CHAPTER 25
GRAYDON
“Please, just…just leave me alone,” Mom says as her eyes glaze over. Her words slice me in two, tearing at the scars that have barely healed from the last time she didn’t recognize me.
Sitting next to her, attempting to share space while painting like I’ve done in the past, there is something different about this visit, as if there isn’t an ounce of clarity in her eyes.
And like every other time she doesn’t recognize me, it feels like life is driving a goddamn dagger right into my soul, carving out a piece of it that will never grow back.
My hopes were too high after last week’s visit.
I thought if we replayed everything that we did last time, we’d get the same result, but I was so wrong.
My mom’s brain just doesn’t work like that.
And even when you get through to her, it doesn’t mean the next time will be the same.
It’s devastating. And it reminds me of how much I lost all those years ago. How alone I feel.
I glance toward Rhonda, begging for any sort of help, but she just offers me a sad smile, because we know where this is going. We know we can’t do anything to stop it.
When she didn’t recognize me and didn’t connect the dots of who I was, I decided to just sit next to her and paint.
At least I could be in her presence, which was better than nothing, but with every stroke I made on the canvas I’ve been working on for weeks every Sunday, she scooted her chair farther and farther away while moving her easel, as if I were a complete and total stranger.
Not just a stranger, but someone who scared her.
“Mom,” I say quietly, forgetting to call her by her first name.
“Don’t call me that!” she shouts and then stands from her chair as she clutches at her cardigan. “You’re not my son.” She picks up her paintbrush and throws it at me in horror. “You’re not him.”
The paintbrush splatters across my shirt, coating me in dark green paint as she backs up, tears forming in her eyes. My heart crumbles, shattering into a thousand pieces. She’s so scared of me.
I want to reach out to her, take her hand, soothe her.
Hell, I want her to pull me into her arms, rub my back, kiss my cheek, and soothe me like she used to so many years ago.
I want all of this to be different. I want my fucking mom back. I don’t want to be grieving the loss of her as she stands, breathing, with a goddamn heartbeat right in front of me.
But with a cruel twist of fate, not only was my mom taken away from me but she’s still on this earth in her full form.
It’s the worst kind of torture, knowing I could still embrace her after her accident, but also knowing that the chances of being held tightly by her are slipping further and further away as her memory grows worse and I grow older.
A shaky hand covers her mouth as she says, “I want him gone. I want this sick man gone. How cruel of you to try to act like my son.”
Please don’t say that. I am your son.
I press my lips together to stop them from quivering as pain ricochets through me, battering me from the inside out.
Please don’t do this, Mom.
Please.
“Graydon, you should probably go,” Rhonda says, causing my mom to whirl around on her.
“Do not call him that. That is not my son!” she shouts, thrashing her arm around and knocking her painting over.
“He’s not…wh-what? Where am I?” She looks around frantically, her terrified expression threatening to break me.
“Why am I here? Get me out of here. I want my family. I want my baby boy. Where is he? Why are you keeping him from me?”
I beg the universe for her to see me, for her to look me in the eyes, to recognize me as the boy I once was, and as I stand, with just a smidge of hope hanging on, I take a step forward, keeping my voice quiet. “Mom, it’s me.”
Her eyes snap to mine, and I hold still, waiting, praying.
Please recognize me, Mom.
Please.
Her shaky hand releases from her mouth, and a flash of hope races through me as I keep my gaze on hers, begging for her to notice her eyes in mine.
Begging for her to have some clarity. I’m so fixated on letting her see me as the boy she once knew that I don’t notice her pick up her water glass and, with a flick of her wrist, chuck it at me, hitting me directly in the corner of my right eye, sending me backward.
The glass crashes to the floor, and she screams before running off.
She doesn’t get far, though, as nurses surround her and pin her to the ground.
Blood drips down my face as I call out, “Don’t hurt her. Please don’t fucking hurt her.”
I watch as my mom struggles against the nurses, screaming for me, screaming for her boy, but not for the man standing a few feet away from her.
And as I stand there, blood dripping down my face, tears falling, my mom yells, writhes, and does everything in her power to be released before they sedate her.
Her body becomes lifeless, her head pressed into the floor, her cardigan hanging off her shoulder as the faint stains of tears still mar her cheeks. And that empty feeling that constantly takes up space in my chest grows. It grows and fills with sorrow and anger.
Hatred.
