Hendrix: A Pittsburgh Titans Novel

My mom saunters down the sidewalk toward me, looking in shop windows and getting distracted twice as she peers in at something. Mandi Seegar is a woman who transforms herself over and over again, depending on the man she’s with.

When she was married to my father, she rode on the back of his Harley and dressed like a biker babe. During her marriage to Cameron Seegar, she wore designer labels and cut her hair into a conservative bob.

These days she’s dating a fitness trainer named Randy who’s ten years her junior, so her preferred clothing is workout leggings, sports bras, and zip-up hoodies. Her dark brown hair is pulled into a high ponytail, and her makeup is flawless.

I’m not sure if my mom cared about her appearance back when she was married to my father the way she does now, but she’s without a doubt a little vain. I don’t hold that against her because she’s always used her looks to snag a man to take care of her and thus they are sort of a necessity. She not only couldn’t take care of her kids because she neither wanted nor knew how to, but she can barely take care of herself. It’s been a source of pride for her when we get together that her boyfriend is ten years younger, or as she sometimes puts it, “He’s only ten years older than you, Stevie.”

My mom got pregnant by mistake, and my dad did what he called “the right thing” by marrying her. It was a stupid decision since he didn’t love her, and she most certainly didn’t love him. I was the product of a hot, wild hookup, but whereas my father was willing to give up his rowdy, free-spirited lifestyle to become a parent, my mother was not.

The difference between me and my father is that I’ve learned to forgive my mother for her weaknesses and he never will. As my dad has repeatedly pointed out, it’s not so much that she was absent as a mother, it’s that she was absent as my mother. Because after she abandoned me, within just a few years, she remarried and bore two daughters for her new husband. Granted, she left them the way she left me, but for a time, she put all her energy into her new husband and children while I was nothing but a piece of her past.

I was lucky if I saw her a handful of times a year and usually only after my father browbeat her into it. He doesn’t think I know that, but I overheard his calls to her.

“Jesus Christ, Mandi… for once in your life, can you put your daughter above your needs?”

Despite having an incapable mother, I grew up incredibly happy. My father provided enough love and stability to compensate for my mom’s shortcomings. It meant the difference between being deeply hurt over my mom’s abandonment versus being irrevocably crushed. My dad and his parents created an environment that made me believe my mom was the one who was losing out. That her inability to be a mother was squarely on her shoulders and had nothing to do with who I was. I love them for instilling that in me.

Sadly, I don’t think those lessons ever got passed on to my half sisters by their own father. They’re two very bitter young women who have essentially shunned our mother and want nothing to do with her.

It’s probably why she clings to me a bit more desperately. Now that her daughters are adults and we can take care of ourselves, she wants to be part of our lives. Liza and Maggie won’t give in to her, but I do.

My father doesn’t like it at all, but he’d never stand in my way. He also understands that there’s something about her needing me now that fills a little of the hole she left behind. I’m enough of an optimist to believe something might be built from the ashes.

Regardless, every time we get together, a simple smile from her can pack quite the emotional punch because I didn’t get them growing up. It’s truly fucked up how much I love those scraps of attention from her, and I’m glad I have my dad there to keep me grounded in reality.

“Mom,” I call out, and she jolts, turning my way from an antique store display.

Her smile widens and she rushes to me, arms open. We hug and I relish it, even though I still have that tiny, dark niggling at the back of my mind that this isn’t real. Not in the way my father hugs me. Not real in the way he shows me love and devotion on a daily basis.

My mom’s hug comes with too many doubts and it feels foreign, but I also give myself permission to let it feel good to have it for now.

“Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes,” she gushes, pulling back to study my face. “Is it my imagination, or are you letting your hair grow a little?”

Reaching up, I brush my fingers through one side. “Maybe. I haven’t had time to get it cut lately. We’ll see.”

“Well, you’re beautiful regardless how you wear your hair.”

My mom draws away, looking at me expectantly, wondering how I’ll react to her compliment.

While it seems sweet on the outside, part of me knows it’s forced. When we first reconnected about five years ago—and by reconnected, I mean her making efforts to want to see me—we had several uncomfortable get-togethers where she criticized everything about me. My clothes, my hair, my piercings, and my tattoos.

All the things that reminded her of my dad.

She’d say things like, “I can’t believe you’d tattoo yourself up like your father,” or “Did your dad pick out that outfit?”

It galls her that every bit of me is my dad, and she envies how close we are. She hates our relationship, which is ironic since the reason we’re so close is that she left. My mom can’t reconcile it because every great quality he exhibits does nothing but shine a spotlight on her failures. She attacked me on outward appearances to make herself feel better.

At least, that’s what I surmised as I tried to figure out this woman.

Regardless, I had to set a boundary with her. “I’m an adult, Mom. You have no say in how I do anything with my life, which includes how I choose to dress or how I look.”

She didn’t get it at first and thought that the mere fact she spent ten hours in labor with me gave her the right to offer what she termed as “advice” but was blatant criticism. It’s only when I stopped accepting her invitations to lunch that she decided to live by my boundaries.

