5. Baldo
London snorts. “Then it’s settled. Figure out the details and let’s all get married.” She rolls her eyes but cozies up to Dominic.
The three couples say good bye and leave.
“I’ll go find Mom,” I say, before the complications of being alone with Brook dig their claws into me.
Fuck, how are we going to be married if I can’t stand the idea of being alone with her?
Though in the hour since I arrived, my mind has been exploring all the ways I’d like to spend alone time with her, including bending her over the counter.
Not helpful, dear brain. Staying mad at her and away from her was the best move ever, but I guess we can’t all get smarter with age.
One look at her and I’m a certifiable idiot, thrown back into my ridiculous obsession.
“That’s a good idea. I’ll be in my room.” She dashes out of the kitchen.
I’ll be in my room?That sounded almost like an invitation. We need to discuss where we go from here, but does she want me to come upstairs?
Can I cope with all that the upstairs holds in the form of memories, broken dreams, flattened fantasies and unfulfilled passions?
Perhaps I don’t need to discover my limits today. Coward.
I cross the foyer, hoping Mom is in the library. The light under the door confirms that some things have not changed.
The surprise is that she isn’t in her reading corner.
The room is dim and the three floor-to-ceiling bookshelves with any and all literature available to man make the room even darker.
Especially at night when the only source of natural light, the picture window overlooking our backyard, isn’t available.
That’s where I find her. Standing by the window, Mom stares into the darkness.
For a moment, my mind transports me back to my childhood. I used to sit on the floor here and play while she read. And I was summoned here anytime I was in trouble.
And let’s face it, out of all eight of us, I was here the most. Mom let Micah discipline his daughters, and my older brothers were smarter in their mischief.
Or perhaps I was crying for more attention.
God, the shit I used to stir.
“It’s nice to have you here. I worried the day would never come.” Mom turns to face me. “What brought you back?”
She walks to the corner and takes a seat in her reading chair, gesturing to the love seat at her side.
“Business.” I take the seat, hating how strained the air is with unasked questions and unanswered ones.
“You should have come sooner.” The words reek of admonition, but her tone is filled with sadness.
Like she understands I couldn’t. Like she knows that in some ways she chose Micah over me. And while that didn’t push me away, it still kept us apart. I don’t know anymore. It’s been too long.
“I’m sorry about Micah.”
I’m talking about his illness, but once it’s out, it feels like more than that. Am I sorry for all that other shit? Another thing I don’t know anymore.
After I left, my hurt over losing Brook was enough to deal with, and I didn’t assign further blame to anyone else.
Maybe I should have.
Or maybe I should have reached out sooner.
“Me too.” She nods, and it’s unclear what she is referring to. Maybe we both just needed to acknowledge something that doesn’t matter anymore.
She smiles at me and continues. “He’s tenacious and he hasn’t given up yet, so that’s good.”
Or perhaps we’re only talking about the illness and I’m trying to read too much between the lines. Seeking something that isn’t there.
I’m perfectly happy not to dissect the past. Nothing good would come of it.
“Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” Mom asks, and this time it’s clear she’s talking about the present, but I fear the past is a part of it.
“It’s a reasonable solution. Why not?”
It’s the least reasonable solution. Perhaps if we were just stepsiblings and nothing else. Not that we are anything else anymore.
“You both call me Mom.” She sums up her reservations.
Brook was little when they moved in with us, and Mom is the only mother she’s ever known. The other Lowe sisters have always called her Bianca, but for Brook she’s been nothing but Mom.
“You didn’t stay in the kitchen to voice your opinion.” I shift in my seat.
She nods, as if acknowledging something, but I’m not sure what. “I interfered once before, and it cost me my son.”
Fuck. That’s about as close to admitting her part in Brook’s decision to stay behind nearly a decade ago as I’ll ever get.
I thought this was already water under the bridge, but Mom’s words open new wounds on top of the old, festering ones.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
My jaw is so tense I might crack it. But I won’t fuss over something that no longer matters.
How I’m going to avoid it all while married to Brook is another can of worms, and I’m set on ignoring that one as well.
It’s only a year.
I survived nine years not addressing my hurt—I can plow through twelve more months.
“If you and Brook go through with it, I don’t want Micah to know,” Mom says finally, and it pisses me off all over because again she’s choosing him.
“I don’t see how we can hide that we live together,” I say, instead of all the words I want to hurl at her.
Where did this resentment come from? I guess there isn’t a place deep enough in my soul to bury it without it flooding out the minute I fucking step into this house.
“The doctor cleared him for travel today. We’re leaving for Florida. It’s better for him. To gain strength. Brook is house-sitting for us, so I guess the two of you can live here for the time being.”
I better get used to stepping into the fucking house then.
“If I understand correctly, we need to stay married for a year.”
“We’ll only be gone for a month. We want to return to spend time with Paris’s baby. We can deal with the rest later.” She picks up her book and puts on her glasses.
Am I being dismissed? Is the conversation finished for her?
“That doesn’t seem like the best plan. A month will pass quickly and—”
“Micah’s disease has taught me to live for each day.” She snaps the book closed. “Right now he lives for meeting his grandchild, and that’s what we’re focusing on.” She digs her fingers between the pages and pulls the book open again.
“Whatever you say, Mom.” I stand up, kiss her forehead and turn to leave.
“I’m just sorry I won’t be here to spend more time with you. Promise me we will have time to catch up,” she says to my back.
“We will.”
“I’m sorry.”
Fuck this conversation with all its double meanings. I stay rooted, the door handle in my hand, but I don’t push the door open.
I want to pretend I didn’t hear her, because that would mean accepting that she really, truly knew what happened back then.
But I don’t have it in me to unearth that further, so I don’t acknowledge her. But neither do I move.
“For not fighting for you all those years ago,” she confirms. “Now I’m staying out of it.”
I leave without responding. I came tonight to see my mother, to hug her, to tell her I love her and leave.
Instead, all sorts of shit has been stirred up in my head about the past.
And I fucking got engaged.