Page 22 of Promise Me Nothing
I roll my eyes, ready to tease her right back about the muscle mass I’ve added on since the last time I was home, when I hear my name called from somewhere else in the house.
“Go on, see your family. I’ll grab your bag and get you settled in.”
I kiss Vicky on the cheek. “Thanks Vic. Love you.” And then I wander off into the house, searching for the voice that called to me.
Vicky has been my mother’s everything since I was a kid. Her assistant, her personal shopper, her maid, her closest friend. She’s one of the few people that I’ve known my entire life. That I’ve loved my entire life. And I’m glad to know that she’s one of the people invested in keeping things in order around here.
I head down the hall between the large formal dining room and my mother’s office, through the kitchen and out to the patio where I find her lounging by the pool.
One of the smart things my parents did during the years they were trying not to save their marriage was build a house one street off the beach, acknowledging that it provided them with slightly more privacy. They purchased an apartment complex and a house, demolished them both, and created the behemoth known to most Hermosan socialites as the Calloway Estate, though my friends in high school mockingly called it Calloway Castle.
Seven bedrooms, nine bathrooms, a media room, two offices, a game room, gym, swimming pool, three car garage, and two thousand square feet of outdoor patios and grass, plus a completely separate two bedroom guest cottage over another garage, it’s an absolutely outrageous property. The only real goal my parents could have had was to irritate all of the neighbors and flaunt their wealth.
Mission accomplished, mom and dad.
I might have seen only a handful of other homes over the years that have a pool this close to the beach. And those people wasted a lot of real estate to have it. But this property would seem almost too big if there wasn’t the large almost unearthly blue mammoth sitting on the edge of the property against a tall wall covered in carefully manicured ivy.
The irony is that my dad is the one who insisted on getting the pool, and my parents divorced before he ever had a chance to use it.
“Wyatt. I’m so glad you’re home,” my mother says as I take a seat next to her on a lounger.
She’s wearing sweats and fuzzy socks and reading a book. On a Friday night.
This is the woman who once told me that staying at home any evening was the first step to becoming irrelevant.
Just goes to show how circumstance can play a part in the choices people make.
“Good to see you, mom.” I lean over and place a kiss on her cheek. “Though I’m surprised to see you out here reading. I assumed you’d be upstairs.”
She sighs. Another indicator that things are taking a turn.
Vivian Calloway doesn’t show her true emotions. She used to be made of plastic, and she enjoyed life that way. “If you’re made of glass, if you let people see inside, you might shatter at any given moment,” she told me once. “Plastic doesn’t break as easily.”
It was the most honest and heartbreaking thing she’s ever said to me.
“Well, sometimes you just have to take a deep breath outside, you know? Breathe in that ocean air. Breathe out all of the fear and helplessness.”
I nod, squeezing her hand.
It’s weird, this closeness with my mother that seems to have sprung up out of nowhere. Being plastic always made her feel fake. Inaccessible.
Now, in the wake of anxiety and sadness, she’s letting that false exterior slip away and I feel like I’m finally getting glimpses of the real Vivian. The mom I might have had if things had been different.
“How was the trip from San Francisco?” she asks, her eyes dropping to my boots. “Tell me you didn’t ride that rickety scooter all the way down here.” At my silence, she sits forward, her eyes wide. “Wyatt, that’s a dangerous ride to take by yourself. You should have just flown. I’m sure Greg Slader would have let you hop on one of his jets. Lord knows he goes back and forth to see that mistress of his enough.”
I smile just a little bit. “Mom, it’s not a rickety scooter. It’s a high performance sport bike. And I was completely fine.”
She rolls her eyes, another newer expression I’ve only seen from her a few times. “I’m your mother. I’ll never think you’re completely fine.”
I’m twenty-five years old, but she still knows how to pull theI’m your mothercard like I’m still in my teens.
Settling back into the lounge chair, I look up at the sky, both anticipating and dreading the next thing I’m going to ask.
“How’s everything going?” Then I turn to look at my mom’s face, because with her defenses temporarily down, I know she doesn’t have the ability to hide anything from me. “Honestly.”
My mom stays silent for a moment, and I can’t tell whether she’s shoring herself up to tell me something bad, or if she’s just struggling to find the right words. But eventually, she confirms what I knew to be true.
“The doctors said we just have to wait and see.”
