chapter two;
mommy dearest

There was no sleeping that night. I was a tipsy cluster-fuck of emotions and Riku snored, so when the blocky red numbers next to my head read a quarter to four, I was up pacing the small area between the two beds. I tried really hard not to think about it, I really did, but it was impossible. On the small table in the corner with the room phone and hotel information binder was Naminé's laptop. My palms itched and I glanced over at the two of them in bed, soundly asleep, their breaths even and heavy and showing no sign of incitement.

I opened the laptop up and was relieved upon the discovery that Naminé didn't password protect her computer. It loaded up to a cute picture of her and Riku making kissy faces at each other and I stifled a groan. I opened up the internet browser and let my fingers hover over the keys while I thought about what exactly I wanted to know. I hunt-and-pecked the name 'Anastasia Henley' into the search engine and within seconds the screen was flooded with all sorts of results, the first being an online encyclopedia article. I clicked on it.

"Anastasia Henley is an American motivational author known for her bestselling memoir Paving the Road to Happiness: A Story of Hope, Love, and Overcoming Adversity…" I read to myself under my breath. There was a picture of her holding up a hardcover copy of her book next to a man who looked like the perfect Aryan crossbreed of Wall Street and country club. The caption under the photo said: "Anastasia Henley and her husband, James Henley, posing for Writer's World Weekly." I assumed this was her husband. And judging by the large rock on her ring finger, he was every bit as successful as she was.

I scanned the article, mentally cataloguing trivial facts. Her birthday was October 20th, she was born in Ohio, has a bachelor's degree, gives motivational speeches at rehab centers, has two children. I paused at the latter. It didn't say anything more than "two children". I thought back to the book, her adopted son, and wondered if the other kid could've been another mongrel she took under her wing all in the name of righteousness.

Or was it me, the forgotten kid, her real kid. Made from her cells and DNA and incubated inside her body. I doubted it, but hope made me crack a smile. I imagined my mother, if I could even call her that, sitting down with her publisher or editor or whatever and telling the story of the little redheaded boy she left behind all those years ago. I imagined her getting weepy-eyed, recalling me nursing from her breast as she felt the quintessence of motherhood. "I can't tell anyone," she'd say, "because it hurts too bad."

I scoffed to myself, at myself. I knew that wasn't the case. I doubted anyone but her knew of my existence.

After another few minutes of clicking around, I found another site with a short little bio on her.

Anastasia Henley (neé Albright) was born in Leighton, Ohio to Genevieve and Theodore Albright. She dropped out of school and moved to New York when she was only fifteen after falling into hard drugs and prostitution. After years of struggling with addiction and poverty, Anastasia turned her life around and checked herself into rehab. After getting clean, she devoted her life to helping other people suffering from addiction, leading her to eventually begin her memoir which would become a national bestseller. She is married to James Henley, a psychiatrist, and together they have two children. When not touring to promote her book and speaking at rehab centers across the country, Anastasia likes curling up with a good novel and a cup of coffee at her home in Fayfield, New York.

My eyes lingered on the words, processing them. Fayfield was a suburban town outside of Marion where white picket fences and McMansions and perfectly landscaped lawns gave the impression that it was something other than one of those copy-and-pasted master-planned developments made to appeal to the snooty upper-middle to high class folk who didn't want to stray too far from their shitty hometowns and villages that dotted upstate New York like herpes. It was a half-hour drive from here, at most. I could take Naminé's keys and car and drive to the large wooden sign on the side of the road that said, in a bold, fancy font, "Welcome to Fayfield, the town of flowers and good neighbors" and be back before either of them knew I had left.

Which begged the question, why did my mom settle down in town not too far from where she apparently turned tricks and bottomed out? Upstate wasn't small by any means, but the communities within it were. How do you go to the grocery store or a book signing and not worry about running into a man who you once blew for a rock, or, worst case scenario, the son you abandoned and gave up on while you went on to be successful and get married and write bullshit self-help books while he choked back tears in a hotel room he shared with his happy friends who didn't have one iota of a clue what kind of pain he was feeling?

