Back to You

November 2011
Michael closed his daughter’s door softly as he left her room, careful not to wake her. She was so exhausted that she’d fallen asleep halfway through her bedtime story, something she hadn’t done since she was a baby.orry I made you come get me when you were sick. si
He smiled sadly at the thought. He could remember those days with perfect clarity, as if it were just last night he was putting a cooing, writhing bundle down to sleep instead of a beautiful, intelligent little girl.
It was going too fast. He had the horrifying image of her declining a bedtime story one day, followed by one of her not being home at all for bedtime, spending the evening out with her friends, or worse, some boy.
He sat down with a sigh at the kitchen table, reaching toward the cell phone he’d left there earlier and spinning it absently on the smooth wood. As it slowed, he flattened his hand over it, stopping it completely before dragging it back toward himself.
Michael stared down at the phone, contemplating what he suddenly had the urge to do. He hadn’t felt the need or the desire to call her for years, and he was pretty sure it was the image of Erin as a teenager that brought on the urge now; he didn’t know what he’d do with a teenage girl, but he knew it would be so important for her to have a female figure in her life. Someone she could talk to.
He licked his lips as he lifted the phone, hitting a button to wake it. His head screamed at him not to make the call. She wasn’t even a decent human being, so what would make him think she would ever be a suitable source of guidance and support for Erin?
The problem was he never knew if he was doing the right thing by keeping his mother out of Erin’s life. In his mind, it made perfect sense for him to do it, but throughout his life, he had screwed up so many things, on so many occasions, that he wasn’t sure he could trust his own judgment anymore. Granted, some of those times he purposefully made the wrong decision, chose a path he knew would be destructive. But then there were those times that he actually believed he had been doing the right thing, making the smart choice, and it still blew up in his face.
He couldn’t be sure which category this particular circumstance would fall into.
He swallowed slowly as he lifted the phone and scrolled through his contacts, choosing her number and hitting send before he could talk himself out of it. As the phone began to ring in his ear, he felt his heart speed in his chest, and he closed his eyes and clenched his jaw.
“Yeah?” a voice rasped into the phone after the third ring, and Michael opened his eyes.
“Hello?” the woman said after another second, her voice growing a bit louder with irritation.
He opened his mouth, but no words would come.
“Hello!” she nearly shouted. “Who the hell is this?”
Michael’s eyes fell closed again as the familiar slur rang out in that last sentence. Without opening them, he moved his thumb and hit the button to end the call.
He sat there for a second, staring at the table before he exhaled heavily and tossed the phone onto it with a soft thud. He pushed his chair back and stood, running a hand through his hair as he walked toward the sink to load the dinner dishes into the dishwasher.
When he was through, he wiped down all the counters. He straightened the living room. He put away Erin’s toys. Then he went into the bathroom and wiped it down with cleaner. And when that was done, and he had nothing else to clean or neaten, he found himself walking aimlessly around the house.
The feeling of restlessness in him was unsettling, and after a few minutes he finally willed himself to go sit on the couch and calm down. He didn’t understand why he felt so antsy. Sure, it was only nine o’clock { display: block; text-indent: 5%; font-size: 0.88rem; margin-top: “n the on a Saturday night, but he could hardly attribute it to that; Michael hadn’t been out on a Saturday night in years.
And suddenly, like a smack to the face, he understood why he was so edgy.
Lauren was out on her date tonight. It was the reason she had turned down his second dinner invitation.
He inhaled slowly through his nose as he lay back on the couch and closed his eyes, running both hands down his face.
As soon as he closed his eyes, he was assaulted with a memory of her, one that made him smile but at the same time caused his heart to clench.
It had been his junior year of high school; he was sitting in his living room, watching a football game, when there was a timid knock on his door.
He opened it, and the first thing he saw was her red nose, followed by her bloodshot eyes, and finally her tear-streaked face. He could remember the dichotomy of his emotions in that moment: the desire to pull her protectively into his arms battling against his innate desire to murder someone.
“What happened?” he asked, trying to remain composed for her.
“I need your help,” she said, her voice quivering slightly, and she held out her hand.
