Unsteady

It’s a good night. Really, really good.

The warm late July air sails though the rolled down windows while “Waterloo” plays through the staticky speakers. Liam sings every word at the top of his lungs from his car seat, and although I don’t know where his ABBA obsession came from, I’ve definitely encouraged it. Even Oliver smiles and hums along from his seat.

I pull through the drive-thru of Oliver’s favorite fast food place, which he swears makes the “perfect milkshake dipper fries.” His face lights up with another bright smile that I pocket away; they’re so rare nowadays.

But tonight, he’s made of them.

He played the game of his nearly-12-year-old life tonight, scoring two of the team’s three-point win. Even playing on this mixed exhibition team, Oliver shines; and I know come fall, he’ll shine even more with his school team.

Oliver like this—wet hair drying in the summer heat, mouth smudged with chocolate shake remnants, smiling through too-large waffle fry bites—that’s the brother I remember. The one buried beneath the hurt.

He plays the alphabet game with Liam without complaint, both of their giggles giving me more sustenance than the spicy grilled chicken sandwich I’m scarfing down.

I leave the car in park for a while after we’re all finished, watching the sunset over the slight hilltop that rolls down to a small park and a popular lake that we have skated on many times when frozen. It’s moments like this where I can imagine another life for us all, where I’m torn by the urge to drive off into the sunset, chasing the light until we’re somewhere new. I’d never skate again if it meant an endless supply of nights like this for my brothers.

My phone rings, cutting the low playing music in the background.

Mitchel Hanburgh.

The lawyer.

I excuse myself, stepping out of the car and under the cover of a tree, far enough away that their little ears can’t hear, close enough to keep watch over them.

“Hi, this is Sadie.”

“Sadie.” He sighs. I can almost picture him the way I saw on the video call before. “Listen, I still need Oliver’s birth certificate—”

“I found it,” I cut him off. “I can send it over tomorrow if I go by the school.”

“Great,” he agrees, but there’s enough hesitancy that I know what’s coming next. “And your father? Did you speak with him?”

“I-I haven’t had time.”

“Ms. Brown, I have to have his signature on the consent documents. And I haven’t even broached the topic of Liam’s—”

“I got it,” I snap, then run a hand through my hair, snagging on the tangles before yanking it free. “Sorry, I just—I’ll see what I can do.”

“Alright,” he sighs, resigning. “I’ll let you go. Send me what you have and I’ll see what I can do on my end with the custody papers.”

“Thank you,” I reply, before ending the call.

It’s like my perfect frozen snow globe moment has been shattered. So, the smile I give my brothers isn’t as bright as before.

I hate that Oliver notices, even more that he doesn’t ask. Watching his smile sink and dim, until it fades entirely—the tightness in his body as I start to drive towards home—makes tears prick behind my eyes.

The emotion is overwhelming, so much so that the moment we pull into the driveway, I know I won’t be able to sleep without something—something to push everything bubbling within me out.

My hands are shaking as I type out a quick Busy tn? text to a usual hookup. I don’t wait for a response before jumping out, seeing Oliver already unfastening Liam from his seatbelt.

The house seems quiet, but that isn’t a good or bad sign, something my eldest little brother and I know well.

I hate that the front door is unlocked, because it means Liam, still chattering and singing under his breath, is the first through the threshold. It doesn’t matter that I shout at him to stop and wait, he takes off, Oliver and myself chasing behind him until we all crash into one another like dominoes.

“Is he asleep—”

Liam’s question is cut off by Oliver’s hand over his mouth.

Our father isn’t asleep—if anything, he’s passed out. There’s a torn up box of beer cans, empty on the floor of the living room, an empty half-broken bottle of whiskey at the corner of the kitchen just before the stairs.

No, I realize with my heart leaping into my throat. He’s crying.

“Take Liam to my room.”

That’s all it takes before Oliver is ushering a now quiet Liam up the creaking stairs.

