Beauty and the Mustache (Knitting in the City #4)(37)
Author: Penny Reid

“Ash, you need to trust me on this. There are things you don’t know.”

I released a disbelieving snort. “Then tell me.”

“No, baby, because then you’ll go off and call him and tell him yourself. I know your daddy, and I know what I’m doing. I need to tell him face-to-face. He needs to see all of you, all of you together, united. He needs to see it so he knows he doesn’t have any wiggle room—because all he needs is a little wiggle room in your head or Jethro’s or Beau’s. You all need to support each other. That’s what he needs to see.”

“What are you talking about? Wiggle room for what?”

“Ashley, Darrell knows I’m sick. He’s waiting, biding his time, and then he’s going to come after this place and everything with it—that means your trust funds too. He won’t get it, not outright, but he’ll try. And that’ll be a nightmare for your brothers. You don’t live here anymore, but this is their home. This place belongs to you all, but your daddy won’t be happy about that. You think I want you all to deal with him during the funeral? We need to settle this now.”

I stared at her, trying to determine what was at the root of this urgent request. Not everything she said was making sense to me because she was obviously hiding something.

Regardless, a reality that I’d been ignoring began to seep its way into my consciousness.

It hadn’t occurred to me before now, likely because I was tangled and twisted in her terminal diagnosis, and I hadn’t thought about what would come after, but—as far as I knew—my parents were still married. Everything that was in my mother’s name also belonged to my father.

I let that truth sink into my bones.

Only Momma’s name was on the deed to the house and the bank accounts; I knew that for certain. At least, that was the case when I was growing up.

My parents had been separated for two years before my grandmother died, and she’d left everything to my mother. But my father had never given my mother a divorce. She’d tried over the years and he’d resisted, threatened, and made her life hell. Now I understood why. As her husband, he stood to inherit everything.

“Oh, Momma….” I sighed, because I didn’t know what to do.

I didn’t want to see my father. I didn’t want to call him. I didn’t want to have the cloud of him hovering over her last days.

“Ash, listen to your momma. You need to call your daddy. I need to talk to him. He needs to see that you all stand united and that he’s not going to be able to manipulate any of you.”

I nodded, closed my eyes, and rubbed my forehead with my free hand. The thought of seeing my father made me sick to my stomach.

“Why now?” I whispered. “Why didn’t you divorce him years ago? Why didn’t you call him before now?”

“When Roscoe turned eighteen, I filed again. I didn’t tell you about it because I didn’t want you to worry. But we’re two years into it, Ash, and we’re still not close to a divorce. And you know why I waited until Roscoe came of age. You saw how it was; every time I tried to divorce your father it was a nightmare.”

I nodded because I remembered. The last time my mother tried to divorce my father was when I was in high school. He didn’t just harass my mother; he harassed all of us.

He picked up Roscoe from school then abandoned him in a field. Roscoe was ten.

He came to my high school and checked me out of class then took me to The Dragon Biker Bar. I spent the afternoon frightened out of my mind. My father had men pay him for a dance with me, which really just meant I was terrorized and manhandled for an hour before Jackson James and his police officer father showed up and took me home.

He went to the mill where Billy worked, showed up drunk, and nearly got Billy fired.

The list went on and on. I think Momma could have handled the harassment for herself, but she couldn’t stomach watching us go through it.

“But what if he tries to…what if he tries to make medical decisions about your care? He’s still your husband. Why invite him here when he can still hurt you?”

“He can’t, baby. Even though we’re not divorced, we’re legally separated. The only one who can make decisions is Andrew. That was done months ago.”

“Okay.” I said, feeling close to tears again. I sucked it up, though. I didn’t cry. “Okay, Momma. I’ll call him.”

“Thank you, Ash.” My mother exhaled, her eyes closed, and her body seemed to relax as though a giant burden had been lifted.

I stood from her bedside and was just about to cross to my cot when she said, “I have something to tell you, Ash. It’s really important.”

