My mom saw the taxi pull up, and by the time I was stepping onto the tiny front porch, she had opened the door and was standing with her arms open wide.
I bent down so she could put her arms around my neck and kiss my cheeks. There were big tears in her eyes.
“Oh, son, I’m so glad you’re home,” she said, sniffing back the tears as she held me at arm’s length to look me over. “You’re so thin!”
“I’m not thin, ma,” I said with a tired smile. “I just haven’t been in the gym much lately.”
I hadn’t really given myself a good look in the mirror in a long time. I was six-foot-two, and before the wreck, weighed in at a solid 220; and it was all muscle.
Now, given that I’d lost a lot of muscle mass and walked with a slight limp thanks to my damaged hip, I probably did look smaller to her. She would freak if she saw my withered right arm, slack of muscle and lined with scars from the wreck and the surgeries.
“I’ll fatten you up, don’t you worry,” she said, tugging me through the door. I noticed that she looked up and down the street for a minute, as if she thought someone might be watching, then closed the door and led me into my old bedroom just off the kitchen.
“Nothing’s changed,” she said, stepping aside to let me pass. She had her hands clasped to her chin and was eyeing me warily, as if she thought I might suddenly freak out and run from the room.
“Of course, you have fresh sheets and pillow cases. And there are fresh towels in the bathroom, just like always.”
“Thanks, ma,” I said, dropping my duffel on the single bed that was too small for me when I was a teen. I stood at the foot of the bed with my hands in my pockets and gazed around my old room.
It was the room of a typical teenage jock from Alabama. There were posters of Coach Nick Saban, and several Alabama football players hanging on the walls.
There was a small desk with a lamp with an Alabama shade. The curtains over the window and the comforter on the bed were Alabama crimson and white.
My Centerville football jersey from my last high school game was tacked to the wall, as was the Alabama jersey from the last college game I played.
Mom went to the closet door and pulled it open. “All of your old clothes are still here. Jeans, t-shirts, your Sunday suit for church.”
“Thanks, ma,” I said again, mustering a smile for her. I didn’t tell her that I wasn’t on too good a terms with God at the moment, so I probably wouldn’t be going to church. That would have been an argument I was too tired to have.
“Do you want to unpack?” She nodded at the duffel bag.
I shook my head. “Not much in there. Just a few pair of sweats and jeans. I’ll unpack them later.”
She seemed nervous. She wrapped her arms around herself and licked her lips. “So, what are your plans?”
“Plans?” I took a deep breath. I hadn’t even thought about what I’d do next. Since the wreck I’d been taking things one day at a time. Today was no exception.
I sat down heavily on the edge of the bed and rubbed a hand over my face. I shrugged at her. “I don’t really have any plans, ma. I thought I’d rest a bit and then maybe drive around. Is dad’s old truck still in the shed out back?”
She hesitated for a second, then came to sit next to me on the bed. She put her arm around my shoulders like she did when I was a little kid and needed comforting.
Softly, she said, “I don’t think it’s such a good idea for you to go driving around just yet. Why don’t you take a few days to rest?”
“I’ve been resting for nearly a year, ma,” I said, looking sideways at her. I could see the worry and concern on her face, but I got the feeling it didn’t have anything to do with my injuries or my health. I scooted away and turned to face her.
“Ma, what are you not telling me?” When she didn’t respond, I braced myself for bad news and asked again. “Mom! What are you not telling me?”
Her hands were folded together in her lap. She started kneading her fingers and slowly shook her head. “There’s something you need to know,” she said quietly, her eyes locked on her hands.
A chill ran up my spine. The pins and screws in my arm seemed to tingle, like bolts of lightning were running through them.
“It’s about Mollie Carter,” she said, still refusing to look at me.
I felt my breath catch in my throat. “What about her, ma? What is it? Is Mollie okay? Did she get married?” I raised my voice again. “Mom! Just tell me what it is!”
“She never married,” she said, finally bringing her eyes up to mine. “She teaches third grade at the elementary school.”