“Dad?” I start, inching slowly towards him, unable to decipher his mood. “I—”

“Oh god,” he cries, lifting his head up from the cradle of his arms. His eyes are red and sunken, cheeks rosy with intoxication and wet with tears. “Sadie, I’m so sorry. I just…”

“I know.” I don’t, but I want to stop him now before the pieces of me still held together crack entirely. “I thought you were out of money. How did you get all this?”

“Please. I’m sorry,” he blubbers, ignorant or unhearing of my question, his hand gripping tightly to my wrist.

“Don’t touch my sister,” Oliver sneers, storming into the kitchen and grabbing Dad’s hand off my arm.

“I’m your father,” he snaps, turning from pathetically sad to heated anger in the blink of an eye.

“Barely,” Oliver spits back, but he’s pulling me away from the kitchen. He’s brave talk when facing off with Dad, but the fear is in his eyes—he’s still scared. We all are.

“Is everything okay?” I ask, rounding the corner to the stairs.

Oliver shakes his head. “There’s some fucking woman up there saying she’s Liam’s mom and now he’s hiding.”

My stomach drops.

Liam doesn’t know, Oliver probably barely remembers. It was five years ago and I’d woken up early for a before-school practice, hoping to bring Oliver with me to avoid anything with our dad. But when I’d walked down the stairs, Dad was passed out across the couch hugging a bottle, and a baby was on the floor, just looking at me with wide brown eyes.

I was terrified, a sixteen-year-old high school student with already too much responsibility with Oliver; and suddenly, there’s a bouncing little baby boy to add to the absolute shit show of my life.

My coach stepped up. He knew I needed to keep it all a secret until I was eighteen at least, or we’d all be taken away and separated. So, he helped me find sitters, and helped me deal with my father so that I could skate and keep winning.

I owe him everything.

The pit in my stomach churns to anger, feeling my loud steps towards my brother’s room. Oliver is on my heels and as much as he is my baby brother, he’s a protector through and through—beneath all that anger.

The woman is clearly drunk, swaying on her hands and knees as she tries to draw Liam out from hiding beneath his bed.

I grab her by the collar of her shirt, dragging her back. I’m sure if she were standing, I’d be at a height disadvantage. But, I’m strong and she’s strung out.

“Get the hell out, psycho!” Oliver shouts.

I manage to drag her out, demanding Oliver to check on Liam, before shoving her to the top of the stairs like I might fling her off.

“Are you really his mom?” I ask, hating the word. “Did you give birth to him?”

“Yes, I—”

“Prove it.”

“I-I-I think I have the birth certificate. I can’t—”

“I don’t care. You have two options. Either you sit here while I call the police and my lawyer to make sure you pay the years of missing child support. Or, you go the fuck home and send me that document. And you sign my fucking custody papers.”

It takes barely a minute before she says, “Okay. Just let me go.”

As soon as I hear the door close behind her, I burst into action. My hands won’t stop shaking even as I pack Liam’s clothes into a bag. Oliver sees what I’m doing and takes off to his room, leaving Liam perched on the bed.

“Spend the night party?”

“Yeah,” I breathe out, pushing his hair back off his little freckled face. “Are you okay, bug?”

“Yeah… Is that weird lady gone?”

“Yeah. She’s not coming back.”

“She said she was my mom.”

“She’s not,” I say, fervently.

“Oh.” He nods, thinking hard. “Do you think, maybe, one day I’ll have a mommy?”

My heart hurts.

“Maybe one day, bug.”

His words haunt me the entire drive, so much so it must be written across my face judging by Rora’s reaction. We tuck them in and Rora tells me to shower in her room while she starts a movie for them. She’s already playing Tracy Chapman on the soft speakers by her bed.

I cry until I can’t breathe.

For a moment, while lying on Rora’s bed waiting on her, I think about trying to contact Rhys. Like something about him would make this better—which is ridiculous considering who he is and what he’s dealing with himself. But I can’t shake the thought.

Aurora scratches my back and holds me until I fall asleep.