Fall for Me by Claudia Burgoa

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Willow

My parents holdhands as they approach us. Mom looks almost the same—she’s petite. So thin, I fear she might break. A straw hat covers her dark braid that falls to the side. Dad wears an old San Francisco Giants cap. His eyes are as green as mine. It’s the Beesley eyes. He has a big, strong nose that matches his long face. He isn’t as tall as I remember him, but his tanned arms are still strong. As they approach us, my heart beats faster. By instinct, I search for Hazel who is right next to Harrison and Scott. Her eyes find me, but she’s shaking her head. I’m not sure if she’s telling me no. Bad idea or not, we are staying.

“It’s okay,” Hunter releases one of my hands, wrapping his arm around me and holding me tight to his side. “If you guys want to leave right now, we will make it happen. You don’t have to do anything you aren’t ready to do.”

The panic only lasts seconds, erased by the reminder that I want to be here. Mother releases my father’s hold. They split and she walks to Hazel and Dad walks toward me.

Once he’s in front of me, he studies me. Then, he glares at Hunter and hugs me. “It’s so nice to see you, my little whimsical Willow.”

“I haven’t been called that in a long time.” I hug him back, reminiscing about my wanting to be Glinda, the Good Witch of Oz.

Maybe this can help me remember the good memories from my childhood. I’m sure there’s a lot more than seeing my parents leaving us behind. The knots inside my stomach loosen, since at least I have a memory. A question pops into my head. What if my parents were great at home? What if I’ve been too hard on them? I have so many questions. Now more than ever, I want to know what’s real and what’s not. The foreign feel of my father’s hug is at least the first indication that I have forgotten what it was like to be around them.

My fingers don’t let Hunter’s go. We remain connected for the few breaths I’m attached to my father. The good emotions are replaced by waves of anger, resentment, and sadness riding freely inside my blood. Those unanswered questions come back with things like, because they hate you, they never cared about you. I want to cry, yell, run. This is what my therapist meant when he said that working through every emotion I felt was essential. If I allow them to stay in my head without analyzing them, I will always lose my mind. The way it used to happen.

“When you said you’d be joining us for a couple of weeks, I couldn’t believe it. And best of all, you brought manpower with you.” My mother who can’t contain her excitement speaks. “This project might be done before September rolls in, Grant.”

Mom marches to where I stand, Dad releases me and goes to Hazel who looks a little lost.

“Look at you, Willow. You look so much like your grandmother.” She grabs my face with both hands, studying me. “There’s no denying that you’re a Beesley.”

“Good to see you too, Mom.”

I take a second look at her, trying to bring up a memory of her. What do I remember about her?

Those summer mornings when she decided to plant flowers around the house. The times we would bake cookies and twirl around the kitchen while we waited for them to cook. Screaming at us if we were noisy. Sending us outside when her head was killing her. Laughing while painting the walls a different color. She loved to change them all the time. No one should stay in one place, she used to say.

“Michelle,” she corrects me, kissing my cheek and giving me a hug. I had forgotten she hates labels. We should always call her Michelle, and instead of Dad, we should use Grant. “This is such a wonderful reunion. It’s been ages since the last time the four of us were in the same place.”

You decided to move away from us,I bite back the awful remark and let it slide.

Hazel, on the other hand, says it, “You stopped visiting us.”

“We visited New York last year,” Dad amends. His voice calm and soothing. “These gentlemen received us at the airport.”

“And sent us to our next destination.” Mom smiles at them, then walks to Scott. She pats his chest. “You seem like a good candidate for my daughters. One of you should step up before he becomes unavailable.”

“Thank you, but I don’t need an arranged marriage,” Hazel protests.

“Who said anything about marriage? I just want a couple of grandchildren to spoil.”

“Why would you care about grandchildren when you never did us?” My tongue was faster than my brain this time. My tone is harsher than I intended.

“Mrs. Beesley,” Hunter greets her.

Turning her gaze to Hunter, she extends her hand. “Michelle Richardson.” Her voice is forceful, like an unleashed lion about to eat her prey.

“I didn’t know you use your maiden name,” I say.