I held her hand in both of mine and squeezed. “What is it, Momma?”

“I know you don’t like needing people, but maybe—just this once—let yourself need someone. Maybe let yourself need Andrew. It would help him too, I think. He deserves to be needed by someone like you. Even if it’s just for a short time….”

I waited for her to continue, but she didn’t. Her hand had grown limp in mine, and I knew she was asleep.

I watched her sleep for a bit then went to my cot and laid on it. I didn’t sleep much that night, for—again—obvious reasons. I tossed and turned and finally fell asleep some hours later.

When I woke up, Drew was gone.

CHAPTER 16

“There is practically no activity that cannot be enhanced or replaced by knitting, if you really want to get obsessive about it.”

― Stephanie Pearl-McPhee, At Knit’s End: Meditations for Women Who Knit Too Much

If anyone had told me five weeks ago that I would be quoting Emily Dickenson in the woods with Drew, I would have told that person to invest in a good psychotherapist.

If anyone had told me just a week ago that I would be kissing Drew on the back porch of my momma’s house as though his lips and body were my only source of nourishment, and I would be left with a lingering craving that could not be satiated, I would have told that person about the alien invasion happening in Poughkeepsie. I also would’ve mentioned that I was loyal to the kumquat trees. Because what else do you say to the severely insane?

Yet, there I was—consumed.

I love the fire most because of what it leaves behind….

Ash. It leaves behind ash.

I pressed the base of my palms against my eyes and gathered a deep breath. At present, I was upstairs in my room, trying to take a nap before my Tuesday night knitting group Skype call, and failing miserably. This would be the second time I’d been able to Skype in and attend my knitting group, and I’d been anxious all week about it, looking forward to it.

I was tired. I had the place, motive, and opportunity for a nap. But I couldn’t sleep.

Earlier in the day, I’d called my father and left a message on his cell phone. I told him that Momma wanted to talk to him, and I hung up. Then I’d started spreading the word to my brothers that we were going to have a family meeting after my knitting group Skype call.

I could have been worrying about any number of things: my father’s impending visit, breaking the news to my brothers, my mother’s impending departure, how I was going to butcher all those roosters. But I wasn’t.

I was thinking about Drew.

What was wrong with me?

How was it possible for me to be feeling this way—consumed—about Drew’s kisses and words when I was already consumed with grief for my mother and the certainty of her death? It loomed in the distance like a deranged bully at the end of a schoolyard.

But kissing Drew had felt so good, and the idea of giving in….

I was quickly becoming addicted to the way my heart picked up and my belly twisted when I felt his eyes on me. I think I was a little in love with the way he said my name or called me Sugar like I was sweet and he just knew I’d taste delicious.

Frustrated and disappointed with my behavior, I kicked off my covers with a lot more force than was necessary and turned my face into my pillow. My muffled growl became a muffled scream, and I punched the mattress several times.

I glanced at the clock on the nightstand and saw that I had only fifteen minutes until I was supposed to call my friends on Skype. Giving up on the notion of a nap, I grabbed my laptop and knitting bag and made my way downstairs.

Cletus and Joe were in with Momma. Joe was on duty, which usually meant he’d stop in for a few minutes, maybe sit in the den for a bit and shoot the shit. Then he usually drove off to visit another patient. Tonight he decided to stick around. He said one of his other patients had died, so he had more wiggle room in his schedule.

At present Cletus and Joe were playing chess, which…I couldn’t wrap my mind around. Regardless, they were supposed to come get me when she woke up. Momma had slept through most of the day, and when she did wake up, she didn’t eat hardly anything.

I’d been keeping a log of her activities—when she slept, when she ate, how much she ate, how long she was up, her self-reported pain level, how much morphine she used. I hoped all the information would serve as an early warning sign—when the time came—that the end was near. I also knew the data gathering served as a placebo, soothed my need to control a situation over which I had absolutely no control.

Therefore, based on all the days that came before, today’s sleeping and lack of food intake was a stark outlier.