I blew out a sigh of relief. A smile cracked across my lips. “That’s it?” I laughed. “Christ, ma, I already knew that.”
“What you don’t know, Chase,” she said, resting a hand on my knee. “Is that Mollie has a son. His name is Tommy.”
* * *
I blinked at her. The words hung in my ears.
She said, “Chase, did you hear me?”
“I heard you, ma,” I said. For some reason, my heart was filled with jealousy and anger. I gritted my teeth. “Who’s the father?”
“Well, I have no idea,” she said quickly. “I haven’t spoken to Mollie since you two broke up.”
“But people talk, ma,” I said, eyeing her warily. There was no bigger town gossip than my mother and the gaggle of church biddies she hung out with. I knew that she knew far more than she was letting on.
“Well, I certainly don’t gossip,” she said, all offended.
“There’s something else,” I said, watching her look away. “What aren’t you telling me?”
“Chase, just let it go. I shouldn’t have said anything.”
“Mollie has a son,” I said to myself. “Imagine that.”
“Yes, imagine that.”
My arm began to ache and I brought up my left hand to give my shoulder and bicep a good rub. I was in constant pain, though most of the time it was no more than a dull ache, just enough to let me know it was there.
I still got headaches, too. Migraines, like the one that was coming on now. The doctors said I would have them the rest of my life; the result of the concussion from the wreck.
My head started pounding. I was seeing little lights flashing in my right eye, like little ghosts dancing around. I closed my eyes and rubbed my forehead above my eyebrows.
“Mom, are you telling me that I have a son?” I asked, my eyes still closed.
“What? No, why on earth would you think that?”
“Then what are you saying?” I asked. My voice had dropped to a whisper. Every word rammed into my temples like a blacksmith hammering iron. I started thinking that coming home had been a huge mistake.
“I’m not saying anything,” she said softly, getting up and quickly moving to the door.
“I think there’s a lot you’re not saying,” I said, narrowing my eyes at her.
She huffed at me and said, “Mollie has moved on, Chase, and you should, too.”
Mollie
I stopped by the corner market for bread and milk, picked Tommy up from daycare, and made it home to find an old blue Chevy truck parked in front of my mom’s house. Tommy and I were living with mom until I could get my school loans paid down and save enough for a down payment on a home of our own.
My heart leapt into my throat because I recognized the truck immediately. It was Chase’s dad’s old truck. Chase used to pick me up in the thing every Friday and Saturday night to go parking at the lake.
It was a rattle trap even back then, with a worn bench seat covered by an old blanket, no seat belts, no heat or air, barely any brakes, and side mirrors that were held on with duct tape.
The best thing about it was its long bed where Chase would spread out sleeping bags and we’d lie naked under the stars, exploring each other’s bodies and talking about our future.
I loved that old truck and every time I saw it coming I knew I was in for the ride of my life. But that was years ago. Now, it was like seeing a ghost.
I shut off the car and sat staring at the truck. Chase was not behind the wheel. My pulse started to race. He wasn’t in the truck and he wasn’t in the yard. That meant that he was probably inside with my mom.
“Oh shit,” I said as I hurriedly pulled Tommy out of his car seat and grabbed the bag of groceries.
Tommy squealed when I scooped him up and he clung on to me like a little chimp. He smiled and waved his hands in excitement, as if he knew something exciting was about to happen.
I wasn’t so sure it would be exciting. It would depend on the version of Chase who was waiting inside.
* * *
My mom met me at the door. She had a look of stunned silence on her face. She took Tommy out of my arms and leaned in to whisper at me.
“He’s in the kitchen. I’m going to take Tommy upstairs until you’re ready.”
“Ready for what, mom?” I asked with a frown.
She blinked at me. “You know.” When I gave her a blank stare she put an edge to her voice. “You have to tell him, Mollie Marie. He has a right to know.”
“He has no rights at all,” I said, closing the door and pushing her toward the stairs. “You just take Tommy upstairs and let me handle it.”
She started to say something more, but I pushed her again and she went up the stairs.
When I turned, Chase was standing in the kitchen door with a big smile on his face.