Chapter 3
THREE
Emmett
I sit in silence for a long while, tapping my fingers against the ceramic mug in my hands and trying to stuff down my racing nerves.
“Jeez, cut your hair a little bit and you’d look just like him,” a woman says as she approaches, and I comb my fingers through my hair on reflex.
She looks different from the pictures I’ve seen, but she’s still just as beautiful.
She has big blue eyes, so mine are all Dad.
I think we have the same nose, though. Her hair is dyed a yellow blonde color with a couple of inches of roots growing from her scalp which are the same dark blonde that makes up my own head of hair.
Her frame is thin, hugged by a tight pink blouse that she wears half tucked into a pair of light wash jeans which stop just short of a pair of bright yellow stiletto heels strapped around her ankles.
I stand to greet her, offering my hand. “Anna?”
“That’s me,” she says as she takes my hand in a firm shake.
“Thank you for coming,” I tell her. My nerves and excitement practically bubble into every word despite my efforts to keep them at bay. “I’m really happy to meet you. Please, sit.”
I rush to the other side of the two-top table to pull the chair out for her like my dad taught me to do.
“Just like him.”
Once she’s seated, I scoot her seat in closer to the table and return to my own, anxiously picking at the skin of my thumb with my index finger.
I’ve wondered about her since the moment I realized that almost all of my peers had two parents and I didn’t.
I’ve wanted to talk to her, to know if she regretted leaving me behind.
I’ve wanted to know if I got my ticklish neck from her or if she’s the one who gave me the dimple on the left side of my mouth when I smile.
I’ve wondered if she has the same darkness in her that I plaster a smile over top of.
I have spent my life waiting for her to walk back into it, and now she’s really here, right within my grasp.
Several minutes of uncomfortable silence pass, the only conversation happening at the table being that of Anna ordering a coffee and a plate of scrambled eggs and bacon.
It takes a while for us to settle into equally uncomfortable small talk about things that don’t matter, like the weather, or the newest season of the TV show that we both happen to like.
“So, um,” I finally say, taking a deep, steadying breath. “Did you ever— I mean, do I have—”
“I had one more, a year after you,” she nods. “He stayed with his dad, too.”
“Oh.”
I shouldn’t feel relieved that she didn’t keep him.
If he’s dealt with any of the questioning or doubt that I have in my life, I should be heartbroken for the guy.
Maybe I’ll try to find him and we can connect.
Maybe it’s none of my business and I should just keep my distance from the whole thing altogether.
If he wanted to know his brother, he would have looked me up by now, wouldn’t he? I would have looked for him.
“I kept tabs on your dad,” she says, changing the subject as she pours a fourth pot of half and half into her coffee. “I saw that he started up his own company. And you’re working for him now, right?”
“Yeah. Yeah, I’ve been working there for a while now. I was actually offered part ownership not that long ago, so that was pretty huge,” I tell her proudly.
I find myself craving her approval, almost desperate for it. I want my mom to look me in the eye and tell me that she’s proud of me.
“Wow.” She scrapes her fork against her plate as she scoops up a bite of her eggs. “You must be successful, then. Doing pretty well for yourselves.”
“Yeah,” I laugh nervously, “we do alright. How about you? What do you do?”
“I work here.”
“Oh that’s cool,” I say. “Do you like it here?”
“It’s fine.” She pokes around on her plate for minute before speaking again. “Listen, is there a specific reason you wanted to meet with me? I mean…”
I can feel my face fall in spite of the effort that I put forward to hold my plastered-on smile in place. My heart starts to pick up its pace, beating faster and harder against my rib cage, and my hand clenches my half-empty coffee mug more tightly.
“I just— I thought maybe you’d like to connect. It’s been a long time, and I—” I hesitate as I stumble over my words. “I thought I’d get to know you. It’s been twenty-five years and I wanted to meet my mom.”
“Look, I’m sorry, but that part of my life is over, and I don’t like to revisit it,” she says, picking at a thread on the sleeve of her shirt. “I have a life now. I’m really not your mom, not in the way you want me to be. I can give you closure, but I can’t give you…this.”
Closure? I don’t want closure. I want to make up for the past twenty-five years.
I’ve waited so long for her. I spent years dreaming about what it would be like to have my mom in my life; pouring milk over my cereal in the morning or licking her thumb to smooth back a stray hair like they do in the movies.
I’ve wondered what it would feel like to think ‘I want my mom’ and to have her there to wrap her arms around me and comfort me.
I wanted my mom so many times, I lost count.
But my mom doesn’t want me.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Sure,” she shrugs. “We’re here. You might as well.”
I hesitate, chewing on the inside of my cheek before building the courage to ask. “Did he hurt you?”
“No,” she says with a shake of her head. “He wouldn’t have hurt a fly.”
“Then, if I hadn’t been there…” I brace myself for impact. “Would you have stayed with my dad?”
“Yeah, probably,” she answers all too plainly.
No hesitation.
No second thoughts.
Not a split second of consideration of the son that she left behind.
A sharp pain javelins itself into my chest as I clarify, “So you weren’t leaving him. You were leaving me.”
“I don’t think I would word it like that,” she says.
“But that’s what it was, wasn’t it?” I snap. “If you would have stayed with Dad, but you left because of me, you left me. I was a baby, Anna, I deserved a mom.”