So now I get compliments that sound legitimate, but there’s still that look in her eyes that tells me she doesn’t mean it deep down. I remind myself that she doesn’t know how to be a mom. She’s been so bad at it her other two daughters have cut her completely out of their lives, and it’s for that exact reason I’ve opened the door and let her back in. I feel sorry for her.

I’ve been craving Mexican, so I chose a good restaurant I’ve dined at several times before. And since I’m the one who’s footing the bill, I get to choose. My mom is as unemployed as she ever was, relying on Randy to pay her bills.

Once we’re seated with chips and salsa and a margarita for my mom, she asks the obligatory, “How is your father doing?”

“He’s doing great.” And I offer no more.

Still, she pokes, asking if he’s dating, how his tattoo shop is doing, things like that. I give vague answers and eventually, she gives up.

“And how are you?” she asks, plucking a tortilla chip with an expertly manicured nail. I give myself my own manicures, not because I can’t afford to get them done, but because I like the routine of it.

“I’m good,” I say, swirling a chip in the salsa. “Super busy, but that’s par for the course. Actually, busier than usual. Harlow invited some Titans players last week for a charity event, and it brought in a ton of new patrons.”

My mom’s eyes sparkle and she leans forward, wrapping her lips around the straw in her drink and taking a long sip. “Harlow’s the friend who’s dating the hockey player, right?”

“She’s an attorney,” I say, because I don’t like Harlow being identified by her significant other. “But yes, she’s seeing Stone Dumelin.”

In fact, Stone pulled me aside the other night and told me he was going to propose soon and wanted to get with me on some ideas. It was hard to keep a straight face and not scream with happiness.

“Oh, that’s so wonderful for her,” my mom coos, even though she doesn’t know Harlow. They’ve never met nor has she asked to, but my mom sounds legitimately happy for her.

And for a brief moment, I have an idea of what it might be like to have a mom where we share similar interests. In this case, it’s happiness for Harlow.

I poke at the edges of this new feeling. Lowering my voice to convey the secrecy of this—not that my mom knows Harlow and could let the cat out of the bag—I tell her, “Stone’s going to propose soon.”

My mom rests her hand over her heart and purses her lips. “Please tell me he has some very romantic, over-the-top idea?”

Laughing, I shake my head. “He asked me for some help, and I’m thinking about it.”

“Oh, I have a ton of ideas,” she says, and for the next ten minutes, she offers me what are actually solid possibilities that I’ll pass on to Stone.

We order bowls of chicken tortilla soup along with fajitas to share. It’s so odd but tossing around proposal concepts seems to have opened a free-flowing conversation that doesn’t come easy to us. My mom is so enraptured by the romanticism of it all, she seems softer and more genuine.

And it causes a yearning within me to have her excited about my love life.

“I went out on a date last night with a Titans player,” I say.

My mom, mid sip of her second margarita, chokes. She stares at me with watery eyes as she coughs.

“Tell me more,” she gasps and takes another pull on her drink.

I give her the short version of meeting Hendrix, leaving out the talk in the storage room, and an opaque version of our date last night, leaving out our talk about her.

My mom grins. “Did he kiss you good night?”

I almost snort thinking about how our evening ended. Hendrix took me home after dinner and just as he was leaning in for a kiss on the front porch, the light came on and my dad opened the door. He had no reason to still be at my place other than to wait so he could interrupt what I’m betting would’ve been a great kiss.

I’ll give Hendrix credit. He didn’t jump back but instead leaned in closer and planted his lips on my cheek as my dad glared at him.

“See you Friday night,” he’d said, then beamed at my dad. “Nice to see you, Bear.”

We both watched him trot down the porch steps and into his BMW. When he pulled away, my dad asked, “Friday night?”

“Our second date. He wants me to come to the home game tomorrow night and then out after, but I can’t take off two nights in a row.”

“I’ll cover for you,” my dad offered as I brushed by him and he closed the door.

“I thought you didn’t like him,” I teased.

“I don’t. But I’ll still cover you if you want.”

My dad and I shared a beer while I told him all about my first date with Hendrix. I gave him way more detail than I’ve given my mom. My dad has not only my full trust but the biggest piece of my heart, so I was excited to share how wonderful the evening was. I declined his offer to cover my shift tonight because a date isn’t a good enough reason to take my dad’s free time like that.

“Stevie,” my mom says, throwing a chip at me and jolting me out of my memories. “Did he kiss you good night?”

I smile at the way his lips felt on my skin. “On the cheek.”

My mom sighs dreamily. “What a gentleman. Will you see him again?”

“Tomorrow night.” I don’t bother telling her that he asked me to the game tonight but I declined because I didn’t want to miss another night of work. I don’t feel like listening to her lecturing that I’m wrong to let such an opportunity go. She doesn’t understand what it’s like to own your own business, and I’ll only get angry if I have to explain the concept of responsibility.

To my relief, she focuses on him as a player. “What position does he play and what team did he come from?”

She doesn’t know much about sports, but like everyone who lives in Pittsburgh, she knows about the plane crash that killed nearly the whole team.

“He was actually on the original team.”

Hand clapping over her mouth, my mom squeaks her distress. “Oh wow. A lucky man. I imagine that’s got to be all kinds of emotional for him.”

