Parsons

(A/N: The last two chapters will definitely be longer, but they're the closing to this series - chapter 13 being the finale. I plan to go back and do some editing on everything after and then see if inspiration hits sometime soon. Regardless, so I can avoid a melodramatic note in the last chapter, thank you all so much for tuning into my first series on here. I've learned a lot and hope to continue to do so. All your comments, follows, and favorites keep me going.

Seriously, thank you.

M.)

-

Aaron squeezed my hand as I rang the doorbell. "Remember, if you feel like leaving at any point, we can."

I wasn't hoping for that outcome, but I appreciated the support. "Thanks for coming, seriously."

Before he could answer, the door opened. Lorraine, in typical fashion, pulled me into a tight hug.

"Oh, it's so good to see you again!" She cheered, clasping her oven mitt-covered hands behind my back. I did my best not to gasp for air until she let me go and gave the same to Aaron.

"And you too!" Lorraine chimed. Aaron gave me a pained look but hugged her back anyway. He wasn't foreign to affectionate family members, but they usually didn't squeeze that bad.

"It's a pleasure to be here," he said in a strained voice. Lorraine released him and escorted us into her house. In light blue, farm-style decor, the home would be pleasant to explore under other circumstances. Instead, my eyes lingered on happy family pictures in every other corner while Aaron made small talk with Lorraine.

While they paused before the kitchen entry to discuss Lorraine's flower choices, I was drawn to a framed picture of a young Gerald with the people I assumed were my grandparents. This version of Gerald had a goofy grin and a high school diploma. Lorraine was right; we looked similar, particularly in facial structure. Back then, his hair was blonde. Thank God I got my mother's.

"Heath?" a voice rang from the top of the stairs. Gerald, a thousand times more alive than the last time I saw him, walked hesitantly down the stairs. Aaron found me yet again, resting his hand against my lower back. I relaxed in his touch.

Gerald stopped before me, his body shifting to hug me but restraining himself once he remembered the circumstances. He instead went with a handshake. "I'm glad you could make it."

I bit my tongue. I had a variety of ammo ready to go: maybe tell him I knew that I'd have to be the one to come or that it was his usual anyway. Aaron had advised me in the car to pick my battles.

Instead, I stayed quiet. I didn't know how to start, much less continue small talk with him. He seemed just as lost as I was, hiding his hands in his khakis.

Lorraine was the first to cut the tension. "Well, I've been in the kitchen all day with the pot roast, and I'm more than ready to have you guys try it. Let's go to the table!"

"Yeah, sounds good," I agreed, hanging behind her and Gerald while they made their way into their dining room. Aaron let them pass so he could walk beside me, giving me a look of reassurance.

The fact that their dining room looked straight out of a Home Depot had given me mixed feelings. Aside from how nice the design of their long dining table was, I still had trouble processing that this was Gerald's. I couldn't even begin to imagine him coming home and sharing funny stories with his family over a colorful meal. He'd greet Lorraine with a loving kiss, wash his hands quickly in the kitchen, and offer her to set the table. He'd ask his stepkids what school was like that day, maybe crack a couple of jokes that would make them groan, similar to what he should've been doing with his actual son.

Gerald caught me as I ran my fingers around the intricate edges of the table. "Do you like it? My brother, Anthony, made it for us. He's a carpenter. Do you remember him?"

I wasn't even sure of how many siblings he had. "No," I said with honesty. Gerald deflated a bit but said nothing. Not like he had the space to. He excused himself and left to help Lorraine in the kitchen, leaving Aaron and me alone in the room.

He placed his palm on top of mine. "How are we feeling?"

I didn't meet his eyes, counting the flowers in the center of the table. "Remember how you got food poisoning two weeks ago and you were holding onto that bucket all day?"

He gave me a dry laugh. "Not my best moment. If it's too much, I can make up an excuse, and we'll be out of here before the five o'clock news."

"Or you can finally start reading them on your phone like normal people," I joked, turning my head up to him.

"Celebrity accounts on Twitter aren't 'news' sources," Aaron teased, pecking my lips. I begged to differ, but our hosts returned before I could. Aaron and I took a seat across the table from them and dug in.

