Chapter Seven
Itching the dissolvable stitches under my military jacket, I stare at the care home until the truck radio dies mid-song and leaves the world oddly quiet.
Perfume hangs heavy in the passenger seat, the yellow roses giving off that sweet, fake smell.
I’ve driven up this driveway more times than I can count over the past few weeks, unable to make it any further than the parking lot.
Today I figured spending money I don’t have on flowers would be what gets me to cross the threshold. So far, it’s not working.
The building looks softer than I expected, mismatched bricks like somebody tried to stitch something decent together out of scraps.
Strings of white lights trail the roofline and wrap around the green canopies hanging over balconies.
Frost rims the grass on either side of the path, the flowerbeds bare except for wired reindeers sporadically spaced amongst the soil.
A plastic wreath sits crooked above the entrance, its red bow sagging, but the sentiment is there.
Christmas is coming, even if some of us have no reason to celebrate.
Drumming my fingers on the steering wheel, I watch family members enter and exit through the double doors ahead.
I should be amongst them. I should stop tapping my foot and get out of this damn cab, but what am I supposed to tell her?
I’m not the son she’s expecting, the one she’d prefer.
I’m the criminal turned college dropout.
Usually people do those things in the opposite way, so props to me I guess.
Fuck it. There’s no use leaving just to come back and sit here again tomorrow.
I’ll still be the same me. Swallowing whatever is left of my pride, I grab the bouquet a little too roughly and climb out of the truck.
My boots hit the pavement with a solid beat until I reach the reception desk, my heart pounding in my chest. The woman behind the monitor is engrossed in her screen, so I ring the bell with a sharp ding.
“Sign the visitor book,” she grumbles without looking up, and I instantly recognize the voice as the same woman who snaps at me whenever I call.
She’s exactly how I presumed she would look, all scowl lines and bitter vibes.
I pull the book toward me and snag a pen, scrawling my name in the visitor column until my eyes snag on another name on the opposite page.
I flip back through the book and find the same name repeated several times in the last few months, all under my mom’s name.
“’Cuse me?” I ask, lifting the book high so the receptionist has to stop what she’s doing and focus. “Who is this?” I point to Dekken H. Cornstone’s name written in unnecessarily fancy cursive. Her brow lifts, a suspicious glint passing through her features.
“And you are?”
I snort, slamming the book down. The frustration I feel isn’t solely directed at her, it’s at myself.
I’ve been a ghost in my mom’s life, only dropping in a call when I have the strength to deal with the fall out.
I’ve been a part-time son, and now I’m here throwing my weight around like I deserve answers.
“I’m Clayton Michaels. My mother is a permanent resident here. Please just…can you tell me who this is?” The receptionist twists her mouth, considering whether to humor me or not.
“Well, it’s nice you’re paying her a visit. I’m sure Anya will be very happy to see you,” she says in a syrupy, sarcastic tone. “Surely you recognize your own cousin’s name.”
“My cousin?” I frown, the heat rising beneath my collar and causing those stitches to burn. She nods slowly as if explaining a grammar rule to a child.
“The child of your aunt is your cousin. He’s rather popular around here.
Always stopping by for a chat, bringing cookies for the staff.
A very nice young man.” The corner of her mouth softens whilst mine sharpens.
He must be a very nice young man indeed, considering he’s charming enough to convince everyone that my mother isn’t an only child.
I don’t have any fucking cousins. I don’t have anyone except the woman somewhere in this building who doesn’t have a clue who I am.
“Where’s her room?” I bark harshly. I’m offered a reluctant point of a finger by the shit receptionist who apparently never checks ID.
Forgetting about the flowers, I storm away before I do something rash, such as launch the damn computer through the window.
I’m already fighting one mission, but as soon as I leave here, I’ll be contacting whoever is responsible for not installing surveillance cameras in a building filled with vulnerable people.
It takes everything in me to quell that anger before I burst through my mom’s door.
That wouldn’t be the entrance I’ve spent weeks psyching myself up to.
I lean against the wall, taking a few steady breaths.
I do not know what I will find inside, and I still don’t know how I’m going to handle being myself.
