Marion Croslydon - Fast Forward

“We always have a choice, babe. Look, that whole ‘one chance in a lifetime’ thing probably seems a bit naïve, except this guy, Will?, he doesn’t give a second chance. I don’t like that about him, but his record speaks for himself. Don’t think for a minute that making it in the music industry doesn’t come at a cost.”

I was about to step in but Cassie’s chin lifted. I had to let her fight her own battles. “Giving up on my son when he needs me isn’t a price I’m ready to pay.”

Shawn nodded again but his gaze softened. “Then you made your choice.” He wrapped his arm around the girl’s shoulders and dragged her away from where we stood. “I’ll try and cover for you in front of Terry and Will. But get your ass back on the tour ASAP. In music, it’s not like in love, you don’t often get sweet seconds.”

“Thanks.”

As soon as he was out of earshot, I asked, “You still want to go, Cass?”

“Nothing will make me change my mind.”

Cassie

I hadn’t been allowed to see Lucas.

We made it to Kansas City mid-afternoon on Sunday. In the end, there hadn’t been any seats left on the early morning flight. When we landed in Missouri, I called Trisha again. She called Sharon Sorenson.

Sharon told her Josh and I would have to wait until Monday afternoon to see our son, after he finished kindergarten. Trisha blurted the word ‘routine’ five times on that damn call.

I wasn’t totally delusional. I knew I didn’t know much—or anything—about raising a child. Yet. But what I did know was that my boy wasn’t too young or too dumb to know that his grandfather was gone for good. What I also knew was that he needed a friend to talk it through with. And I was pretty much the only one left from his previous life.

“Be nice to Mrs. Sorenson,” Josh warned me again.

He was right to say so. I’d used a lot of words to describe her over the past twenty-four hours. None fit my new proper-speaking code. I mumbled back an ‘of course’ and crossed my arms over my chest.

But I’d get my son back one way or another. Sooner rather than later.

Sharon Sorenson opened the door. Josh went all P.R. on her and she mellowed. There was even the shadow of a smile when she let us in.

“He’s in the kitchen.”

Not on his own though. I recognized the neighbor, Andrea Loretti. She was pouring batter into a muffin pan. Holy Moly, did this woman ever do anything else but bake muffins?

Lucas’s mouth was twisted the way it always did when he concentrated, the tip of his tongue sticking out slightly from the corner. I guess Mrs. Loretti was keeping him busy. That was good.

“Hi, Lucas,” Josh broke the ritual.

Both Mrs. Loretti and Lucas jumped at his greeting. My gaze turned to Lucas to see if there were any signs of grief on his face. His cheeks were as round and pink as usual. He gave no sign of being upset until his mouth shaped into a silent ‘oh’ and his chin start to quiver.

“Cassie,” he cried out, but his voice broke.

Lucas jumped down from the seat he’d been standing on. He rushed between the table and Mrs. Loretti and crashed into me. I missed a breath—and then another—not because of the shock of his little body pounding against me. His pain had become my pain. I was a kid all over again. A kid whose mom had gone AWOL. A kid who’d never been on the receiving end of anything but neglect and abuse.

I knelt down and locked him in my arms. His little arms were wrapped around my neck. Their hold on me tightened as if I was a lifejacket floating on the waves and he was drowning.

“Trisha said you’d come, but I wasn’t sure.” His voice trembled and his breath tickled my skin. His words had only been for me. Knowing that, my love for him took root even deeper down inside my heart.

Something shifted within me. I became Lucas’ mom. Not the one who’d carried him in her belly, or the one who’d given birth to him one June day five years ago. Not even the one who’d watched him grow up from afar. I became—I was—his mother, the one person who had the power to chase the clouds away and bring the blue sky back into his life.

My hands cupped the sides of his head so that I could look him in the eyes. “I’m here, Lucas. We’re going to get through this. I promise you.”

He shook his head. “But Grandpa’s dead.”

“I kn—”

“What did we say, sweetie pie?” The term of endearment clashed with Sorenson’s arctic voice.

Lucas snuggled back against me. I stood but kept him wrapped around me, his head pressed against my stomach.

“What did we say?” Lucas didn’t answer, so Mrs. Sorenson got on with her sermon, “If we don’t say the D-word, it’ll help feeling better.”

What sort of BS was this?

“But Grandpa is dead,” Lucas shouted back. “He’s dead like Mommy and Daddy.”