Lorraine was quite a good cook. I wasn't sure if I had ever had pot roast before, but this was a great start if so. Casual conversations emerged, carried by Lorraine and Aaron. The weather, the cooking, the way she had dyed her hair into a dark red. Gerald and I exchanged looks every few seconds but focused on listening to our significant others.

"You pull off any color, Lorraine," Aaron complimented. "I'm still shocked you got that purple so vibrant."

Gerald was confused. "You two have met before?"

"Of course!" Lorraine gushed. She had overseen Aaron's appearance while Gerald was hospitalized. "Aaron was there with Heath that first night you were at the hospital. He brought him a blanket and everything--so romantic."

Aaron and I exchanged a quick look. We wouldn't define being there for your friend's dying estranged father as romantic, but we swallowed our words with juice.

To my surprise, Gerald spoke again. "Well, I'm glad my son has considerate people around him."

Had he used my name, I might've carried on like nothing, but at the use of the word "son," I let my impulsivity take the reins.

"Not like it's a low bar to work with, right?" I sneered, taking a sip from my glass.

Aaron reached for my hand under the table. I couldn't tell if his squeeze was of support or asking me to tread carefully.

I guess I really was my father's son because Gerald was not amused. "We're trying to have a civilized meal. I know we're expecting some bumps, but it'd be better if we saved the passive-aggressiveness. I didn't come here to fight with you."

"You didn't come at all. I did; I always do," I argued, quickly dabbing the corners of my mouth with a napkin. "I mean, even I was the one who had to reach out to Lorraine for this."

"I'm sorry if my challenging hospital recovery didn't make you the priority, Heath."

"You don't have to apologize at all; I haven't been your priority as long as I've been alive."

"Who wants salad? I forgot to grab the salad," Lorraine cut in, hoping to dissolve the shared frustration between Gerald and me. She got on her feet. "Heath, would you mind helping me out?"

"Yes," I said instantly. Aaron hit my ankle with his foot.

"Ow!" I said under my breath. He gave me a dirty look, motioning for me to follow Lorraine. Reluctantly, I joined her in the kitchen.

Lorraine cut to the chase. "Heath, I didn't want to have you guys over if you two were planning to get into it so soon."

"I didn't think it'd happen that fast, but you didn't think it'd happen at all?" I asked, watching as she removed a large bowl from the fridge.

"Well..." Lorraine sighed, removing the saran wrap off the top. Strawberries and spinach were certainly a... choice given the entrée. "I understand it being uncomfortable, but I thought the whole point was for you two to make up."

The lack of transparency was on me. After a few more sessions with Dr. Jackson and a raw conversation with Aaron, I had finally reached a point of wanting to face my father--one last attempt at closure with him. I could live without having a new relationship with him--I was used to it, after all--but with the upcoming move and a new point of access in Lorraine, I had leaped.

I leaned back against a counter, arms crossed. "Be honest: Do you know what happened with us?"

"I know it was bad," Lorraine admitted. "I know you guys had a fallout that was his fault."

I guess he hadn't been all that detailed.

-

The bit I knew of my mother and Gerald's relationship before my birth came from accidental overhearing. She never answered any questions that had the potential to make me feel as abandoned as she felt when the man she fell in love with when she first arrived solo in the United States left her to raise their child on her own.

She had saved up for years but couldn't afford a work visa, already having it rough after dealing with Type 1 diabetes her entire life. Instead, under the guise of visitation, she settled in the South and found a job, home, and community all by herself. Limited English and no reliable resources only motivated her further. At 20, she had the drive that most people dreamed of, resulting in a rundown two-bedroom apartment that she slowly brought back to life. A storage worker at a warehouse three bus rides away, she used her employee discount to buy buckets of yellow paint and brighten the rooms to match her aura. She loved sunflowers profusely and slowly grew a collection of sunflower decor whenever she found a piece on sale or hit the flea markets.

She had started taking night English classes in an attempt to move up in her company--not to mention make navigating the country a bit easier. With how expensive the classes provided by the community college were, she never missed a lesson. She was only late once after accidentally running into a young man who was taking an evening class for his associate's.

