With great difficulty, Susan reaches behind her and pulls out an envelope filled with 20s and 50s. It’s hundreds of dollars, thousands even.
“That money is for you, do you hear me? Not for DJ. For you,” she emphasizes.
“I… don’t know what to say. Thank you, Susan, from the bottom of my heart, but this is too much.”
“Hush,” she waves her hand at me. “It’s only $5,000. I want you to have some breathing room until you get back on your feet.”
“I don’t think it would be right for me to take this, I mean, I’m no longer with Dylan,” I protest.
Susan fishes a delicately embroidered handkerchief from her bosom. “You’ve more than earned this. Don’t even mention that boy to me,” she says in a shaky voice. “He had it all, only for that awful harpy to come back and ruin everything.”
Susan cries as I watch impassively. I have no more tears left to waste on her son.
“He was so happy with you, Marissa. I don’t know what happened.”
There’s no point in explaining to her that he wasn’t.
“I don’t know either,” I tell her sadly.
“You were like the daughter I never had, and I want you to know how much I appreciate all that you’ve done for me. And most of all,” she says and takes a deep breath like it’s hard for her to admit this, “I never felt like you were judging me for…” She trails off, looking down at her body as if no words were necessary.
“I would never, Susan.” I grab her hand, and she squeezes it gratefully.
“I know that,” she says with a small smile. “When you sent Rachel over with my groceries, she came in for a cup of coffee, and she eventually told me how worried she was and that you had lost your job and weren’t leaving your house a lot. I was terrified.”
I frown. “Terrified of what?”
Susan hesitates. “I was terrified you’d end up like me.”
We both cry and hug and promise to stay in touch, and her parting words to me are, “You are always welcome in my home, for as long as you’d like to stay. I want you to know that.”
I’m starting to believe her.
As Hawk drives us towards our new life, I look at my son and feel myself choking up. He doesn’t even know that he’s moving away from his father, and the only living grandparent he has. So small and already adrift, his nuclear family torn apart, living between two cities and two homes.
“We can get you a job in Tucson if you’d rather not move,” Hawk says in a stilted voice, and I quickly wipe my eyes.
“I’m not crying because I want to stay. Dylan’s mom was so nice just now, she even gave me some money to help tide me over,” I explain. “I was moved and surprised by her kindness.”
For a few minutes, Hawk drives without saying anything. “Boy, your mom really did a number on you.”
I snort. “So you’ve said, multiple times, but it’s nice to put a grimace to the statement.”
“I’m serious. Why wouldn’t Susan be kind to you? From what you’ve told me, you two have a great relationship. Her son cheated on you; only an insane person would blame you for that. Sometimes I feel like your mom’s mantra, "Don’t expect anything from anyone," has conditioned you to set the bar abysmally low.”
“Maybe you’re right. Rachel has always tried telling me that.”
“Tried how?”
“Dylan isn’t taking care of you the way he should.”
“Mind your business, Rachel,” Truck says on his way out, but she waves him off impatiently.
“I don’t need my boyfriend to take care of me financially,” I protest, almost offended.
I don’t want people in the club to think I got pregnant on purpose like some gold digger.
Rachel persists. “But that’s what bikers do. They take care of their women. You don’t get it. An old lady wants for nothing; prospects drive them around, mow their lawns, get their groceries, and the club brothers fix things around the house for them. They’re queens. All I’m saying is that in the context of the MC, in the shared language they all speak, Dylan’s telling you you don’t matter. And it makes me livid.”
