a reason to get up each day. She started seeing a therapist. Eventually she quit drinking, started classes at Lane Community College, and wrote daily in a personal journal. After a year of sobriety, she petitioned the court for visitation and was granted it.
The bi-monthly contact with Tate, who was walking and talking by then, had given her hope that she could fully reclaim her life and eventually bring Tate back into it. Yet she knew she couldn’t raise him by herself, take journalism classes, and work full time. It just wasn’t possible. Not for her. Some people seemed to be able to do it all, but she struggled every day just to keep going.
Even if she had been superwoman, it wouldn’t have been fair to the boy. If he had lived with her during college, Tate would have spent all his time in daycare. Sula wasn’t selfish enough to do that to him. Not when he had great full-time care from Emily and John. She could have given up her education, but she hadn’t trusted a judge to give custody to a single mother with a recent history of substance abuse. She worried that her Native American name and heritage would work against her too. Yet deep in her heart, Sula had also been scared that she wasn’t ready and that she would fail as a mother.
She’d earned a degree, landed a great job, and took parenting classes just for good measure. When she felt confident the state would see she was ready, she’d filed a petition to regain custody. In response, John and Emily had filed their own petition seeking to terminate her visitation. They would all end up in court in a few weeks.
Sula glanced over at them, the perfect couple reading behind the glass of the windshield. Emily taught first grade at McCormick Middle School and John was a chiropractor. They had taken good care of Tate; she could tell by how happy and kind he was. Sula hated to be pitted against them, but what else could she do? He was her son. They were meant to be together.
“Aunt Sula?”
She turned back to Tate. “What honey?”
“Are you my mother too?”
Sula’s heart stopped. None of them, not her or the Chapmans or the social workers, had expected this question until he was older. She smiled and squatted to look him in the eye. “Yes I am. We can’t talk about it right now, but we will someday, I promise. I love you, never forget that.”
“I love you too.”
The radio blaring an upbeat pop song to keep her from crying, Sula drove up Chambers. She recited her mantra: Every moment I have with him is precious, and I will see him again.
After a left turn on 24th, traffic slowed. Sula pressed her brakes. Her purse tumbled off the seat, dumping its contents on the floor. She made a quick grab to retrieve it.
When her eyes came to the road, she saw the car in front of her had stopped. Sula slammed the brakes, sending the purse and her notebook back to the floor. The front end of her Dakota tapped into the bumper of the white Mustang.
Oh hell. This was the last thing she needed. The guy in the Mustang stared at her in his rear view mirror. He seemed oddly familiar. The Mustang pulled into the Healthy Pet parking lot. Sula waited for the light, then followed him in. She parked next to his car, where he stood waiting.
“I’m so sorry.” She apologized as she got out. “I took my eyes off the road.” She stopped and stared. It was a guy from the parenting class she had recently completed. “I’m Sula Moreno. We had a class together.” She held out her hand.
As he shook it, she was reminded of how attractive she found him. Tall, with short dark hair and beautiful white teeth, he was one of those mystery people, like her, with a dark exotic look that refused to betray their heritage. His only flaw was his slightly crooked nose, but his green eyes lit up when he smiled.
“Aaron DeSpain. Nice to meet you, officially. Although I wish it were under different circumstances.”
“Me too. With my luck, I’ll be taking driving classes next.”
He laughed, then paused for a moment. “Do you have insurance?”
“Of course.” She had the paperwork in her hand. She copied her insurance information on the back of a business card and handed it to Aaron.
“Thanks.” He stared, as if he was going to say something more. “Maybe-”
Sula cut him off. “Sorry for the damage. Let me know if my insurance company gives you any trouble.”
She waved, got in her truck, and left the parking lot. If her life had been different, she would have gladly gone out with him. He would be a lovely distraction from all the negative strangeness at work right now. The timing was wrong though. What if the guy had a criminal record? And the Chapmans’ lawyer pointed it out to the judge? With the custody hearing only weeks away, she had too much a stake. She had to keep to herself and not take any chances. She had stop thinking: If my life had been different…
By the time she reached the little two-bedroom house on Friendly Street with its warm red/brown paint, the sky was nearly dark. She had rented the cottage a couple of months ago in preparation for Tate coming to live with her. The owners had offered her a sweet deal. If she bought the house within two years, all of her rent would be applied to a down payment. Sula couldn’t wait to sign the papers. Now that she had a garage and a backyard, she couldn’t imagine living without them again.
At the moment, she was a little shy on furniture, but she could not bring herself to prepare a room for Tate until she knew for sure he was coming home. If she lost the hearing, seeing the room ready, but lifeless would be devastating.
Sula opened a can of chili, dumped it in a bowl, and added a healthy dose of green Tabasco sauce. While it heated in the microwave, she dug the newspaper out of the recycling. She was a decent cook when the occasion called for it, she just hadn’t had an occasion in a long time.
The Willamette News kept her company while she ate. When she’d started at the University of Oregon, she’d had hopes of landing a job at the newspaper someday. Then Craigslist had killed the classified section, and the recession had gutted display advertising. The paper had started laying people off and was now down to a skeleton crew. Sula accepted that she would probably work in public relations for most of her career. She wasn’t leaving Eugene. Not as long as Tate was here.
Sula read through the meager help wanted ads. Switching jobs right now wouldn’t be a good custody move, unless the new position paid much better. Yet she didn’t know how much longer she could work for Rudker. He had always intimidated her, but now he disgusted her too.
What if Rudker fired her? Where would she work that would pay enough to provide for her and Tate? The judge wouldn’t take her seriously if she was unemployed, or even underemployed. The thought of standing in court and hearing him deny her custody made her heart race. Sula’s counseling kicked in, and she began to breathe from her stomach. Still, she couldn’t stop her mind from playing an image of Tate walking out with Emily and John, never to be seen again.
Unable to calm herself, Sula got up and began to pace. She thought about taking a Xanex, then changed her mind. She tried to save the mild tranquilizers for when she had serious anxiety episodes in public situations.
Sula pulled on a denim work shirt and headed out to the garage for her own brand of therapy. The unfinished room was almost empty except for her metal-working tools. The one she used the most was her cutting torch, which she was still making payments on. In the center of the limited space was her work in progress: a six-foot tall metal sculpture of a twisted form, part human and part alien. Just seeing it made her feel better.
The frame, which had once been part of a plow, didn’t look feminine yet, but she would round it out later with some motorcycle fenders she’d picked up at a yard sale. The next step was to use the mig welder to attach a piece of metal tubing that fanned out at the end like a hand. First she clamped the tubing in place at the body’s shoulder, then set her mig welder next to the sculpture. Next she attached the ground clamp-which looked like the end of a jumper cable-to the base of the sculpture. She studied the seam for a minute to get a feel for its flow and depth.
Sula took a few long slow breaths to make sure her hands were steady. When she was in the zone, she buttoned her shirt up to the neck, pulled on her welding helmet, and donned a pair of heavy work gloves. She flipped the welder on and a spark jumped from the end of the welding wand. She held the end near the seam and watched as liquid metal oozed from the wand. With a steady hand she added a bead of molten metal to the two pieces. She loved to see the steel come together. Two seemingly unbendable and unaesthetic objects fused into one superior form.
She’d learned to weld at the Center for Appropriate Transportation, a co-op that designed, repaired, and sold bicycles, as well as tried to teach life skills to teenagers who didn’t fit into traditional high school. The center also
