Page 36 of It's Always Us

“Pal, it’s exactly the same. Until you recognize that and quit believing otherwise, you’re going to limit yourself and keep from having and doing the things you want.”

My jaw and teeth ache from clamping it shut before things come out that I don’t mean.

He stands, ending his lecture. “I pulled the new brakes inside. She’s all yours when you’re ready to quit sitting around and feeling sorry for yourself.”

I want to punch something, but instead, I shove my hands into my hair and squeeze. How many times have I been here? This was my entire childhood. Trying and failing. Trying and failing again. It wasn’t until I was in high school that anyone even paid attention to the fact that I wascompensating for my inability when words became more than I could memorize.

Being diagnosed with a severe reading disability was a relief to understand why I couldn’t make sense of all the words on a page, but the constant humiliation has never faded. I’m great at covering my weakness. Today’s technology and phones have changed my life, but there are times like today when I want so badly to accomplish just one thing. To know that my time and effort are worth it and that I can do it.

I feel completely incompetent, and it takes me right back to all those years of school where I fought for every single passing grade. I wondered how in the world I was ever going to graduate. I spent hours upon hours with tutors and reading specialists, and eventually, Mark helped me with all my schoolwork when he wasn’t practicing. Even then, shame ate at me every time I couldn’t keep up with the most basic standards.

I contemplate calling Mark to tell him I walked out, needing him to listen and not make me feel worse like he always used to, but what’s the point? He’s likely with a trainer, being interviewed, or doing some other great thing with no time to deal with my inability.

I need to get to work and focus on the one thing I’m good at. I’ll replace a set of brakes and rotors while I try to release failure’s chokehold, and the reminder that this is all I’ll ever be able to do.

______

I park outside the apartment building and grab the box of cookies I picked up from the bakery on the way home. After spending all afternoon replacing the brakes on a Honda Civic, I pulled myself together and out of my pity party. Spending the evening with Bree will only help push those thoughts and emotions further into the background where I need them to remain.

Dinner with Linda and Bree is a monthly ritual that started years ago. There was a time when playing with Bree was the only thing that gave me hope that I might someday be happy again. Her big, joyful eyes and squishy, happy face were the only things to remind me that I’d done the right thing when everything in me felt like it was all wrong.

The once chubby baby is now a smart, joyful girl who beams brighter than the sun, and that’s exactly what I need tonight.

Holding the cookies, I make my way to their unit. I knock, and two seconds later, the door flies open, and the nine-year-old with pigtail braids grins up at me.

“You’re here! I finished the model you gave me, and I’ve been waiting to show you.”

The last time I visited, I brought a vintage Volkswagen Beetle model, thinking the little art lover would have fun piecing it together and painting it.

“Really? I can’t wait to see it.”

I step inside the small two-bedroom apartment and inhale the scent of tomato sauce and garlic.

“Hey, Alex,” Linda says, peering through the cut-out in the wall that joins the living room and kitchen. Her dyed dark hair is pulled back with gray roots showing, and her early-aged skin is covered in a thick layer of makeup.

“Hi, Linda.” I scan the small place that’s orderly as usual, inspecting for any sign of things being . . . off.

“Come on.” Bree takes my hand and tugs me toward her bedroom. “I painted it pink.”

She bounces down the short hallway and into her room.

“Look!” She picks up the fragile little Beetle bug and holds it in her hands like a prized possession.

“You did an amazing job. You can hardly tell it’s not the real thing.”

She laughs and turns it in her hands, giving me a three-sixty view.

“I love the color choice.”

She beams. “I wanted to show you when we brought the flowers, but you weren’t home. I asked Mom if we could send you a picture, but she said we shouldn’t bother you.”

“You can send me pictures anytime. I’m never too busy.”

She sets the model down. “You look sad. Want to see something really funny?” She rummages through her backpack.

Leave it to kids to see all the things you think you’re good at hiding. “I’m not sad, I’m just . . . ” I wonder what she sees while I choose my words carefully. “Something didn’t turn out how I hoped it would.”And I miss Mark like crazy.

“Look!” She holds out a piece of paper in front of me filled with squares where she drew pictures inside. “I’m making a comic strip. It’sstarts here.” She points. “This girl has twelve brothers and sisters, and she’s the youngest. Her name is Baker. Get it, Baker’s dozen.”

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