"Why did you never come back for me?" I quietly asked the picture of her on the back of the book that lay face-down on the floor next to me. "And why did you never leave?"

I picked up the book and in a complete act of desperation for some kind of answer, I began to read it.

"You're a free man, Axel Novak!" Riku cheered, clapping me on the back as I got into the passenger seat of his sedan. "No more probation, which means all the drugs and public urination you want!"

"Luckily, I haven't pissed in two years in anticipation of this day," I said, rolling down my window and pulling a cigarette from the spare pack Riku kept tucked in the visor.

"Well, in light of your newfound liberty, I got you a little present." He handed me a lighter, a cheap plastic orange one. I turned it over in my hand before giving him a look.

"Dude, I appreciate it, but I got like ten of these at home."

He laughed. "No, dude. Check the glove."

I gave him a suspicious stare as I lit my cigarette.

"Seriously, Axel. You're gonna fuckin' love it."

I took a drag and handed back his lighter before slowly opening the glove compartment, only to be greeted by one of those plastic bows you slap on presents, only this bow wasn't stuck on anything. Riku gave me a huge smile with his eyebrows raised almost to his hairline as he motioned for me to pick it up, so I did. My confusion disappeared when I turned the bow over and saw a small bag of pot stuck to the adhesive side. "Aw, fuck yeah, dude! Thanks! But do you think you could've maybe given it to me when we weren't sitting in the parking lot of my probation office?"

"Where's the fun it that?" Riku asked, giving me one of those token cocky Riku smiles, as he started the car up. The minute he did, the radio popped on to some hip-hop song. "Now let's get over to my place so we can smoke that shit and really let loose!" He peeled out of the parking lot and I felt like a new chapter of my life was beginning.

When Riku said we were going to smoke pot and let loose, I truly believed that's all it would be. I knew Riku had his wild streaks, but kept them mostly under control around me because of my 'regularly-submit-to-a-drug-test-or-else-go-to-jail' thing. I knew he liked to dabble around with harder drugs and party, so when we got to his and Naminé's townhouse and got high and did shots of cheap tequila, I shouldn't have been surprised when suddenly there was a large influx of people, mostly strangers and some mutual friends, and loud music and lines of coke on the coffee table. I was no stranger to any of this, but it had been a while and I was out of my element. I did a line and kissed a girl sitting next to me on the couch. Naminé was giving a henna tattoo to Riku as he slipped in and out of consciousness. Two people were getting into a heated argument about whether human ribs would taste as good as pork ribs if you marinated them right.

Synergistic effects were kicking my ass and I felt like I was swimming in a vat of molasses. The girl next to me played with my hair, braiding strands of it and licking the ends to keep them from unraveling.

It had been a few weeks since the trip to Marion, and I had been trying my best to move forward, to forget. I quit the deli a few days before the end of my probation and gave Ansem the rest of my savings to make up for my upcoming lack of income while I looked for other means of employment. For some reason, I had a newfound sense of pride and motivation. I realized right then, as my thumb stroked figure eights on this girl's thigh, that it was because I wanted to prove I don't need a mom or a family, that I could make something of myself by myself for myself. But I didn't know quite where to start.

Someone passed me their joint and I took a hit and passed it to the girl.

I wanted to show Anastasia Henley that she gave up something great that day they took me away. I wanted to succeed and when people asked how I got there, I could tell them of my feat, of my abandonment, of the bitch that has pretended I don't exist for twenty years. And I want her to see me on TV or in the newspaper or on a magazine cover and I want her to feel what it's like to be erased from someone's life.

Suddenly, I'm in Riku and Naminé's guest bedroom, a place that has been a second home to me, only this time I'm not alone. The girl from the couch is beneath me. Her back arches off the mattress and her pelvis meets mine as her chest, flushed a dull pink color and shiny with spit and sweat, rises and falls with each covetous intake of oxygen. I reach forward and tuck a piece of her black hair behind her ear, a gesture too romantic for casual sex with a girl whose name I don't know, but it feels right. After several minutes of sloppy humping , she cuddles close to me as we bask in a post-orgasmic afterglow. Then I pass out.

