Every Way

“Damn it,” I said.

“Look, you might be doing a really good job of hiding this from her. Or she might be so preoccupied with being pregnant that she doesn’t suspect you’re hiding anything anyway. All I’m saying is the couple of times I tried to surprise my wife with something, it went drastically wrong,” he said.

“Great. Well, talk to me about something positive. How’s Travis doing?”

“He’s doing good. I’m not sure what he’s doing with the money we’re paying him. He hasn’t bought himself any new clothes. But the ones he does come to work in have been laundered, so I know he’s at least cashing the checks somewhere,” he said.

“He attending his drug classes like he needs to be? No issues with him coming in high to work?”

“I thought he did once and had him drug tested, but it turned out the man was just tired. It’s why I think you should talk with him. I don’t know what he’s doing with that money, but I know he’s still living on the street. He’s not sleeping much, but I haven’t questioned him on it because the lack of sleep hasn’t affected his quality of work.”

“Thanks. I’ll go talk to him,” I said.

I headed back downstairs and slowly walked around the house. It was turning out to be perfect, and I couldn't wait to tell Hailey about it. I was questioning whether it should still be a surprise, but I figured with the project crew only being days away from finishing, it wouldn’t hurt anything. If Hailey’s distance was because she thought I was keeping something, and the distance returned this week, I would tell her. But nothing this morning indicated to me that she was worried about my leaving, so I tossed the worried thought from my mind.

“Travis! There you are.”

“Hello, Mr. Bryan. How are you?”

“I’m doing well. How are you?” I asked.

“Just making sure this paint doesn’t get on any of the crown moldings. It really is a pretty color. You picked it out well.”

“I’m going to be married to an artist. I better be good with color,” I said, chuckling. “Listen, I wanted to talk to you about something.”

“Something wrong, Mr. Bryan?”

“I just want to check up with you. The foreman tells me you’ve been coming to work pretty tired,” I said.

“Has it been affecting my work? Is the foreman unhappy?” Travis asked.

“Not at all. In fact, despite how tired you’ve been, your work’s been great. I want to ask you something, though.”

“Shoot,” he said.

“You’re cashing the checks we’re giving you, right? Because that’s money well-earned. It’s yours.”

“Depends on what you mean by cashing, I guess,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

I watched as Travis came down from the ladder before he drew in a deep breath.

“Mr. Bryan, when I lost my kids, I lost everything. Their mom took everything in the divorce and I spiraled, I guess. Drank through my money and got thrown out of the apartment I was holed up in during and after my divorce. I’m trying to save as much money from this job as I can so I can get myself a decent living space after. I’m trying to come in early and learn as many skills as I can so I can get another job after this one wraps up. I want to go back to court and fight for shared custody of my kids. I miss them, Mr. Bryan. But that’s going to take money, and it’s money I can’t spend right now unless I have to.”

My heart ached for this man as he told me his story.

“I’m taking half of what I earn and putting it into an account I can use, and I’m investing the other half. It’s not much of an investment, but it’s growing little by little. I want to prove I can be responsible with finances, that I can have the money to take care of my kids when they’re with me. But there’s a lot of stuff I have to do first like get my own place, find some steady work, have a reliable stream of income, and prove that my alcohol abuse isn’t an issue anymore. I know the courts will look into my finances and question every little transaction I make, so for now, I’m trying to let it ride, I guess.”

I was speechless at the man’s story. Investing money? After living on the streets and battling alcoholism? This man was the real deal. He was fucking serious, and anything I could do to help him was something I was more than willing to do.

“Well, feel free to apply for more jobs within the company. You’ve obviously acquired a great deal of skills, and Foreman Jack seems happy with your work. If you need a reference for any other jobs outside of the company, feel free to put both Jack and me down as references people can call,” I said.

“I appreciate it, Mr. Bryan. That means a lot.”

I took a step back and watched Travis climb back up the ladder. My heart felt full, knowing I could help a man like this. But my thoughts soon wandered off toward John. I wondered about Hailey’s guilt and how I could somehow convince her that John’s death hadn’t been her fault. I thought about all the times John did come visit me and how I could’ve done more to intervene. I was reminded of the struggles John eventually did pull himself out of. He had gone from a doped-up homeless man to a fledgling artist who was willing to give his own life to stop the very men who’d worked in the trade that had fueled his own addiction.

Then, my thoughts wandered to my mother.

I had no idea how I could get her to accept the truth about my brother’s death. I also had no idea why she was so resistant to it. It was like she almost preferred him being an overdose victim. It was like she was okay with writing off her son, the addict, but she couldn’t write off her son, the murder victim. Whether that cast a deeper shadow on the type of life she led or if she was really struggling deep down inside, no one knew. She wouldn’t let anyone close enough to see without lashing out in the most extreme of ways.

And even though I knew she was hurting deep down in the marrow of her soul, I couldn’t allow her to patronize and chastise my budding family the way she had been.

I had no idea how I was going to get her to accept the truth, but I knew it ultimately wasn’t up to me. We had proven to her that John wasn’t some loser who’d overdosed but that he was a victim. And in some weird way, that should have alleviated some of her pain and guilt. If there was a part of her that blamed her parenting style for how John turned out, then she no longer had to blame herself for his death.

I thought that would’ve brought her some comfort, but all it did was make her angry.

I wondered how long it would take her to overcome something like this. How long would it take her to take the one truth she believed and discard it for another? I had walked that bitter, despondent trail with my mother for years after John’s death over the four years of both my parents pushing him off to the side and not attending the memorial service I would throw in his honor. Was I going to have to push through four more years of torture and verbal abuse and ignorance to give my mother the time she needed to come to terms with this? My father had, and in some ways, it had released him from the guilt he was being swallowed by and from the nightmares I knew plagued him. It gave him a renewed chance to remember John the way he wanted instead of the way my mother had always forced on him.

But my mother was a piece of fucking work.

I was happy to give her whatever time she needed to cope. After all, she was going to be a grandmother. I wanted to give my unborn child a chance at a stable family. I had heard tales of how grandchildren could change even the coldest of elderly hearts, but what I wasn’t going to do was subject Hailey to her criticism, her empty threats, and her anger. Hailey didn’t deserve that kind of treatment nor did she need to be put underneath all the stress. So, if staying away from my mother was what it took to keep everyone safe, then that was what I would do.

But the sound of a paint can dropping ripped me from my thoughts.

Men began to shout as I turned my head toward the sound. I saw a ladder teetering in the other room, and I rushed across in that direction. I saw the man go down as the ladder fell on top of him, and I lunged for the metal frame pinning the man to the ground. Foreman Jack came running around the corner and headed straight for the worker on the floor, the gash in his head bleeding as it trickled down his skin. I set the ladder upright as Jack pulled out his phone to dial the emergency responders.

“Son. Son, can you hear me?” Jack asked.

The man nodded his head but winced in the process.

“Don’t move,” I said. “If you’re in pain, you could make it worse by moving.”

“Yes, I’d like to report an accident,” Jack said. “We need an emergency response crew at 1752 Court Circle Road. Yes, San Diego. Out toward the west end of the city. It’s a new build, yes.”

“How many fingers am I holding up?” I asked.

“Three,” the man said.

“Good. Does my voice sound like it’s echoing?”

“No, sir.”

“Good. Can you move your fingers and toes?” I asked.

I watched his hands and feet as his boots and his fingertips moved.

“Okay. Anything feel cold? Anything going numb?” I asked.

“No, sir. But my neck’s cold.”