CHAPTER 18
GRAYDON
OC: So…tonight was fun.
Bennett: What happened tonight?
OC: Fundraising event where Graydon stood in the corner, brooding. Really represented the zoo well.
Graydon: Are you trying to ensure my fist touches your pint-sized brain through your nose cavity?
Bennett: Yeah, not sure why you’re angering him more.
OC: Not trying to anger, just trying to figure out what the hell you’re doing, man. It might not seem like it, but we’re all in this together, and if we can’t figure out a way to help our teams’ reputations, then we’re going to be at this for a long-ass time.
Bennett: To be fair, Flock and Tackle seems to be picking up speed.
OC: Agreed, it’s a golden opportunity, but if he’s brooding in the corner during an event because some guy was talking to Maple, then it’s going to be useless.
Bennett: Wait, why does it matter if she talks to some guy?
Graydon: I wasn’t brooding about her talking to some guy.
OC: I took a picture. You tell me what you see. [Picture]
Bennett: Not wanting to make things more difficult, but that’s brooding.
Graydon: That’s my normal face.
OC: There’s more crease to your brow.
Bennett: Jaw is tighter.
OC: Fist clenched at your side.
Bennett: A snarl in your lip.
Graydon: Are you two fucks done?
OC: It would just be great if you could acknowledge the brooding.
Graydon: Fine, I was brooding, but it was because some asshat thought he could steal all of Maple’s attention.
Bennett: Wait, did I miss something? Do you like Maple?
Graydon: No.
OC: Um, I think that’s a lie, but we’ll let you live in denial and embarrass yourself later when you realize you need the Gladdy Daddies’ help because you’re in love with a zookeeper.
Bennett: When did we agree on the Gladdy Daddies?
Graydon: We didn’t. That’s not what we’re called.
OC: So you’re open to talking about what we’re called, then?
Graydon: No. This is not a thing.
Bennett: Kind of seems like a bit of a thing.
Graydon: Bennett, you’re letting him get to you.
Bennett: I’m not, I just…I don’t mind having friends. I might need the Gladdy Daddies at some point.
OC: Now there’s my boy!
Graydon: We are not the Gladdy Daddies!
OC: Are you having girl problems, Beanie Baby?
Bennett: Don’t fucking call me that.
Graydon: See how quickly he can turn on you? Don’t let him control this text chain with his absurdity.
OC: God, everyone is so goddamn sensitive. Just trying to create a rapport.
Bennett: Do it by using our regular names.
Graydon: And don’t call us the Gladdy Daddies.
OC: Come up with a new name, and I’ll change the group text name.
Graydon: The Three Fucks. Done.
OC: Although I appreciate your willingness to participate, if we’re going to move forward with a podcast and merch once we become more comfortable with each other, the Three Fucks really doesn’t lend to commercial appeal.
Graydon: Over my dead body will we have a podcast.
Bennett: I think we’re getting away from the topic at hand. Graydon was brooding over Maple. He doesn’t like her but doesn’t want some “asshat” talking to her.
Graydon: It’s not just some asshat talking to her. It’s some guy she knows who loves flamingos and wears stupid little glasses.
OC: What kind of glasses?
Graydon: Why does it matter?
OC: Because if they’re slutty little glasses, then that’s a problem.
Graydon: How on earth is that a problem?
Bennett: Oh, you know, Bower was telling me about slutty little glasses.
OC: Who is Bower?
Bennett: My sister’s best friend.
OC: *Pausing conversation about slutty little glasses* Um, do we have a crush on your sister’s best friend?
Bennett: This is about Graydon.
Graydon: Oh, please, no, take the front seat. I’m more than willing to step back.
OC: Holy shit, you like your sister’s best friend and Graydon likes his zookeeper who likes Slutty Little Glasses and I’ve wanted to get back together with my ex for so long but was torn away from her when I was traded to the Rogue and my heart has been bleeding ever since. Look at us…pining Gladdy Daddies!
Graydon: We are NOT THE GLADDY DADDIES! Also, I’m not pining. My situation with Maple is different. We’re in a PR relationship. I just don’t want her making me look dumb by talking to Slutty Little Glasses.
OC: Okay, so we’re going with the name Slutty Little Glasses. I appreciate you acknowledging that.
Bennett: Not that I want to make you angry or anything, but the picture of you brooding is telling me something else. You might not want to be embarrassed by another man, but you’re also pining. I could see it in your eyes, and if anyone knows that look, it’s me. Because I’ve been pining for years.
Graydon: I’m not pining.