He buried his face against me, tension pulsing through him. I massaged his shoulders, stroked the back of his head, repeating little shushing sounds. His arms circled my waist with a strength beyond that I’d expected from a five-year-old.

I was grateful Mrs. Sorenson kept her mouth shut. It was safer that way. Andrea Loretti stared at Lucas while she kept kneading the material of her apron. If only one of her muffins could make it all better.

“I think you’re angry,” Josh sliced into the heavy silence. He turned around one of the kitchen chairs and sat astride it, his eyes level with Lucas. “You’re sad, of course, but you’re angry because you feel like someone has stolen your grandpa away from you.” Lucas’s head nodded against me. “Do you know what I do when I feel like I want to scream in anger? I play football.”

Lucas moved away from me. He wasn’t saying anything though, so Josh continued: “Do you still have the ball Cassie gave you, the Rangers one?”

“In the shed.” His voice was guarded. “In the garden.”

“Should we go and get it then?” Josh extended his hand. I expected Lucas to clam up again. Instead he placed his little hand in Josh’s and, without a word, followed his lead into the backyard. If there was ever anything to say about sports as therapy, it was right now.

I headed toward the garden to join them but stopped at the glass door. They were stepping out from the shed, Lucas running with the ball. His arm was arched above his head preparing to throw it. His face was still empty of any expression, but he was moving, exercising, working some of the grief out of his system. It was good. It was healthy, wasn’t it?

“I’d planned to make some chocolate chip cookies.”

I’d forgotten I wasn’t alone. I looked over my shoulder at Mrs. Loretti. She had one of those kind chubby faces that warm you.

“I guess nothing beats football when it comes to guys.” I wanted to make her feel better because she’d tried to help Lucas.

She kept on mixing the batter like there was no tomorrow. The woman was nervous. Was it because of me?

“It’s very sweet of you, Mrs. Loretti. Each time I come around you’re baking something nice for my—for Lucas.”

“Please call me Andrea.” She dismissed my comment with a shrug. “Baking is pretty much the only thing I do properly.”

“Oh, I’m sure that’s not true. And besides, it takes a lot of skill to bake. I couldn’t even do that to save my life.”

I take it Andrea was a card-carrying member of the Fragile Ego Club. I had a lifetime membership too. I made my way back to the rectangular table next to which she stood.

“I have some housework to do. Andrea, you can stay if you want,” Mrs. Sorenson offered. “I wouldn’t say no to one of your chocolate chip cookies.” The woman left the room with what could almost be a smile.

“You’ve got to share your secret with me,” I said, while my eyes welcomed the sight of Sharon Sorenson walking away.

“What secret?”

“You made her smile.”

Andrea covered a chuckle with her hand. “She’s not that bad,” she whispered as if we were naughty schoolgirls winging about their teacher. “Maybe not affectionate enough, but she takes good care of him. Good food, good routine.”

“You know a lot about kids. I mean, what’s a good routine, baking….”

“I come from a big family. Two brothers, three sisters. I’m the oldest. So I’ve changed my share of diapers.”

I’d been my mom’s only child, but I’d often wondered if the man who’d fathered me had other kids too. Maybe I had a large family somewhere. I kicked that thought in the butt: The only family I had—and would ever have—was playing ball in the backyard. “Will you go to the funeral?”

Andrea shuddered. “Mr. Guidi’s?” I nodded. “I’m not sure. I never had the chance to meet him.”

“You should come. He’d have loved you. He was crazy about Lucas and anyone who was nice to his grandson would earn serious brownie points.” My voice struggled over the last words. My teary gaze hunted some invisible stain on the stark white of the kitchen wall. Damn, I was going to miss him.

“Then if you think it’s fine for me to attend, I will. I’m sure my husband would like to be there too. He’s fond of Lucas.”

“Sure.” I waved at the ingredients spread over the kitchen table. “So can you show me how to make these chocolate chip cookies of yours?”

Over the next fifteen minutes, Andrea taught me how to whisk eggs, mix the creamiest batter, and all that without wasting a drop of mixture. When she left me in charge of overseeing the cookies as they baked in the oven, I did it as if my life depended on it. During the ten minute cooking time, I thought about Alfredo and Andrea Loretti. About Shawn and Will, who’d been in Vegas last night. About Andrea Loretti again. Hearing Sharon Sorenson in the background reminded me of how she’d managed to give Lucas a ‘routine’—some stability—throughout the shittiest times.