“With me,” interrupts Eli. The sincerity of his words hits me hard. Fuck, this meeting is gaining momentum.
“She’s spent time with most of us and that’s because you’ve made her comfortable,” says Cyrus. “You’ve sacrificed weeks of your life to protect someone we care about and we want you to know we’ve noticed.”
I scan the room, hunting for the blank cut. This moment is so huge that I redistribute my weight. This is Christmas morning times a million. But then the blood rushes out of my head and I all but sway on my feet. I’m lying to them. They’re about to make me a prospect and they have no idea that I spent the night in bed with their daughter...their granddaughter.
Cyrus stands, then lays both of his hands on my shoulders. “We’re patching you in tonight.”
The world zones out. “What?”
“We took a special vote and the club agreed to consider the past month your prospect period. Tonight, you’re becoming a brother of the club.”
A raw emotion builds inside me and I hook my thumbs into my pockets as I try desperately to keep my shit together.
“Jonathan,” Cyrus says in a low tone and it’s not the president of the club talking to me, but the man who taught me to fish at four. The man who drilled it into my brain to hold the door open for a girl. The man who helped care for me when my own parents couldn’t.
Cyrus’s arms close in around me and mine do the same to him, careful not to touch his patch. The hug is strong, tough and intense on both ends and when we let go the entire room is on their feet. Each man waiting for his turn to embrace me and one by one I embrace them back.
Emily
NO ONE IN the crowded kitchen mentions Olivia’s seizure, not even Olivia. There’s a ton of women in here. All shapes. All sizes. Most of them wear a black vest similar to the Reign of Terror, except there’s no skull with flames bursting out of the eye sockets, but a simple patch that reads Terror Gypsies.
Olivia sits at the table next to me and her job appears to be carrying me through most of the conversation and introducing me to so many people that there is no way I’ll remember their names.
“...as it turns out Emily is a bit of a hustler in a game of poker,” says Olivia, and as always multiple women insert their multiple comments. It’s not bad, it’s that there’s a lot of women, with a lot of opinions, and I’ve never been in a room with so much chatter or so many people at one time for so long.
There’s a consistent pounding in my head and I’m attempting to smile through it. I crack another hard-boiled egg and pick the shell off. “For real, who eats this much potato salad?”
The women laugh and maybe they missed I wasn’t joking. After a shower and a fast change into clothes and a touch-up of cosmetics, I was whisked by Olivia into kitchen duty.
Some lady with extremely long bleached-blond hair sweeps the pile of egg shells in front of me into a garbage can. “Honey, those boys can eat more than you can imagine. I’m Peach, by the way.”
Like I have with the other women who have introduced themselves to me since I arrived, I accept her quick and, for me, awkward hug. “Nice to meet you. I’m Emily.”
And like everyone else, she responds, “I know, and welcome home.”
The living room has been rearranged and in it, next to the window, is a hospital bed. I hate that it’s there and, like the seizure Olivia had, everyone appears to ignore it. What I can’t ignore? “How is it that everyone knows me?” I quietly ask Olivia.
“Everyone knows Eli had a daughter,” she responds in kind. “And they know that this is their one opportunity to meet you.”
A fortysomething redhead named Pony makes a fuss over a photo on her phone and most everyone heads her way to look. I lean over to Olivia. “Does anyone have a normal name?”
Sure, I caught on early that the guys in the club have nicknames. Even Cyrus and Eli have nicknames sewn on their vests and most of the people call them those names.
“The women have road names,” she answers. “Just like the club has them.”
I’m more methodical as I peel off the shell from the current egg and weigh asking if Oz’s name really is Oz, but I keep the question to myself. I glance over at Olivia and she’s studying me. Her dark eyes are soft. So soft that I can see a hint of sadness in them.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
“This is how it was supposed to be. You here with me. Being a part of this. This should have been your normal and I should always have been your grandmother.”
There’s this pain and it cuts right through me. Past my heart, past my soul. I place the egg on the table and slide my hand over hers. “I don’t want you to die.”
That’s the moment when the entire room had fallen silent. The moment when everyone had been shifting away from their current conversation and had yet to begin another. There’s wetness in my eyes and Olivia moves her hand so that she’s now offering me comfort with the slightest squeeze.
“I have always loved you,” she says.
I clutch her hand back because I think I love her, too. What causes this wound in my chest to bleed is how I learned to care for someone and now I have to let them go. It feels too cruel, too mean. My gut twists and my face contorts with the agony.
She holds my hand tighter. “It’s okay, Emily. I know.”
“It doesn’t seem fair...to have just now met you when you’ve always been here. It’s just...” No other words. “Not fair.”
“Death never is, and most of the time neither is life.” She pauses. “Emily, it’s not enough for you to care about me. I want you to care for your father, my son.”
I’m shaking my head because I don’t want to hear anything else, but because it’s Olivia and she does whatever she desires she continues, “Do you know why Eli has all those stars tattooed on his arm?”
My muscles lock up as I become paralyzed by the silent stares of the room. I’m crippled by this moment.
“There’s one star for each year of your life. The shaded-in ones are the years that he saw you. The ones that have no color represent the years that his life was empty without you. You want to make a dying woman happy? Don’t let him go another year tattooing an empty star on his arm.”
My windpipe constricts and even if I could talk I wouldn’t know what to say. The back screen door in the kitchen opens and the creak fills the deafening void of silence.