Amanda
My mother hands me a glass of wine as I collapse on the couch in my and Jase's apartment. My son is tucked safely in bed, hardly a scratch on him or the other boy. There may not be a scratch on me either, but I feel like I’ve gone ten rounds with a heavyweight champion, and I'm fighting a headache from hell.
Looking at the glass of moscato, I debate my options. I could down it all in one swallow and then rub my temples, or I could place the glass on the table, rub my temples, and then drink it all.
First-world problems.
“He's a boy. It's all right,” Mom says, forcing me back to reality and more serious concerns.
I continue staring into the glass and swirl the clear liquid. The aroma of fruit fills my senses as the coolness of the glass registers from my fingertips. I tell myself not to cry—to stay strong. It's the same mantra I've been repeating for nearly five years.
“Amanda, your dad talked to Jase. He’s a good kid.”
My eyes glass over as I look at my mom from under my lashes. “I know. I know he's a good kid, but Dad shouldn't have to be his father and neither should Alec.”
Alec is my brother. Even though he lives in a nearby town, he’s always willing to help out with Jase. He was the one who gave him his first baseball glove. He’s the one Jase wants to emulate. While I’m not sure how I feel about that, I know there could be worse role models for my son.
“Your dad isn't being his father. He's Jase’s grandpa and happy to be.”
“And being a boy doesn’t mean it’s all right to fight.”
“Of course not,” Mom agrees. “Given the situation, I’d hope a girl would do the same thing. I know one who would have.”
I take a deep breath. “Times have changed. Fighting is taken more seriously than it used to be. I think the school handled it well, but Jase and the other little boy were wrestling. I didn’t wrestle.”
“No, but heaven help whomever you were standing up to. You would have knocked them down with your words.”
“Jase starts kindergarten in less than a week. I don't want him to be a troublemaker. They aren’t as familiar with him at the new school. And there are rules...”
“He isn't a troublemaker. He stood up for what he believes in, just like Jackson did, just like you. You should be proud.”
I hate to admit it—to admit that Jase fighting for what he thinks is right makes me proud, but in a way, it does. I remind my mom what I was told when I arrived to the preschool. “The teacher said it started with a talk about the flag. With Labor Day coming up and things, they were talking about patriotism. The other little boy said it was stupid and so are our soldiers. Miss Timmons said she's never seen Jase turn so fast. In a second he was on the other boy.”
My mom shrugs. “Your dad told him it was wrong to fight. He also told him it was acceptable to be proud of his daddy.”
I nod, swallowing the wine laced with the salt from my tears. Jase, proud of his daddy. That is the same dad who Jase only knows from pictures and stories, the same one who only held his son during a brief furlough before going back to Iraq, before not coming home...
“Besides,” my mom says, saving me from my melancholy thoughts, “if Jase is anything like your brother, he and the other little boy are probably best friends again. That's the way boys are.”
I fill my lungs, expanding my chest and trying for a cleansing breath.
Mom reaches out and holds my knee. “Honey, Sally called me.”
“Shit,” I mumble. “I forgot all about her invitation. I don't have time—”
“No, you don't,” Mom agrees, interrupting my refusal. “You don't have time to let life pass you by. Jase is a good boy who can stick up for himself. He showed you that today. Now the best thing you can do for him is to work on balance.”
I shake my head. “I-I don't want to. Sally said something about me being the right one for this guy. I don’t want to find...”
The tears I've been holding back since the call from the preschool spill over my lids. I tilt my face down and once again move the glass to my lips, hoping my mom won't see.
“You're not trying to find forever. You're not trying to find Mr. Right. However, there is someone who I'd like you to find.”
“Who?” I ask, genuinely curious.
“I want you to find Mandy Wells.”
My eyes dart her direction. I haven't heard my nickname in conjunction with my maiden name in years, not since Jackson passed away. Mandy was the girl I used to be, the one who loved surprises, believed in forever and happily ever after, and knew that Jackson was my everything and we’d grow old together. “What did you say?”
