t want to repeat them.
Her shoulders slumped, and she nodded. “You’d always been such a good girl. You’re smart, you have common sense, and you never felt like you had to follow the pack to fit in. Then all of a sudden, it was like overnight something changed. You were fighting, arguing back, breaking things, and riding on motorcycles. Just when I thought you’d never be like him, it was like all of a sudden, I saw your dad.”
I kept my eyes focused on the photo in front of me committing it to memory, analyzing from my father’s shaggy wavy hair that somewhat resembled my own and not my mom’s, right down to the intricate and unique tattoo that covered the back of his hand.
It was like the crosshairs of a gun. The round outside clearly that of the scope on a rifle, and what looked like a deer standing in a meadow about to be shot. It was detailed and specific, one I was sure must have been drawn precisely to his specifications to fit so perfectly and to match his name.
“I want to know more,” I told her, looking up and meeting her worried eyes. “Please, I just want to know how you met and what happened.”
Mom’s heavy sigh told me that she was apprehensive, her body slumped against the kitchen counter. But I grabbed her hand and squeezed it tight pleading silently for her to give me something more when I’d gone my whole life knowing nothing.
She nodded and squeezed my hand back. “I was working in a bar in Las Vegas earning some major dollars during summer before I went back to college—”