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“What was that, Mommy?” Sophie called from the kitchen, and before I could think of an excuse, I began crying, shielding my face as I did.
“Mommy?” she called again, but I couldn’t muster the composure; I never let Sophie see me like this. I needed her to believe everything was going to be okay, even if I didn’t necessarily believe it myself.
“Nothing,” I managed. Then, I grabbed my purse. “I’m running late to work—Jaida texted me, she’ll be here in a minute. I’ll see you tonight, sweetheart. I love you.”
“I love you, Mommy!” she yelled, and it took everything I had to keep from breaking down before I could close the door behind me.
As I walked to the hospital an old but familiar thought resurfaced: a man named Lucas, improbably handsome and generous, with a massive LA flat and a housekeeper who booked his flights, whose life must have been so easy—who could have made my life, our life so easy. He was the father of my child, and I’d left him out of a hypothetical anxiety, a fear of the unknown. My life might have played out differently, had I stayed…had I gotten to know him, had I let him get to know me.
The past was the past, but there was comfort in revisiting it. And although I would never admit it, for I knew how corny it sounded, how hopeless and naïve, there was greater comfort in hoping that someday, somehow, he and I would again cross paths, and the past would become our present.
8
Unfinished Business
Lucas
Despite not wanting to take over Mendosa Enterprises, my family made one thing clear: If I gave them an inch, they took a mile.
My mother and sister were, on paper, still Co-CEOs of the company; their photographs were the ones that appeared on the website and in all the news coverage, and for all intents and purposes they were the face of the company. But that was where their investments ended. The rest of the responsibility fell on me.
I didn’t mind this at first—whether Mateo’s death had put the importance of family into perspective, or I had passively come to accept whatever workload my mother and sister deemed “fair,” they needed me to step up and I did. Gradually we garnered the respect of corporations, within Minneapolis and beyond, and restored the value of our name. But when it came time to recognize Mendosa Enterprises’ miraculous comeback, I was surprised to find I received none of the credit. My position was not an anonymous one—my name could be found on the website—but as I was not formally in charge, people paid my efforts—and, by extension, me—no heed. At first, I found this frustrating, but soon found the advantage in it, with no eyes on me, there was no pressure. In theory, at least.
But in practice, I felt more pressure than ever. Not necessarily from my family, but from some internally generated desire to honor my father and his legacy. I knew it was silly, that even if I coasted by in this position the family would have more than enough money for us all to live comfortable lives, but it was what I told myself, and what I had to remind myself, anytime my mind began to wander down hypothetical hallways. What if I had stayed in the army, what if I had caught up to Natalie in the airport, what if my brother had never died, what if, what if. So long as I had something to hold to—some sense of moral affirmation, some deeper purpose—I could convince myself I was doing exactly what I was meant to be doing. And somehow that only amplified the pressure.
One afternoon, after wrapping up a particularly good quarter—our revenue was the highest it had been since before my father’s passing—my mother called me into her office.
“Lucas,” she began. “I want to start by saying… I appreciate everything you’ve done for the family—the sacrifices you’ve made.”
I took a moment to consider her words; typically she reserved praise for her maudlin rants, but nothing about her comportment suggested she’d had anything to drink. Something about this fact sobered me, and I nodded my head for her to continue.
“Over the last few years, you’ve been bringing the company together, for all intents and purposes, the lifeblood of the company. I would reoffer you the CEO position again, only I know you wouldn’t accept. And I understand… I do, Lucas. You want to keep a life of your own, one that isn’t bound to the company. But…” She paused, drumming her fingernails along her wooden desk; she appeared to be weighing her words very carefully. Then, she resumed. “Lucas, I feel as though… you haven’t had a life of your own. Not lately, anyway.”
I was unsure how to take this, and opened my mouth to protest, before she lifted a finger. “Please, let me finish. What I mean is… you used to be so happy. So adventurous. I’ll admit we could’ve been closer, and I wouldn’t change our relationship for the world, but, honey, when’s the last time you did something for yourself?” I suspected this was a rhetorical question, but when she paused in anticipation of a response I couldn’t generate one, and so only shrugged. “Exactly—not since before Mateo died.” Here her voice became thin. “Lucas, you have so much going for you. And I want you… no, Ineedyou to put yourself first.”
She leaned back in her chair, and we sat there in silence.
“What do you propose I do, then?” I finally asked.
“Well, in light of last quarter’s numbers… I think a vacation may be in order.” And here she opened the top drawer of her desk and procured a small box, wrapped neatly with blue paper, and set it on the desk.
I grabbed it, utterly confused.How’d she fit a vacation in such a small box?But once I had torn open the paper and removed the lid, I understood: a set of keys.
“The lake house,” I said.
“The lake house,” she echoed.
We hadn’t been to the lake house in years, not since my father was alive, despite its proximity (two hours by car). Frankly, I hadn’t realized we still owned it; nobody had brought it up in so long, and I’d been afraid to ask. But here were the keys to it; yellow for the house, green for the shed, blue for the boathouse, held together by a silver keyring.
“It’s yours, in case that wasn’t clear,” my mother said, and I looked up; tears welled in her eyes. I opened my mouth to speak, but words failed me just then, and so I only nodded.
“Thank you, Mom.”
“No, thankyou, for everything.” She wiped a tear on her sleeve. “Now go, you’ll want to beat the traffic.”
“What, now?”
“Why not! It’s the weekend, and besides, your sister and I wanted to do a spa weekend anyway… not that you aren’t invited, if you want to, I just—”