Gerald Aldrin came from a working-class family that owned a medical equipment shop downtown. He had grown up helping them set scrubs and nursing shoes on display during the day and taking business classes at night. The oldest of multiple kids, he was excited to take over the company after his father's retirement. He was, however, more excited when Julieta Diaz agreed to go on a date with him.

He had just introduced her to his parents when she told him she was late.

Gerald came from an All-American family, but they seemed to adore Julieta. She was a respectful, amicable, kindhearted woman of God who lit up whatever room she stepped in. They offered her help and tried to include her as much as possible, which made Gerald's willing disappearance all that more hurtful. She tried talking with his family, but he had convinced them she was a gold digger who was lying about who fathered her baby. They chose to believe their son over the girl who, just weeks ago, had led the prayer at their dinner table.

If Julieta had made it work before, she would again. She relied on her friends and neighbors to prepare for her son. She pondered over names, wondering if she should go with something American to avoid difficulty for him in the United States or name him after her father, who kept her connection to Zacatecas alive.

Everyone back home had suggestions for the baby, and she grew homesick from every letter she got. Maybe it'd be easier if she could cry in her mother's arms or be reassured by her cousins that the baby weight she had put on only made her look better.

I arrived before schedule, though. Accompanied by her closest coworker, Olivia, she rested in the hospital out of the loop when one of the nurses asked her for the name of her newborn. With her friend in the bathroom and even with lots of progress since she had first arrived, Julieta's English still fell short of the nurse's question--granted, it mostly came from the drugs. To quote the great Shirley Bennett, an epidural is a proper Christian woman's only chance to get wrecked.

It wasn't like back home when she had to register her baby's name after careful consideration; the nurse was asking now. The pregnancy had made her gums more tender, and it was a hazy priority for her at the moment. Had her mouth always felt that weird?

"Miss Diaz?"

"Eeth," my mother said, widening her smile so she could check her teeth. The nurse made an executive decision, and once she was back to normal, my mother didn't hate it enough to change it.

-

I grew accustomed to my father not being around. All things considered, the first ten years of my life were fantastic. I maintained Spanish while playing with the kids in the neighborhood and used English to take advantage of the education my mother had sacrificed so much for. She stopped her classes but succeeded in becoming the general manager at her job. I celebrated her achievement by making her a sandwich.

As the years went by and things like inflation and slow work began coming out, my mother's health maintenance became more difficult. It had already been strenuous on her wallet as it was, but feeding two mouths in an economy that forced the neighbors she had grown to love to move away more and more led to some neglect for herself. She was the most selfless person I knew, but even though she tried her hardest to shield me from reality, I secretly wondered if I inherently was causing her to get worse.

I took as many jobs as a fifth grader could in an attempt to cooperate with our household. Newspaper deliveries, dog walking, even doing homework for my classmates back when knowing basic math was an achievement--anything that could ease my mother's mind a bit more. She always refused to take my handful of dollar bills, insisting I spend them on art supplies when we'd make a run to Dollar General. I would indulge in cheap sketchbooks occasionally, but most of it went to a glass jar that I labeled for emergencies.

Unfortunately, all my savings couldn't afford the emergency that finally landed my mother in the hospital. When one of her coworkers she had authorized to pick me up was waiting for me at the front two hours before the school day ended, I tried to soothe myself that my mom's car had just gotten stuck again or something.

Instead, I found her in a room and carefully listened to her doctor talk about kidney disease. The information wasn't aimed at me, but I absorbed the concern in the room while I kept pushing her hair out of her face.

Things weren't looking better. I went from occasional overnight stays with her friends to rarely seeing my bedroom. The people who had grown to love my mother scrambled for money, going from church donations to selling plates of food. With the amount of lives my mother had touched, I was faithful that they would be able to come together for a miracle. Even her family back at home, who I loved writing to with the desire to one day meet, now sent small amounts of money in an attempt to reduce the obscene expenses of her treatment. Writing back to them with a lack of positive updates was painful.