“You heard me. I remember her.” Mom pours more moscato in her glass and tops mine off. “She was a handful, a real pain in the ass.” Mom's eyes sparkle. “When you're pregnant, they warn you about boys. Everyone says they get in fights and wrestle, but no one warns you about girls. Sneaky and conniving little things—that's what girls are. That's what Mandy Wells was.”
Instead of making me feel worse, her description makes me smile.
“Oh,” Mom goes on. “There were days her dad and I thought we'd pull our hair out. One time, more than once actually, she snuck out of her room at night.”
“You knew?” I ask in both surprise and embarrassment.
With a knowing grin, she continues, “And when she was with that no-good influence of a friend named Sally...”
Yes, Sally and I have been friends since nearly the beginning of time. It isn't that Sally is or has been a bad influence; it’s that we both were. What one of us wouldn't think of, the other would. And despite what my mom is saying, she loves my best friend. She always has.
“...kicked out of a Walmart. I mean, who gets kicked out of Walmart?”
I can't stop my laugh. The ringing tone helps to nudge my headache away. “We weren't doing anything wrong. It wasn't like we were robbing a bank or selling ourselves. We were camping.”
“You set up camp in the middle of the camping section.”
I recall the scene. “Technically, it was already set up. We just moved in. We were both excited to go camping and then it rained and rained. You, Daddy, and Sally's parents said we couldn't go. You said we'd get sick. Walmart had this cool setup and it was all inside.” I lift my glass. “Rather resourceful if you ask me.
“It even had a fake fire made out of orange and yellow crepe paper.”
“And you tried to roast marshmallows!”
“Not on the crepe paper,” I protest. “They obviously wouldn’t have cooked. That's why we used the blowtorch.” I take another drink and grin. “It was from their hardware section. They really do have everything there.”
Mom shakes her head with a wide smile. “I think the blowtorch may have been your downfall.”
“You’re probably right. A portable gas grill would have worked better, but we didn’t know. Everyone is used to making s’mores on an open flame.”
Mom laughs. “When the manager called—”
“We paid for everything first, the marshmallows, graham crackers, and chocolate bars. Even the blowtorch and lighter. We weren't stealing. Who knew a few marshmallows would set off the sprinklers in the entire store? I mean, if the marshmallows hadn't gotten all sticky and gooey and landed on the blowtorch... Really, I think the downfall was the roasting fork. The whole thing was metal and got hot. If you ask me, they should have had better roasting forks. If they had, the entire fire brigade thing could have been avoided.”
Mom leans back against the couch and sighs. “I miss her.”
“Who?” I ask. “Sally? Because, apparently, you two still talk.”
“No, Mandy Wells. I love you, Amanda Jane Wells. I do, but you're twenty-five. You're a great mom, hard worker, wonderful daughter and sister, and a good friend. You deserve to have some fun.”
Before I can protest, she goes on, “Don't go out Friday night with Sally and Brian and Brian's friend looking for Mr. Right. Go out with them to have fun, and if you're looking for anyone, look for Mandy Wells.”
“I-I can't. Jase starts school...”
“And you're ready. You've been to the school and shown him around. He’s met Mrs. Williams, his teacher. He's ecstatic! He has new shoes and clothes. He has a new book bag, pencils, crayons, tablets, pencil case...goodness, that boy has more in that book bag than I do in my desk. It’s a wonder he can lift it.”
“But he goes to bed—”
“School doesn't start until Tuesday. Friday night, he can stay with us.”
“Mom, if I go, I'm not going to be out all night.”
“I wasn't suggesting you were. I'm suggesting you might want to stay out past eight.” Her brows lift and fall. “The Mandy Wells I knew had trouble with curfews.”
I sigh, letting out an exaggerated breath. “Sally said there's something wrong with him.”
“The man they want you to meet?” she asks. “Did he murder someone? Is he sick? Is he wanted by the police?”
“Yes, him, but no...” I say, “...nothing like that.”
“Again, it's not about him; it's about you.”
“Fine. I give up. I can't deal with life while fighting both you and Sally.”
My mom's face lights up as small lines form around her eyes. “Do you want to call Sally and tell her, or should I?”