All this time, I thought maybe Dad was just angry and bitter because he was left behind. That maybe my mom just needed space or time or something until she was ready to reconnect with me. I told myself all my life that she loved me and was just too young to handle it yet.
Too damaged; like I am.
Every time I started to wonder if I had ever really been wanted, if she ever loved me, I snuffed out the thought by reminding myself that she wasn’t even an adult yet. She hadn’t had a life to offer me.
I’ve just been lying to myself.
Now I wonder if she even thought about it before she packed up her life and left me behind. Did it hurt? Did she hesitate? Was there any single, microscopic second in which she stopped and thought that maybe one day, she would miss me? That I would need her?
“I don’t understand why…why would you choose to keep me if you were just gonna walk away from me?
” I demand, stifling the burn behind my eyes.
“Did you think that just because I had a great dad, I wouldn’t wonder why I didn’t have a mom, too?
Did you think I wouldn’t wonder why you didn’t want me?
I wondered all the time, and I told myself I was crazy for it. ”
“I didn’t leave to hurt you,” she tells me. “It was all just too much. You cried all the time. I was just a kid and I was exhausted. But your dad gave you a good life, I knew he would. He was always better with you than I was, anyway.”
“That doesn’t matter!” I shout, slamming a fist on the table hard enough that her fork drops over the side of her plate. I duck my head, hiding from the eyes that have now turned to focus on us from around the diner. “I needed a mom, too, and I thought if we met…”
“I’m sorry you’re disappointed.”
“That doesn’t even touch it,” I tell her through clenched teeth.
She gathers her purse and throws it over her shoulder, fixing her gaze on me. I move my eyes down toward my now empty cup of coffee as she stands and says, “I’m sorry I can’t give you what you want.”
“We sat here for an hour and you didn’t even call me by my name once,” I choke out. “The name you gave me.” I feel like an asshole the second it comes out of my mouth, but as she walks away from me again, I can’t help myself from muttering, “That tracks.”
As soon as she’s out of my sight, I scrub a hand across my eyes and open my wallet to toss a couple of twenties onto the table so I can get the hell out of here. I need to get as far away from this place as possible and never come back.
·
A muffled pang of guilt strikes me as I walk into the liquor store and the bell above the door dings to announce my arrival. I know that nearly everyone in my life would be disappointed right now if they knew I was here. It’s barely one o’clock in the afternoon and it’s the middle of a work day.
I move through the aisles like a zombie, distantly scanning the different bottles, cans and boxes as I walk past them, trying to ignore the ringing in my ears.
I tuck a few different bottles under my arm and grab the first case of whatever canned beverage is nearest me before heading to the register to pay.
I silently slide my ID and credit card across the counter toward the cashier, trying to get the transaction over with as quickly as possible.
He tries, I think, to make conversation with me, but no words register in my mind. The only sound coming out of his mouth is garbled nonsense that sounds like it’s coming from underwater.
Or maybe I’m the one who’s underwater.
One of us is.
She didn’t say my name. She didn’t tell me that she ever loved me. She walked away from me. Again. She didn’t hesitate to leave. Again. I practically begged her to love me, and she left me.
I could call my dad. I could call Uncle Davis. I could call any number of people, and they would be here in a second. I know that – I really do. But to try to explain to them what this feels like, to try to put this into words…it just isn’t possible, and I don’t have it in me to try.
Any other day, my routine would be to change into something comfortable; usually some type of sweats or a pair of shorts when the weather is hot like it has been lately, crank up some music, and dive into my studies.
This time, I skip the music and the studying. Instead, I crack the top off of a bottle of probably-bottom-shelf gin and take a few long, stinging swigs before plopping down onto the couch. The only thing that I make any real effort to do is pull my phone out and text my dad.
Me: Think I’m getting sick. Went home. Gonna take some time off.
Of course, in his usual fashion, he replies to me in seconds. I’m pretty sure the man’s got some sort of special alert system in place for me, because he never takes more than a few minutes to write me back, no matter what he’s doing.
Dad: Do you want me to come over? I can bring you some supplies.
Me: No. Thanks. I grabbed some already.
Dad: Alright, bud. If you need anything, let one of us know. I love you.
Me: You too.
I really hate lying to him. It doesn’t feel good, and it’s not something that I’m used to.
I’ve always been able to tell him practically anything.
I mean, even when I went through that wild, partying teenager phase, I could call him absolutely off my face wasted and tell him that I needed a ride home.
As long as I wasn’t in any real trouble, he would show up and he’d just let my hangover serve as my punishment the next day. He was never mad.
But if I tell him about this; if I let him in and tell him that the lights just switched off and the darkness has clawed its way out of the cage I had it held in, he’ll just worry about me more than he already does, and he’ll hate her more than he already does.
I don’t know why I care so much about that part; I hate her, too.
But she’s still my mom.
The more that I drink, the less it burns going down. Eventually, I swap out my bottle for a can of what I now recognize as some sort of IPA, which is sweet in comparison to the rich herbal flavor of the gin. I drink until my eyes stop burning and my face goes numb, and then I drink a little more.
It’s not until I can’t walk properly that I finally kick my shoes off and grab a blanket from the basket sitting next to my couch, drape it over myself and let the spinning of the room rock me into a less-than-restful sleep.