As a last resort, Olivia one day asked me about my father. I had nothing to contribute besides my last name, sharing the same empty answers my mother gave me every time I inquired. We stayed at my home that night while her friend dug through any file my mother had kept.

My mom hadn't added Gerald to my birth certificate but had written him a letter shortly after I was born--a last attempt at reconnection that she couldn't will herself to send. With a lead, Olivia found Gerald and persuaded him to meet me for the first time.

I sometimes had fantasies of meeting my father--running to his arms and making up for years of absence with ice cream afternoons and him helping me with my homework. Instead, Gerald looked at me with shame, certain that the little boy who looked just like him had only returned as a punishment. From a crack in my bedroom door, I listened to Olivia and Gerald argue at Olivia's request to at least help my mother with her bills. Gerald claimed he was engaged, and his fiancée would question why a lot of money was suddenly missing. He didn't have any responsibility for a kid he wasn't even sure was his, much less the mother he swore was lying. He had moved on with his life the past decade; it was time she did too.

She was gone by the next month.

-

The second and last time I saw my father, I was a few months away from my sixteenth birthday.

With no one able to legally claim me and my father's newfound absence, I routinely bounced from house to house. Some people were pleasant, others were awful, but even in the best ones, I never found the connection I had with the neighborhood I grew up in. I tried my best not to be troublesome and dedicated myself to art. I learned I had the same charisma as my mother and relied on it heavily for necessities. I had no problem making friends but was never enough to warrant an adoption. With my constant moving, I lost touch with my family in Mexico and other previously meaningful people.

When the reality that I'd be entirely on my own in a few years hit me, I knew I had to get a proper part-time job. I knew I wanted to attend college, but it'd be difficult. Studies, besides my handful of favorite classes, weren't my forte. Unfortunately, I couldn't legally work at fifteen. Feeling like every second was being wasted, I left for the public library and tracked down my father.

He was lucky to have answered his phone first, as Facebook had already informed me that he was married. His life could've easily turned out differently if his wife had picked up. He warned me not to call again, but I threatened to show up at his home and tell his spouse everything unless he met me.

I had to take multiple buses, but I made it to a coffee shop near his workplace. In 2009, people were really lacking in online privacy. I got myself a cup of water; he got some tea. With just four years since our last encounter, he had weathered significantly. He was unamused from the second he stepped in.

"I don't wanna be here either, but since I'm your kid anyway, I need you to sign these," I pushed some forms in his direction. He took them and scanned over the words.

"What's this?"

"You need to sign it so I can get permission to start working."

Gerald scoffed. "It says you need a parent's signature. Why not get your mom's?"

"'Cause she died," I answered immediately. I had grown to say that sentence enough to where it didn't affect me anymore. For Gerald, it was like a punch in the gut. He stared at the papers while he processed the words.

I didn't even get an apology, though. "Well, I'm not signing these."

No questions about my whereabouts, no begging for me to forgive him, nothing but making me feel like an inconvenience. As far as he was concerned, I was just another errand. "You're the only one that can get this done for me."

"But I'm not your dad, remember? Blame your mom on that."

Back then, I wasn't so dismissive of insults at my mother's expense. If my asking him was enough to make him frustrated, the way I lunged at him made it worse. I promise I've never been a violent person, but enough was enough. Some employees at the coffee shop pulled me off of him and kicked me out. He never had me arrested--letting his wife know that the kid he had neglected his whole life was the one to give him a black eye would end his marriage.

I took care of that by making a throwaway email to send his wife the letter my mother had written to him all those years ago. By the time I finally turned sixteen, his Facebook status had changed to "divorced."

-

"At some point in my early twenties, I guess he realized how bad he fucked up and tried messaging me and stuff," I shrugged, scooping some of Lorraine's concoction into small plates. "Somehow, he got a hold of my number, but I blocked him. I should've changed it when I had the chance."

Lorraine had listened to my entire recollection in silence. I had been too distracted by details to notice her quietly crying. I didn't know if I was supposed to comfort her with something that had happened to me, so I stayed in my corner, wrapping the salad when the plates were full.