12 Rhys
12
Rhys
I stood up when I saw my mother. My heart was pounding. My mind was a mess, and I couldn’t think straight. She looked the same as always: neat in her light-colored suit, hair pulled back, her severe hair a contrast to her kind face and her huge sunglasses. I used to joke that she looked like a Hollywood actor in them.
I walked toward her, and a second later, she was in my arms, and I was hugging her and didn’t know if I’d be able to let her go. She was wearing the same cloying perfume as always. She pulled back to look at me from head to toe. Her lower lip was trembling; she was about to cry. I prayed she wouldn’t.
“You’re… You look good,” she managed to say.
“You too.” I smiled, almost as a reflex.
“You’re still a mama’s boy. Come on, let’s sit down.”
We settled next to each other at the table. She took my hand in hers, and I knew she wouldn’t let it go until our food arrived. We were on the glassed-in balcony of the Soho Grand, with views of the beautiful blue sky, broken by nothing but the vapor trails of airplanes flying over town. The waiter came to take our order, and when he left, I took a deep breath, finally starting to calm down.
“You need to cut your hair, Rhys.”
“I just did,” I said as she tugged at it, as if trying to gauge the length of every lock. “Don’t be a pain.”
She smiled, shook her head, and stopped.
Our food was served soon afterward. Two plates of spaghetti carbonara and water, which I hoped would dilute everything I’d drunk the night before.
“I think I’m a fucking pasta addict.”
“Rhys, your mouth. You always have had a penchant for noodles: ramen, macaroni, all that. I don’t care for it much, if you want to know my opinion.”
“I remember that recipe you used to make with the shrimp sauce.”
“You cleaned your plate every time.”
I smiled. So did she. And that was enough. We ate, we caught up, and eighteen months of absence and sporadic phone calls went out the window. We were, once again, a mother and a son talking about whatever, with no tension. Before that fateful Christmas, we’d been close, and I’d liked hanging out with her: going out to eat, shopping for groceries, catching a flick. I remember it used to surprise me how distant my friends’ relationships with their parents were, as if they were strangers living in the same home. Then everything changed, and the secrets and the harsh words destroyed the pleasant memories.
“Where are you headed now?” she asked.
“Los Angeles. I think. Yeah, Los Angeles.”
“How do you not know?”
I shrugged, looking at her. “I’m still sort of turning it over.”
I didn’t tell her why. She already knew. Too many years. Too many conversations. Too many reproaches. Sometimes I couldn’t even tell myself why I felt that strange satisfaction every time I reached an airport with no ticket and nothing but a bag on my back. That tickle when I didn’t know what plane I’d get on. The hours waiting, drinking coffee, reading books, listening to music, and watching people go back and forth. It was addictive.
We shared a dessert.
“I’ll come for a longer visit next time.”
“Does that mean you’ll come back home?”
“Home, no. Close.”
“Rhys, honey…if only you’d tell me what happened.”
“You already know, Mom. He didn’t understand. He wanted me to follow in his footsteps, take over the investments, all that bullshit,” I lied.
She hesitated, then nodded. “Does that mean you had to end up like this?”
“The argument got out of hand.”
“You need to sit down and talk.”
“I can’t. Things have changed.” I shrugged.
I pretended not to care. I pretended not to feel anything. I wanted to get up and walk out, but I held back, smiled, and feigned things I didn’t feel just to make her happy. I wanted to ask about Dad, find out if he was okay, but as always, I didn’t. We spent a few more hours walking around the shops and having coffee. Then it got late, and she ordered an Uber to her hotel.
We waited until it arrived.
“Will he pick you up at the airport when you get home tomorrow?” I asked.
“Yeah, don’t worry about that.”
“Okay.” I nodded. “Mom, I…”
“See you soon, Rhys.”
“Yeah. That’s what I wanted to say.”
“Good. Give me a kiss.” I let her squeeze me tight. “Remember not to do anything you’ll regret. And be careful. And Rhys, I know how you are, but if you need money, there’s a checking account in your name…”
“I’ll be fine, Mom,” I assured her.
She nodded and looked at me with sorrow as she got into her Uber.
I stayed there until the car took off down the street. Then I slung my backpack on my back, grabbed my hand luggage, and an hour later I was at JFK Airport. I felt warm inside as I listened to the noise, the constant movement of people in the shops and cafés, the voices over the PA. I walked automatically until I reached one of those giant screens that showed the departing flights.
There were tons of flights headed to LA. I slid my finger over the bright letters. Then I saw it. London. The flight left in five hours. I wondered what the chances were that there was still a seat. I don’t know. It was crazy. I must have been crazy. But it’s not as if I had anywhere else to go, or anyone waiting for me in arrivals, or any commitment at all.
I looked at all the flights. All the options. For a few crazy moments, I thought about how fun it would be to show up in London the next day, go to Ginger’s dorm, surprise her. She’d shout like a banshee when she saw me. I tried to tell myself it wouldn’t be weird. We talked every day, I was a rambler, and I had nowhere else to be.
So I decided. To hell with it . I’d make it up as I went along.
I got in line at one of the counters.
My phone buzzed. I took it out. I had a message. I don’t think my heart ever beat so fast from reading an email. Or that I ever felt so many things. Joy and sorrow at the same time. Pride and frustration, all mixed up. I took a deep breath. Fuck.
“Can I help you with something?” the girl said.
“Yeah, sorry. A ticket for the next available flight to Los Angeles.”
“Next flight available is at nine.”
“Sure, that’s fine.”