When I finally came to, it was evening the next day. I pulled my boxer shorts on and wandered out of the room to see that nothing in the house looked displaced. Everything was spotless and innocent, not a trace of anything that would indicate a party was contained here less than twenty-four hours before. Naminé was sitting at the dining room table sketching in her sketchbook. I cleared my throat and she looked up at me. "Well, well, well. Look who rose from the dead."

I tried to comb out some of my hair knots with my fingers with no avail. "Shit," I said, "I haven't partied like that in a while."

"As long as you had fun," she said, going back to her sketchbook.

I rocked on the heels of my feet. "I don't remember if I had fun, but I probably did."

"You did. Your little friend had a lot of fun too, she just left a couple hours ago. Told me to tell you that you owe her $40 for ripping her bra."

Afraid of Naminé judging my sleaziness, I laughed sheepishly in an attempt to play it off. "I, uh, didn't catch her name or number. She a friend of yours?"

"I don't know her and I don't think Riku does either, she must've been someone's plus-one." She blew eraser shavings off of her drawing and slid her sketchbook towards me. "What do you think?"

It was a landscape of some sort. "Looks nice," I said.

She let out a sigh and scribbled all over the page, turning the mountains into conical swirls. "God, I hate doing landscapes," she grumbled. "People are my forte, but no one wants to buy paintings of you or Riku, they want trees and buildings and beachfronts. It's killing my art mojo." She angrily closed her sketchbook. "I need… inspiration."

"I can't really help you there, Naminé. I'm not very artistic."

"Oh well," she said. "Want a ride home or do you want to wait until Riku gets off of work?"

"I'll go now, I'm dying for a shower and there's semen on these boxers. Fingers-crossed that it's my own."

When I got back to Ansem's apartment, he was in the middle of making macaroni and cheese. "Honey, I'm home!" I shouted from the entry-way. I kicked off my shoes and went into the kitchen.

"Hey, love, you got some mail." He motioned over to an envelope on the counter. "No return address. A love letter, perhaps? I was tempted to open it but I think that's illegal."

I picked up the envelope and inspected it. My name and address were handwritten in a neat, curly script. And, like Ansem said, there was no return address. "You think there could be anthrax in here?" I asked him half-seriously.

"Oh, who in the world would try to poison you, love?"

"Your sarcasm won't mean anything when the anthrax kills us both."

"Just open it, you've got me curious."

With a shrug of my shoulders, I grabbed a butter knife and slid it under the flap to detach the adhesive. I opened the envelope, and inside was a folded rectangular piece of paper. I took it out and unfolded it and my knees went weak when I saw that it was a check. A check for $10,000.

"Well, shit!" Ansem exclaimed, peeking at it from behind my shoulder.

My hands trembled as I looked from the amount to the name that signed for it. It was a mess of swirls, like signatures tend to be, but the check was personalized. In the top left corner, where the printed name and address of the check-writer would be, was a thick coat of whiteout. But I already knew who it was from.

She remembered me all along. And now she was trying to quell her guilt.

In a fit of anger and irrationality, I ripped the check in half. "Fuck her," I growled through gritted teeth. Ansem looked at me like I had just curb-stomped a cancer patient.

"A-Axel…" He said, trying to remain calm. "That was ten grand. It's no millions, but... You're not exactly rolling in dough at the moment. Ten grand, Axel. That's like four years of the rent you pay."

But Ansem didn't understand. He didn't know what an insult it was. It was hush money. Stay-the-fuck-away-from-me money. I-wasn't-there-for-you-and-will-never-be-so-here's-a-small-chunk-of-change money. The pot of water on the stove started to boil over and sizzle on the burner and Ansem left my side to tend to it. I looked at the two pieces of the check in my hands before crumbling them. I picked the envelope up and peered inside to see if there was maybe a note or something, but there wasn't. She just sent me a check with nothing else like $10,000 alone was enough to fix everything.

But then I had a thought, and I quickly tried to straighten out the pieces of the check. Ansem was saying something, but I wasn't listening. I picked at the whiteout, letting it cake under my fingernail as it flaked off bit by bit. I scraped at it, careful not to rip the paper, like I was playing a scratch card.

