Page 12 of Property of Shotgun
Instead of sending all that, I delete every word.
Me: Everything looked good. Baby is right on track.
“You have to eat, Irene,” I say gently to my mother-in-law. I’m not going to lie, I am not in the running to win any awards for best daughter-in-law. In fact, this might be my first visit to her since Irish and I found out I was pregnant. About three years ago, her MS really started to progress, and her mobility became almost non-existent. That’s when we made the hard decision to put her in a home with round-the-clock care. It was a temporary fix. The plan was always to make the side apartment in our house wheelchair accessible for her and hire a private nurse. Life just kept getting in the way. But Irish always carved out time to visit her twice a week.
“If you don’t like the food here anymore, I can stop and get you something before I visit.” I know she sometimes has difficulties swallowing, but there must be something I can get her to eat. In the two weeks since Irish’s funeral, she looks even thinner than she did then and that’s alarming.
Irene doesn’t say anything, and I don’t know if that’s because she physically can’t or if she’s too depressed to speak, so I just sit with her until it’s time to pick up the boys.
The next time I come, I’ll bring her some soup from the diner.
When I pull up to the house, Fuckface’s bike is parked on the street in front, and he’s pulling out the garbage pails from the side of the house. I park in the driveway and silently breathe a sigh of relief. One less thing for me to do.
“Why is he always here?” Legend asks, staring out the back passenger window.
“He’s just being helpful.”
“But all he does is stand outside our house.”
“That’s not true, he’s taking out the garbage right now, and yesterday he mowed the lawn.”
I’m sure he was trying to be helpful, but I don’t think the landscaper is going to be pleased when he comes for the weekly cut and sees the checkered pattern on the front lawn. From what I hear, Fuckface is a master at repairing vintage bikes, but that must be where his expertise with machinery ends.
“Do you think Uncle Shotty will come by soon?”
I stare at my boy from the rearview mirror. It’s the first time he’s asked to see anyone from the club specifically. Normally, I wouldn’t blink an eye, but he’s grieving his father, and I don’t want him to think everyone he cares about has just upped and vanished from his life.
Shotgun hasn’t texted or called since my doctor’s appointment, and I kind of like it that way. I may be on the struggle bus, but at least I’m moving at my own pace. If he called or came by, he’d see through the façade and do everything in his power to help wherever he could. It’s just in his nature. I need to learn how to do all the hard stuff on my own. If someone swoops in and picks up the broken pieces, I’ll never be the mom my kids need me to be.
I also think his energy is better served transitioning into his new role as vice president. As selfish as this may sound, I want revenge on my husband’s death, and deep down, I know Shotgun wants that just as badly as I do. He won’t quit until he gets it too. And that puts his life at risk. It makes him a target.
“I’m sure he’ll stop by to see you boys soon,” I finally say. “Let’s get you boys in the house. I’m too tired to cook tonight. How do we feel about pizza?”
Legend’s eyes find mine in the mirror. “Can we get sausage and pepperoni?”
“Whatever you want, baby.” My gaze flits to Raiden, and before he can object, I assure him we’ll get a plain cheese too.”
I barely have Raiden out of his booster seat when Fuckface rounds the truck, holding a kraft bag out to me.
“Shotgun dropped this off. He said it’s for Legend.”
I close my eyes as soon as the words leave his lips, already anticipating the tantrum.
“What about me?” Raiden cries. I don’t even have to look at him to know his lower lip is trembling. My eyes spring open, and I snatch the bag from Fuckface. I’m starting to understand the meaning behind his road name. If my kid wasn’t on the verge of a total meltdown, I might laugh at the expression that clouts his face. Clearly, the guy doesn’t have too much experience with kids. Hell, I bet he doesn’t have any siblings.
“Uncle didn’t get me a gift?”
“Uh… it’s for both of you,” Fuckface says. “I mean… I think.” His neck turns beat red as he combs his fingers through his hair. “Shit, I’m sorry Jade. I don’t even know what the fuck is in the bag.”
“It’s fine.” Taking Raiden’s hand in mine, I glance down at him as I give it a squeeze. “Fuck—” I stop myself before I can regard the man in front of me by his road name in front of my son. The last thing I need is for him to go to preschool talking about the mysterious uncle Fuckface that broke his heart. Turning my attention back to the prospect, I shake my head. “What’s your name?”
“Fuckface.”
I grit my teeth. Why Shotgun didn’t think Skid was a better option is beyond me. “Your real name. I can’t have my kids calling you Fuckface.”
“Oh, yeah. I guess that would be bad. They can call me Phil.”
Hmm. He looks like a Phil.