I planned to go into that room as Jeremy, the golden boy, but I can’t.
It would be an injustice to his memory, and to my mom.
Regardless of my self-esteem being in the gutter, she doesn’t deserve to be lied to.
For today at least, I’ll let her see me.
Not the ghost of Jeremy, not some stranger she’s forced to invent. Just me.
I knock softly, and step inside with the faintest of smiles.
My chest tightens at the sight of her in the chair by the window, hunched over a cross-stitch as the sun catches her hair and makes it look like it has a halo.
The woman who dressed me, fed me, and kept me warm when everything else fell apart is reduced to a fragile frame and a ball of wool.
I shut the door behind me, the tear I cannot hold back slipping past my defenses.
Her dark eyes swivel to me and she lets out a delighted shriek as she throws the stitching to the floor.
“Jelly Bean!” she calls, arms raised. Sucking in a painful breath, despite the slice carving through my chest, I shake my head.
“No, Mom. It’s me.” I pull my beanie off and force my voice to be steady. “It’s Clayton.” The words taste like an apology, like I am saying sorry for not being the son she remembers.
“Clayton,” she breathes, her reach becoming hesitant.
I close the distance, allowing her hand to smooth up my arm, and as I lower, to cup my face.
For a moment, I see her searching, her dark eyes flickering with panic, confusion, and then something worse.
Emptiness. She looks past me, scanning the corners of the room like I’ve slipped out of view, like I’ve become one of the ghosts her mind conjures to keep her company.
My chest caves as her fingers falter, dropping back to her lap, and she starts humming to herself, rocking just slightly in her chair.
“Mom…” I whisper, crouching down so we’re level. But she’s somewhere else, years back or in a place I can’t follow. My throat burns as I press my palms together, begging silently for her to see me. Then her gaze catches mine again with a sharpness so sudden, it’s as if I can see the clouds parting.
“My baby boy,” she says, a smile breaking across her face. My mom leans forward, kissing both my cheeks as if she hasn’t missed a beat, as if the last few minutes didn’t happen. “You’ve gotten so big.”
The relief hits me like a gut punch. I swallow hard, fighting the sting in my eyes, because I know it won’t last. The clarity will come and go like flickers of light on the water, never enough to hold on to. I grip her hand, anchoring us both in a moment that shatters in the next second.
“Is your brother with you?”
My throat tightens. I don’t want to lie, as much as I cannot bear causing her heartache for what she has already lost.
“No, Mom. Just me.” I force a smile that feels weak and lead her toward the bed, my arm banded around her brittle body.
She’s a shadow of the vibrant, confident woman I remember.
The one who tried her best to shield us from the debt collectors banging on the door, and the gangs on the streets adamant on recruiting young boys.
I don’t blame her for wanting to forget the past, even if it all seems worlds away from where we are now.
The room is small but clean, a double bed, two chests of drawers, an armchair by the window and a framed photo of the three of us beside an empty mug. I’m beyond grateful that she is somewhere safe and warm to stay, even if I had to resign to using Wavershit’s money to keep her here.
Once settled in bed, I sit beside her, filling the silence with mindless chatter. I tell her of my new job as a night porter, of the tiny room I rent, even of the girl who almost held my heart.
“It’s her loss,” she hums, stroking the back of my hand through habit.
I rest my chin on her head, the stuttering of her breath surrounding us.
I can almost hear her clarity slipping, the way she slumps and phases in and out of conversation.
Forcing the tears back, my eye catches something out of place on the dresser and whatever fragile calm I had found suddenly collapses.
Slowly, I rest my mom back against the headboard, tucked in by cushions, and move across the space to pick up the light gray beanie. It’s a shade lighter than the one in my other hand, the one that’s still warm from my own head. A wash of cold dread runs through me.
“Mom? Where did this beanie come from?” Her gaze flicks toward me, pupils trying to catch focus, but I can already see the veil slipping back down.
“Jelly Bean! You found Clay’s hat. You know how much he likes to dress up like you,” she beams cheerily. Just another dagger to my damaged soul. I move back to her side, resting on the edge of the mattress.