“Why would you assume I’m married?” she snaps at him, then turns to me. “I see you are as judgmental as your grandfather. That’s why I never wanted you close to those people.”

Watching her anger ignite just by the mention of the wrong last name, I’m reminded of the millions of times she would yell at Hazel for being hungry or at me for making noise and waking up the baby. She reminds me of myself. The days when a simple word shifted my balance. Turning to look at Hazel, I see it. The questions about what just happened. Maybe the end of our visit.

Dad comes near her. “Michelle, we have to go back to the orphanage.” His voice is quiet but firm. He redirects her gaze, engaging it with his. “There’s work to do.”

“We will see you later,” Dad says, walking away without turning back.

Like it happened years ago, I have a hole in my stomach and lots of questions. One phrase that I can’t say while I see them leave is “Please, stay.”

Hazel and I cover our mouths, looking at each other. Is she thinking what I’m thinking?

“We can leave at any point.” Hunter remains by my side, murmuring the words.

“You saw it too, didn’t you?” I angle my head, leaning on him as I wait for his answer. He nods. “She exploded. Just exploded out of the blue.”

Hunter looks at me with a worry line etched on his forehead. “Are you okay?”

“What happened?” I ask out loud, but I know the answer.

I have the answer, but I don’t want to say it yet. Like me, she has a mental illness. That explains a lot more about my own diagnosis. Borderline personality disorder has a hereditary predisposition. I knew about the stressful childhood. For years, I suffered from the separation from my parents. They neglected me. I had no fucking chance to escape it.

“He knows.” I exhale, finding my internal tools to remain calm.

My insides are churning with anger. My father knows my mother isn’t right. That she’s unstable. His behavior, the way he redirected her, and just swept her away from here.

“He fucking knows about it.” My voice drags the attention of my sister and all the guys who came with us.

For a moment, I’m that kid again. Watching my parents drive away as they leave me behind with my little sister. Alone. He’s taking her away. My father is taking my poor mother away. Is he the one who hates me? I shake my head. This can’t be real. I’m a grown woman. My therapist cautioned me about this. There’s nothing wrong with feeling undesired, I repeat to myself. Just go back to your special place. Remember who you are and how far you’ve walked to be standing here. I can stand up as many times as I fall.

Yes, it’s normal to feel hurt. No matter what I do, I won’t stop feeling that unconditional love toward the people who gave me life.

“What do you mean, Wills?” Hazel approaches me, giving me a tight hug. It’s soothing and needy. We give each other strength because if she’s feeling a bit of what I do, she’s angry and hurt, too. “He knows about you being sick?”

“No. That our mother isn’t stable, I correct.”

Every step was premeditated. Our father has a contingency plan. His immediate reaction was to move her away from the area. “His voice became firm, like he was telling her what she had to do, dragging her attention back from us.”

“You’re right, I’m tempted to say let’s leave,” she comments. “But it’s up to you. I go with what your gut tells you.”

Suddenly, I feel everyone’s eyes on me. I hate to be in the spotlight when I’m not on stage. But I understand it’s up to me if we turn the car around or stay for the full two weeks as we had planned.

Of course, we’re staying. Mom needs us. I’m fine. I’m able to help her. We can be together again. Mom needs me. A lump clogs my throat as I think for one second to leave. How can I leave when I see my mother’s struggle? I’m not experienced, but I can do something here. We can find her help. Give her a safe place. She needs a support group and a family who loves her. This is what we all need, to be a family again. How can I judge her behavior when I wanted to leave her behind?

“We should stay,” I decide. Everyone nods.

“If nothing good comes out of this visit, remember, we have Gramps waiting for us.” Hazel squeezes my hand, and her expression fills with unease and worry.

She shouldn’t be worried about me; she should worry about our mother who needs help.

Harrison claps. “Now that we all agree, it’s time to feed our Bumble Bee,” he says in a mocking tone.

She growls, narrowing her gaze. “I already told you, my name is Hazel.”

“That’s not what your parents called you, Little Buzz Buzz Bee.”

I laugh at Hazel’s annoyed face. Harrison winks at me, and I smile even more. This guy might say stupid things most of the time, but he does it to dissipate the tension.