A distinct disdain for every circumstance that has brought my mother to this moment.
Rhonda comes up to me, presses her hand to my back, and whispers, “I’m so sorry, Graydon.”
I wipe at my eyes and just nod, because what the hell am I supposed to say?
There’s nothing to say other than…I’m fucking gutted.
“Fuck,” I grumble as I lock my door, exhaustion overcoming me from a rough night and having to wake up early for another week of training camp. Even though this week won’t be as harsh as the first three, it’s still the drain of the day taking its toll on a body that’s already goddamn weak.
I didn’t sleep at all last night. Maybe half an hour if I’m lucky, because every time I shut my eyes, all I could see was my mom on the ground screaming for help…help that I couldn’t give her.
And it haunts me.
The terror in her eyes.
The tears staining her cheeks.
Her cries were so harsh that her voice broke.
I just…fuck, I can’t.
I scrub my hand over my face and get in my truck, pain blanketing me like a dark cloud, tempting me to do something stupid, tempting me to lessen the anguish gripping my heart and squeezing it so goddamn tight that it feels like I can’t breathe.
Fuck, I can’t do this.
I lower my head to the steering wheel, my anxiety lacing through me like a disease, spreading rapidly through every vein, taking control of my ability to function.
My breath becomes shorter and shorter.
My vision starts to fade, and I can feel it, the anxiety attack attempting to take hold of me.
Breathe, Graydon. Fucking breathe.
But it’s so goddamn hard, because all I see is her…hurt…begging for help.
Help I couldn’t give her.
Breathe…
I let out a shaky breath and right my mind, try to block out the horror of what I witnessed this weekend, what I felt. Come the fuck on, man.
On another deep breath, I pull out of my garage and head the few blocks to Maple’s apartment. She’s waiting for me at the curb. I glance at the clock, confused, and realize I’m running about five minutes late.
Shit.
I must have gotten lost in my thoughts.
She opens the door, and with a fucking gorgeous smile, she says, “Good morning—oh my God, what happened to your eye?”
Right.
I forgot about that.
“Nothing,” I grumble and wait for her to buckle up before I pull out onto the road.
“Graydon,” she says softly. “That’s a really bad cut.”
Yeah, I know.
Rhonda put some butterfly strips over it for me yesterday, encouraging me to go get it looked at, but I didn’t give a shit. I wanted to be alone, so that was what I did.
And the throbbing above my eye last night was nothing compared to the agony in my heart. I welcomed the eye pain, anything to keep the anguish balanced.
Instead of answering her, I turn up the music in the truck, some bullshit top hit playing, so I don’t have to talk to her. Explain to her what happened yesterday. Because she’d press. That’s the kind of person she is—she’d want to help fix it. And there’s nothing to fix.
I’ve tried.
I’ve spoken to every doctor.
I’ve met with every specialist money could buy.
And nothing.
We drive to the facility, not speaking a word to each other, just the way I wanted it.
I’m not up for chatting, not with my mom’s screams plaguing me.
Not with the image of her cheek pressed against the floor branded in my brain.
I just need to get out some aggression to calm my racing pulse. And practice will do that for me.
Once I park, I hop out, and Maple does the same, meeting me at the back of the truck. I can feel her eyes on me and sense the questions on the tip of her tongue.
Don’t do it, Maple.
Please don’t fucking press me.
I can’t…I can’t expose you to this. Please, please don’t ask.
“Graydon,” she says softly as we reach the door to the training facility.
My eyes squeeze shut, my anxiety ramping up once more. I can’t tell her.
I won’t.
I just need to get out on the field. Get out my aggression. Get lost.
She walks under my outstretched arm that’s holding the door open, but instead of moving forward, she pauses at the door.
“Graydon.” She tugs on my shirt as I try to move by her.
No, Maple. Please.
“Don’t, Maple.” I walk down the hall with one thing on my mind. Get the hell away from her. Not because I don’t want to be around her, but because I fear what I might do if I’m near her.
I’m a ticking time bomb, wrapped up in an explosive ball of anger and anxiety, and with one wrong move, I’m bound to explode.
“Wait, Graydon.” She tugs on my arm and moves in front of me. “What is going on? Why…why aren’t you talking to me?”
“Maple…” I growl, running my hand over my face. “Just…leave me alone.”
“If this is about this past weekend—”
My eyes snap to hers, my heart stuttering in my chest. This past weekend?
What the fuck did she hear?