Anastasia Henley
206 NE 47th Ct
Fayfield, New York

I knew what I had to do.

"Ansem," I said, in the sweetest, most syrupy kiss-ass voice I could muster. "You don't have work tomorrow, right?"

He narrowed his eyes at me, picking up on my tone. "Right," he said slowly.

"And you don't have any plans?"

"Not that I know of, no."

"So, like, can I use your car? Pretty please?"

He let out a grumbly whine. "But you don't have a license and I don't want my perfectly good track record tarnished if you get pulled over."

"I pinky-promise, cross my heart that I won't get pulled over. I just need like, I dunno, four hours, top?"

"For what? You're not going to work, and if you were going with one of your little friends, they'd come get you."

"Ansem," I moaned. "I'll be on cleaning duty for the rest of the month. I'll do all the dishes and make your bed and do laundry. Just… Just do me a solid, man. It's important. I wouldn't ask you if it wasn't."

"Fine, fine," he caved. "But if you get pulled over, or so much as put a dent in my car, you owe me ten grand. No more, no less. Also, I'll put a twenty by the keys, get some gas in her. And remember, the gas gauge is broken so don't think she doesn't need gas just because it says she's full. She's an old gal, so treat her right."

"You got it, man," I said, but I had already stopped listening.

Honestly, it looked exactly as I imagined.

Three stories. White siding. Cobblestone driveway. Columns. Yellow rose bushes. It was very neoclassical and storybook, with a shiny red BMW parked outside the two-car garage. Ansem's fifteen year old Town Car looked especially out-of-place as I pulled up.

It was almost noon on a Sunday, and the late-spring air was warm and comfortable. I dressed my best, combed my hair, forwent the eyeliner, and dabbed concealer on my eye bags. For a moment, I just stood by the car, wondering if anyone had noticed me pull up. I didn't know if Anastasia was home, or if when I knocked her husband or either of her other kids would answer. I didn't know what I'd say to them if they did. Anxiety made me sick to my stomach, my palms were sweaty, and I debated turning around and going back home where I belonged.

But then I thought about it; the nerve of feigning ignorance and then sending me a check. How I lived in an older man's apartment with nothing to my name while she lived in a big house with her perfect family and perfect new teeth like she was above everything. And I was furious.

My anger caused a surge of adrenaline and I marched up to the front door like I had something to prove. I jammed my index finger into the doorbell about three or four times, and then I waited. And waited. And waited. It was probably only a minute, but it felt like an eternity. At the 45-second mark, part of me felt relief and I was about to retreat back to the car. But then the door opened.

"Hi there, can I help you?"

The woman who opened the door was the same woman from the book signing, the book cover and those pictures from the internet. Almost a stranger, but not quite. She wore an ironed silk blouse and dress slacks like a soap opera wife, with her mass of red hair carefully styled into bun with nary a strand out of place. Her makeup was done and she smelled like designer perfume.

She didn't seem surprised to see me. In fact, she didn't seem affected at all. And I wondered how she could look so calm while I was falling apart.

"Can I help you?" She asked again, her words slow and deliberate as she looked at me up and down with silent judgment. Or maybe it was something else. Her eyes met mine and she held my gaze for a moment before saying, "If you're here to sell something or convert our religion, we're not interested, sorry."

I could feel all the years of built-up anger and resentment bubbling within the pit of my stomach, coming up like bile that caught the words in my throat. I swallowed heavily, fighting back whatever threatened to come up. "Cut the shit," I spat.

"Please leave," she said quietly, "Or I'm calling the police." She was about to turn on her heel before I grabbed at her wrist. She opened her mouth to say something else, or maybe scream, but I cut her off.

"Are you fucking serious?"

"Lower your voice, plea—"

"Or what? You'll abandon me again?" I said even louder.

She placed her hand on my sternum and shoved me hard enough to send me a few step back. She stepped outside the house and gently shut the door behind her, turning to face me with crossed arms and repentance. "Axel," she said softly, and my knees went weak. She said my name again, like the first time was just a test to see if she could say it. She smiled a nostalgic smile.