I wouldn’t know as we haven’t talked about it. Not that it was a subject we avoided, but we spent our time talking about family.

Maybe tomorrow night. The fact our conversation was so wonderful over dinner was why I agreed to his request for a second date.

The waiter walks nearby, and I wave for his attention. “Can I get the check?”

“You have to go already?” my mom whines, her lower lip stuck out. “I was having so much fun.”

“I know. Me too. But I’ve got to get back. I’m trying out a new beer distributor, and I’ve got to meet the rep in half an hour.”

“Well, in that case… I guess I ought to bring up one other thing.”

Immediately, all the goodwill and warm, fuzzy feelings I’d been having from our genuine girl talk evaporates. I can hear it in her voice—she wants something from me, and I brace for it.

“I’m in a really bad place, Stevie,” she says, playing with her napkin and refusing to look me in the eye.

“What do you mean?”

“Well… I’m in a bit of a financial pickle.”

Of course, she is. “How much?”

Her fingers twist at her napkin as she raises her gaze to meet mine. “Ten thousand. Dollars.”

I gasp, my eyes feeling like they’re going to pop out of my head. “You’re kidding me? I don’t have that type of money, if that’s why you’re bringing this up.”

“I thought you would. You own a business.” She worries at her bottom lip, glancing out across the restaurant before looking back at me. “And I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t dire.”

I have to force myself not to roll my eyes because my mom can be dramatic. Dire probably means she and Randy are a few months behind on rent or car payments. “I don’t have it,” I say again.

Because I don’t.

My mom looks around erratically before leaning in and lowering her voice. “If I don’t get the money, I could get seriously hurt. Maybe even killed.”

I rear back, chin jerking with shock. “What?”

She doesn’t say anything, just stares at me, and I can see she believes what she just said.

“What in the hell have you gotten yourself into?” I demand, leaning forward to keep the conversation private.

“Not me… Randy. But, well, okay, me too. I’ve been helping him on this side hustle—”

“Side hustles aren’t usually dangerous,” I snap. “What exactly is it?”

Her voice drops to a whisper. “Okay, Randy has been laundering some money.”

“Jesus,” I mutter, rubbing my hands over my face. I close my eyes, take in a breath. When I let it out, I glare at my mom. “What are you doing?”

She tells me a story that sounds ridiculous, but I suppose could be true. She and Randy are given counterfeit bills, and they go around the state and make purchases with it. Later, they return the item for a refund.

The dirty money stays in circulation, and they get clean bills back.

“We get twenty percent,” my mom explains.

My lips curl in disgust. “And you kept ten thousand dollars, which I’m guessing is far more than the twenty percent you earned?”

“No, we didn’t keep it. We used it to make more money.”

“How?”

“At Rivers Casino,” she admits quietly.

“Jesus, Mom. You gambled away ten thousand dollars.”

“It’s not like it happened in one night. It happened over time and now they’re demanding an accounting, and we’re in the hole. I don’t know what to do.”

I slump back in my chair. Over the last few years while my mom and I have worked to rebuild a relationship, I figured out she can be flighty, gullible, and blundering. But I never thought she’d get sucked into something criminal.

Of course, now that she’s sucked into doing something like laundering counterfeit money, and adding her cluelessness on top, it appears she’s in some deep shit. I have no fucking idea how to help her.

“Maybe your dad could give you the money,” she suggests.

My eyes snap to hers in fury. “No. Don’t ever suggest he get involved to bail you out. You have no right.”

“Of course,” she simpers, her hands lifted before her. “I can see that was a bad idea.”

Sighing, I sit up straight again, pushing my plate to the side. My food churns in my stomach, but I know it doesn’t have a damn thing to do with the spiciness of the dishes.

“Okay… start from the beginning and tell me everything.”

My mom talks for a solid fifteen minutes and the more I hear, the more I feel like I’m going to throw up. I have no obvious answers, and when we part ways with an awkward hug on the sidewalk, the only thing I know for sure is that she’s in serious trouble.

On the drive back to my house, I consider my options. Without a doubt, I will not involve my father, even though he’d find a way to come up with the money if I asked him. I consider calling Harlow. She does criminal defense work, and she’d have good advice. But for now, I’m hesitant to let anyone in on this, mostly because I’m embarrassed. Anyone who knows me and knows what I went through struggling to grow up with a mom who didn’t care about me, would never understand my need to help her through this. And I don’t feel like justifying my actions. This goes double for my father who would give me major hell for even considering it.

Of course, I have no clue how to help her. I don’t have that type of money. Nowhere close to it.

My mom said that Randy is going to stall for time to get the money, but even so, she doubted he’d be able to buy more than thirty days, if they were lucky.

I could sell the bar, although I’m not sure its value would net much more than what my mom needed. It’s a cash business, and it makes enough to pay me a decent salary and fund a modest retirement account. Past that, it’s not worth much, and am I really willing to sell away my livelihood to dig my mom out of trouble?

If her life was on the line, yeah… I’d have to do it. I’m not about to let her get hurt or killed because of her bad choices. So, I guess I do have at least one option that will fix the problem.