OC: You might not think you are, but the moment Slutty Little Glasses steps in, you’re going to realize just how much you’ve been pining this whole time. Mark my words.
With flowers in one hand and chocolates in the other, I head into the recreation room. The smells of cleaning supplies and a freshly mopped floor flood my senses as I look over the facility I helped pay for with a very generous donation.
Expansive windows run from floor to ceiling, making it seem like the room is bringing in the beautifully landscaped gardens and the massive weeping willow tree that I’ve spent hours studying.
To the right are tables with matching chairs and puzzles spilled across the tops.
To the left, couches and seating for conversation, all of the furniture oversized and comfortable.
And close to the window, my favorite part of the building, an entire art section with easels, canvases, paper, paints, charcoal, markers, scrapbooking supplies, clay, yarn, and crayons: anything you could possibly think of when it comes to creating.
And that’s where I see her.
A canvas in front of her, her knitted wrap around her shoulders as she studies the weeping willow, her hand stroking over the blank white board in front of her with a pencil.
With an ache in my heart that will never go away, I move through the room, eyes all on me. Not because they know who I am but because of my size.
From the corner of my eye, I catch her nursing aide and pause for a moment. When she gives me the thumbs-up, I continue my approach until I’m right behind the person I love the most.
Squatting low, not wanting to seem intimidating, I turn my baseball cap that’s on my head around so it’s facing backward like I used to have it growing up and softly say, “Hey, Mom.”
She startles for a moment but then turns toward me, her aged face dressed in confusion as she takes me in.
I let her process as she looks me over, observing the man I’ve become, the man that she doesn’t know.
To her, even though I visit regularly, Graydon St. John is sixteen years old. And in her mind, I forever will be.
When I was sixteen, she was taking riding lessons and decided to hop on one of the horses for fun without a helmet.
The horse knocked her off and she slammed her head against a pole.
She was rushed to the hospital with a traumatic brain injury and was placed in a coma for a week before she came back to us.
At first, we thought she’d escaped without harm, until she was examined and a devastating diagnosis was made.
Anterograde amnesia. She wouldn’t retain any new information from her accident on.
So seeing me as a thirty-year-old man, when the last time she saw me before the accident I was sixteen, doesn’t quite register. The only good thing was that she and my dad were divorced, so she never asks for him, ever.
But me…
I’m much bigger.
Thicker.
With a square jaw and menacing features that have hardened over time as I’ve tried to hang on to my mom and my dad’s tried to push her out of our lives.
She shuffles her shawl over her shoulders and leans farther back, looking nearly horrified, and something in the pit of my stomach grows nauseous as I consider that this might be the third week in a row where she turns me away.
“Mira,” Mom’s aide, Rhonda, says quietly. “Remember the letter we just read, and the pictures I showed you? This is Graydon.”
Mom’s almost lifeless eyes flash to me again, her mouth slightly parted as she searches me.
I keep my gaze fixed on her, begging, pleading, hoping she can process what we’re trying to tell her.
I know it’s not easy. I know she thinks I should still be sixteen, but a small part of me believes she can do this and break free.
If not, next week I might just have to be the nice guy who paints with her, even though it kills me emotionally, shreds me to pieces that she doesn’t know who I am. But at least I can spend time with her.
“I…I don’t know,” Mom says skeptically, her body language pulling away from me as an ache splinters through my heart.
Rhonda rubs her arm in a comforting way and says, “Would you like to see the pictures again?”
Mom peers at me, her eyes looking directly into mine, and I take that moment to try to push aside all of the anger and hate and let the inner boy come out of me, the one she loves.
Come on, Mom, you can do it.
“M-maybe,” Mom answers, giving me hope as I remain in place, not wanting to move, not wanting to scare her.
Rhonda brings over the album and shows her a picture of Mom and me when I was sixteen, then shows pictures of me throughout the years, how I grew every year until I became the man I am now.
It’s the first time in three weeks that she’s gone through all the pictures in front of me. And when she’s done, her eyes look up at me, and tears start to fill them.
“Oh…baby boy,” she says, holding out her arms. A world of emotion crashes into me as I pull her into a hug, wrapping my arms around her and letting my body sink into the mind of that little boy who lost his mom fourteen years ago.
Tears immediately fill my eyes as I squeeze them shut, and the world around us fades away as I just let myself feel. Let myself hurt. Let myself mourn.
And let myself soak in every second of this, because it’s rare.
“I love you, Mom,” I say, burying my head into the crook of her neck.
Her hand cups the back of my neck, and she holds me even tighter.
“I love you, too, Gray, my little saint. I love you, too.”