My anger momentarily faltered. "In the flesh," I responded, barely above a whisper.

But then her smile waned. "How? How did you find me? Why did you find me? I… You can't be here." She quickly glanced around as if to see if anyone was witness to our exchange. "Look, Axel. I'm… I'm elated that you're okay. I've spent so much time thinking about you—"

"Have you?" I challenged. "Then why haven't you looked for me?" She looked down at her shoes, a pair of heels that probably cost more than I've ever had in my life, and she was speechless. "Judging by the nice car, new teeth, big house and lack of a crack pipe in your hand, I'd say you've done pretty well for yourself. And married, too. New kids."

"Axel—"

"Do I get to meet my new step-dad?"

"Axel! Please!" She clamored, exasperated. And I almost felt bad for putting her on the spot, but I had twenty years of pent up emotion to let out. "This is too much, you're making this so complicated. I want to be happy to see you, I really do. But things are different. I'm different. And… And…" She struggled for words. "And I don't want you complicating things."

Her last words stung harder than anything I'd ever felt before. And suddenly I was a little kid again, being passed off on others and trying my hardest to acclimate, dreaming of stability and mom-kisses on the forehead before bed.

"Please," she begged, "Go back home. I'll keep giving you money."

"You think I want fucking money?" I shouted at her. "You think I drove all this way for a few pity dollars? Fuck you." Despite my efforts, tears pricked the corners of my eyes. "Fuck you," I said again, this time in a defeated whisper.

"I'm really sorry," she said.

"How did you even know where I live?" I asked, suddenly remembering the check that was now sitting in the bottom of a garbage can.

She opened her mouth to answer, but was interrupted.

"Mom?" A muffled voice called from within the house. "Mom, where'd you go?" And before either of us could react, the door opened and a suntanned blond boy approached my mother, his eyes a piercing blue color that looked at me with undeserved contempt. "Oh. Who is this?"

My mother cleared her throat and said, "Axel, this is my son, Roxas. Roxas, this is Axel. He…" She struggled for an alibi. "He is… He's visiting family, the neighbors. And he, uh, came to introduce himself." She shot me a look of pure surrender, her eyes pleading for my compliance.

"Why?" The boy, Roxas, asked, unconvinced. He leaned against the doorway, sticking his hands in the pockets of his chinos. "I mean, it seems pretty outdated to just go around introducing yourself to neighbors. How do you know he isn't canvasing our house for a robbery? I saw a Dateline episode about this."

I narrowed my eyes at the little prick. He had a punchable face. Smug and pretty.

"Don't be ridiculous, hon. Besides, he was just leaving."

I didn't say anything, I couldn't. I was too much of a coward, too eager for acceptance. She rubbed his arm comfortingly, and he glanced up at me again and then looked back at my, our, mother. There was no way he didn't see the resemblance, but if he did, he showed no sign of questioning it. "Alright, then. See you around, Axel." And then he disappeared back inside of the house.

My mom let out a breath I didn't realize she was holding. "Thank you," she said.

"Whatever," I said, rolling my eyes. "Well, don't worry. I'll leave you and your new family alone. Good seeing you." I turned to go, half expecting her to stop me. But she didn't, and I was left to trudge down the cobblestone driveway feeling sorry for myself. I heard the door close behind me, but I didn't turn to look.

I don't know what made me think she'd suddenly want me now after all these years.

Before getting back in the car, I took one last look at the house that could've been my home. And I wanted to burn it to ash.

But I had enough self-control to not indulge in arson. I had a different idea. I drove to the nearest gas station and picked up a pay phone and punched in the number I would never let myself forget. "Hey, Xigbar! Long time no talk!... Yeah, yeah, I'm doing great, but I was wondering if you had interest in this job I have… Uh-huh… Uh-huh... Well, you are the best, Xiggy… It's in Fayfield. Big house, probably alarmed, family of at least four… I was thinking we can hit it tonight… Sweet! We can meet behind the Dunkin Donuts off the freeway. See you soon."

After all she put me through, she didn't deserve to be happy and carefree. So I was going to do something about it.