He took it without hesitation, his jaw tightening with rage as she guided him down the driveway to where her car was parked. The entire time, he ran his thumb soothingly over the back of her hand as he envisioned making whoever did this to her bleed.
As they reached her car, Lauren had let go of his hand and opened the passenger door, and as Michael bent to get into the car, he froze.
He blinked a few times before leaning closer to the car, not sure what he was seeing.
“What…” he asked, looking over to where she stood, fighting tears. “What the hell is that?”
“Triple chocolate cake,” she said softly. He closed his eyes and shook his head, trying to make sense of what was going on.
“For your birthday,” she added, her voice so small it sounded like a child’s, and his expression softened as he looked back at her. “I made it for you, and when I was driving it over here, this cat,” she gestured wildly at nothing, her voice breaking on the last word, “bolted out in front of me…and I tried to swerve, but it darted back and forth, and I slammed on the brakes, and then…”
She motioned pathetically at the car, and Michael looked back inside, at the brown goop and chunks that were smeared and splattered all over the interior of the vehicle.
He pressed his lips together as he raised his eyes back to her, and she sniffled and hiccupped as she wiped her nose on her sleeve. He had been so overcome with relief in that moment that she was okay, and she had looked so adorably pathetic, that he burst out laughing.
When she heard him, she dropped her face into her hands as her shoulders shook with silent sobs, and he immediately straightened and wrapped his arms around her, pulling her into his chest.
“Come on, Red,” he said through a smile. “Let’s go get some rags and a bucket.”
They spent the next two hours cleaning and scraping what had once been chocolate cake out of her car, and every so often, Michael would look over at her to find her eyes shining with tears again.
“Would you cut it out?” he said with a laugh. “This will all come out. You can have it detailed.”
“I don’t care about the stupid car,” shend I will try to fix you.
“Then why are you crying?”
“Because your cake is ruined,” she said through a barely contained sob. She took a steadying breath to calm herself before she added, “I know this used to be your favorite thing about your birthday, and I really wanted you to have it again.” Her chin trembled pathetically when she spoke, and Michael watched as two large tears welled along her lash line and spilled over her cheeks as she scrubbed the mat in front of her.
He stopped cleaning, the rag he was using dropping slowly to his side as he stared at her. He hadn’t even remembered telling her that—the tradition of his mother making him a triple chocolate cake for his birthday—but obviously he must have.
And she had remembered. She had tried to recreate it.
It was one of the few times he remembered feeling like something happened to his heart, almost as if he could feel it swelling in his chest as he looked at her.
With a sigh, Michael shook the memory from his head as he sat up on the couch, looking around the room.
What he really wanted was a drink.
He had done that often when he was younger, drink until he felt like he had stepped out of his life for a while, but the older he got, the less he relied on it. And as soon as Erin had come into his life, he had nearly stopped drinking altogether. He had seen too much of what using alcohol as a coping mechanism did for people in his own house, and he’d be damned if he became his mother, if Erin had to watch.
He wished he had some other, safer vice. Ice cream. Reading. Playing video games. Anything he could use to escape the feeling he had tonight.
Michael inhaled slowly, pushing off his knees as he stood and walked to Erin’s door. He cracked it open slightly, watching the rise and fall of her chest under the blanket. Just as he was about to close the door, he noticed the little red photo album on the foot of her bed.
He gently pushed the door open and walked over to her, sliding the book off her bed before exiting the room just as quietly as he’d entered.
He returned to his spot on the couch, opening the book and flipping ahead a few pages to the one he wanted.
His graduation photo.
He stared at the smiling, beautiful girl by his side, and he couldn’t help but ask himself the question he’d been asking himself for the past eight years: if he could go back and do it all differently, would he? In all the time the question tortured him, he had never been able to come up with a definite answer.
But that was before she had come back into his life. And seeing her again, being near her again, he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that if he could go back, if he knew then what he knew now, he’d never have made the decision he did. He’d do it all differently.
Michael ran his finger down the edge of the photo, and it lifted slightly, revealing the image on the next page. He turned it slowly, staring down at the picture of his brother, and at that moment, he realized just how bad of a f*ck-up he truly was.
Because there were so many things he should have done differently.