Chapter 15 #2
The ladies at the front desk greet Molly with hugs and cheerful chatter, talking about how impressed they are with her stamina. I sign in as well, my own greeting less enthusiastic, which I understand. It has more to do with my mom than me.
My mother isn’t a staff favorite. She’s difficult, stubborn, and not particularly kind. Ada and I try to make up for it with generous holiday gifts and contributions to their fundraisers, but it’s still tough.
“I’ll come by your mom’s room when I’m done,” Molly says. “Unless she decides to join the sing-along.”
I don’t miss the look that passes between the two women behind the desk.
“I’ll ask,” I tell her, ignoring the way my gut churns. I should start bringing donuts. Or sandwiches. Or maybe a damn case of wine. Bribes—whatever it takes to get the staff to look at me the way they look at her.
“Do you need help?”
I hope she says yes.
“I’m good. Have a nice visit with your mom.”
“Right.”
I tap my palm on the counter and turn toward the hallway, my stomach twisting with a familiar mix of guilt, dread, and resignation.
I walk down the hall, straighten the cheery spring wreath my sister has hung on her door, then knock.
“What do you want?” a sharp voice calls out.
The visit is already off to a stellar start.
I open the door and peek inside. “Hey, Mom. You up for a visit?”
“You bring chocolate?” she snaps from the recliner in the corner.
I reach into my vest pocket and pull out a salted chocolate bar. It’s her favorite, and I quickly learned not to show up without one. “Sure did.”
“Bring it over,” she says, waving me in.
My mother was never what you’d call soft, but she used to be gentler. Those days feel like a long time ago. Still, I was probably due more tough love than she gave me growing up, so this version of her feels right.
“There’s a sing-along in the rec room,” I tell her as I break off a piece of chocolate and hand it over. Her eyes close as she takes a bite. At least I can bring her a little bit of happiness. “Should we check it out?”
She lets out a sharp laugh. “You can’t carry a tune.”
For all the memories dementia’s stolen from her, that one stuck.
“True,” I agree. “But you have a nice voice.”
Her gaze softens, and she smiles, just slightly. “I do have a nice voice.”
“You used to sing while you cooked. I always knew we were having meatloaf if I heard Reba coming from the kitchen. Reba was for meatloaf. Toby Keith meant chicken-fried steak.”
“Chicken-fried steak was your favorite.”
The breath whooshes out of me.
“It was,” I say. “Nobody makes it better than you.”
She nods and holds out her hand for more chocolate.
There’s a knock, and Molly peeks in.
“I was wondering if you’d like some fresh flowers in your room, Brittany,” she says gently, like they’ve known each other for years.
“Daffodils,” Mom says, pointing at the bouquet. “I like those.”
“I remember,” Molly says, her voice like spun sugar.
God, she’s sweet. Sweeter than I deserve. I didn’t even know Mom liked daffodils, and I definitely never thought to bring her flowers. Only chocolate as a bribe for a better mood. But I could do more. I should.
“I’ll put them here on the end table.” Molly moves closer then gives me an encouraging smile.
As Mom stares at the flowers, her brows furrow and her mouth pulls down into a frown.
“He hates flowers,” she mutters. “Says they make him sneeze. He thinks I buy them on purpose to make him miserable.” She shakes her head. “I just want something pretty in the house.”
My heart stills, then thumps wildly against my ribcage. “Mom, you’re the only one here. You can have flowers whenever you want.”
I figure she’s talking about my father. I don’t remember his allergies, but I do remember how much he hated joy. Hated anything that made us happy. Whether it was flowers, bikes, or birthday parties, it didn’t matter. He’d find a reason to ruin it.
“If the flowers start bothering you, let one of the aides know,” Molly offers, gentle as ever.
But Mom’s not looking at her anymore. She’s staring at me. And there’s no recognition in her eyes.
I offer her what I hope is an understanding smile, even though my cheeks feel frozen. “Mom, if you don’t want—”
“Why are you here?” she snaps. “I don’t want to see you. Haven’t you done enough?”
“Mom...” I hold up the chocolate like it’s a peace offering. “It’s me. Chase. I brought chocolate.”
I try to hand her another piece, and she flinches.
“Don’t touch me. You can’t be here.”
“I’m not—”
I start to move closer, but step back the moment she cowers.
“Call the police,” she tells Molly, her tone frantic. “There’s no telling what he’ll do.”
My gaze locks on Molly’s and the understanding swirling in her green eyes nearly brings me to my knees. “It isn’t me she’s…”
My mom has gone completely still, almost catatonic, staring through me like I’m not even there.
“I know.” Molly lays a hand on my arm, her touch grounding me in a way that feels like it’s the only thing keeping me tethered to this world.
“I’ve got this,” she says. “Go find someone on staff. It’s not your fault.”
I want to believe her.
But I’ve done enough. Just by looking like the old man. Just by being here.
“I’m sorry, Mom,” I whisper.
But she doesn’t respond. I’m not even sure she can.
At the door, I glance back. Molly’s kneeling in front of my mother, holding her hands and speaking so softly I can’t make out the words. But Mom is nodding.
That’s something.
I stop the first staff member I see and explain that something’s upset my mom, and she needs help. The woman gives me a strange look when I don’t follow her down the hall.
“Someone’s in there with her,” I say. “I’m part of the problem. She thinks I’m my father,” I add, because I have to say it out loud, not willing to allow anyone–even a stranger–believe I would elicit that sort of reaction in my mother.
“That happens,” she says kindly. “We’ll take care of her.”
And I’m left standing there alone. Shut out. Turned away again.
I’m too old to be wondering when someone will take care of me.
I’m a grown-ass man, but I feel like a kid again.
The boy who used to lie awake in bed listening for the sound of breaking dishes or screaming.
The one who hated himself for not being able to protect her. For still loving a man who hurt him.
The part of me that hated my father eventually won out. But back then? I just wanted to figure out the magic formula that would keep things calm and my mom, sister, and me safe.
Because the good times were good. My little boy brain thought maybe, just maybe, if I behaved right and said the right things, the good times would stay.
They never did.
The same darkness that consumed my father is inside of me and always has been.
I can feel it pulsing through me now, sticky and black as tar.
Riding bulls was how I kept it from eating me alive.
I took my life in my hands for eight seconds at a time and, somehow, that made me feel like I had control.
My dad hated that he wasn’t good enough to make it on the circuit and I was. Sometimes I wonder if he’d had an outlet like that, would it have been enough? Would we have been safe from his darkness?
And if I’m really done—if I retire for good—where does that leave me? Where does that leave the darkness and what happens when there’s no place to ride it out?