Chapter 22
I walk down the long hallway , passing closed doors on either side of me. All of them are adorned with artwork, pretty wreaths, or homemade crafts. Most of the art is childlike, made by grandchildren and great grandchildren and displayed with pride.
My feet stop at the one door that is blank and empty. Cheerless.
Sad .
She doesn’t have any grandchildren. She doesn’t have anyone except for me, and I’m too much of a coward to visit her more than once a year.
I knock against the frame as I let myself in, spotting her across the small condo, watching television from the foot of her bed in a nightgown.
“Leave it by the door, Frank,” she says without looking away from the TV screen.
I swallow, taking hesitant steps inside the room. “It’s me, Mom.”
She doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink or flinch.
Holly Asher was a strong woman. Kind and soft in so many ways, yet there was always fight in her eyes. Her spirit burned bright with fierce protection for her family and love for those she deemed worthy.
My mother loved my father with the fire of a thousand suns, and he loved her back just the same.
My childhood is riddled with vivid memories of them madly in love, kissing, chasing each other around the house, tickling, and dancing in the kitchen to Hootie and the Blowfish.
I’d get embarrassed when my friends came over because I knew my parents would act like fools with their terrible dance moves and off-key singing.
Mom would always try to pull me into the dance party and I’d run away, shouting, “You guys are so weird!” They would laugh and laugh, immune to my humiliation, and then they’d kiss, not giving a damn.
But they would fight, too. Oh , they would fight, and I’d hear them from the other side of the house in the middle of the night as I clutched the bed covers to my chin.
“You’re an idiot, Mark!”
“You drive me crazy, Hol!”
Their stomping feet and hostile words would vibrate right up to my room and tickle my heart. It always sounded so bad , like I’d wake up the next morning and Dad would be gone.
But that never happened.
Things would go back to normal by sunrise, as if I’d dreamt the whole thing.
Then there was the day I woke up and Dad was gone. It was two days after my high school graduation—I was yanked out of bed by my mother’s horrified screams that still linger in my mind to this day. He’d passed away in his sleep from a heart attack.
So sudden.
So quick.
So fucking unfair.
My mother never really recovered from the loss and her mental state deteriorated over the next few years. Her memory began to decline at only fifty-two years old, and I always thought to myself, “How horrible it must be to forget the love of your life.”
Now, I can’t help but wonder if it was the only way for her to cope.
Maybe there is no recovering from something like that. Maybe there is no healing or moving on. There is no forgetting.
Not unless you truly forget .
I approach my mother, her light brown hair dappled in silver and cut just above her shoulders. She glances up when I’m standing a few feet away, my hands in my pockets. “You look good, Mom.”
Holly smiles, a warmth washing over her baby blue eyes, almost like she recognizes me. “Randall. I’m so glad you came to visit.”
I try not to take it personally. The doctors all say she can’t help it. My father could be standing here, fresh from his grave, and she’d still be all mixed up. “Mom, it’s Dean. Your son.”
She nods her head. “Come sit.” Holly pats the embroidered quilt beside her, encouraging me to join her. “Frank brought tea. It’s by the front door. ”
“Thanks.”
We sit in silence for a moment, my mother’s attention back on the television. She sighs wearily. “It’s such a shame the way those towers fell down. So much fire and destruction. So much loss.” Holly shakes her head from side to side, her eyes glistening as images play out on the screen.
I glance at the TV. It’s a commercial for dish soap.
My fingers weave through my dark hair, recalling the way my mother used to stroke my scalp with her fingertips to alleviate my stress or calm my nerves. I miss that sometimes.
I clear my throat, shifting my weight on the bed.
“I know you’re not going to understand what I’m saying, but I think I just needed someone to listen.
I went through some pretty crazy stuff a few months ago, and I don’t think I’m handling it very well.
I’m confused about a lot of shit. I still have nightmares.
It’s taking all my willpower not to drink myself to death.
And…” I close my eyes, grinding my teeth.
“I think I’m falling in love with the only damn woman in the world who’s completely off limits.
I know she feels it, too, which should be great, right?
This is the shit people write books about. ”
Holly sits very still, staring at the television screen as if she didn’t hear a word I said.
“But there’s no story like ours, Mom. People don’t write about what we went through.
They don’t write about how we were abducted in the middle of the night by a sick motherfucker, handcuffed to pipes for three weeks, hungry, dirty, and scared out of our damn minds while I was forced to violate her with a gun to my head.
“They don’t write about how I shredded a man’s face with my bare hands until I cut my knuckles on his skull.
They don’t write about what the hell we’re supposed to do after something like that, when life goes back to normal and everyone around us is smiling and happy, but we’re still stuck in that hellhole, clinging to each other because we’re all we have.
” I lower my hands to my face as I try not to break.
“And the real kicker is that I was engaged to her sister . What the hell kind of twisted shit is that?”
Jesus Christ. What a goddamn mess. Part of me is glad my mother has no clue what I’m saying.
I breathe deeply into my hands, my elbows on my knees. I jump when I feel familiar fingers trail up the back of my neck and into my hair, massaging my scalp, quelling the pain that’s tearing me apart inside.
I inhale a shaky breath, sitting up and looking over at my mother. Her focus is still on the screen, but her fingers continue their soothing trek along my scalp, forcing my eyes to close in contentment.
“Every love story is worth writing, no matter how messy it might be,” Holly says absently, still stroking my hair. “I would like to read your book.”
My brow creases into a frown, confused, wondering if she was absorbing my words, after all.
My mother used to have many moments of clarity, but they have become few and far between.
The last time I visited her—in March for fuck’s sake—she wasn’t at all lucid.
She called me Gator the entire time, which was the name of our Beagle who died ten years ago.
Holly reaches for my hand resting on my thigh, clasping it inside her cool palm, still enamored by the pictures on the television. “I had a terrible nightmare once. It was a lot different than yours, though.” She squeezes my fingers and releases a small sigh. “I was all alone.”
I wait for her to continue.
I wait for the story to unfold, the horrors to play out, the nightmare to come to life.
But she doesn’t say anything else and I realize… that was the nightmare.
We sit in silence as her words pinch me. My insides ache and twist with something I don’t exactly understand.
And then my mother lets go of me, smiling pleasantly as she folds her hands in her lap. “I should have the paperwork all filled out by the end of the day. I do appreciate you coming by.”
As I drive home that afternoon, I think about the things I said, about the things she said, and about how sometimes all we need is a good dose of perspective.
There are worse nightmares than this.
I could be all alone.
I decide right then and there that I will start visiting my mother more often. No more hiding. No more fear. No more guilt.
Because as sad as my mother’s condition is, there is nothing sadder than walking up to that blank, empty door.
It’s a little after nine P.M. when the power goes out. My television flickers off, as do the lights, and I’m left sitting on the couch in complete darkness.
The first thing I think about is Cora.
She doesn’t like the dark. She keeps the lights on at night, even in her bedroom, and I don’t blame her.
I’m on the other side of town, but I reach for my phone just in case. Just to check on her.
Me: Did your power just go out?
I wait for her reply.
It’s been another week since I last saw her—since we kissed and cried and held each other on her bedroom floor until reality crept back in and I drove myself home.
And that was it. We haven’t spoken since, and it fucking sucks.
I’m not sure what to say to her now that she feels responsible for my break-up with Mandy.
I’m not sure what to think after she told me she hated me over and over, even though I know it’s the furthest thing from the truth.
And I sure as hell don’t know what to do now that we’ve tasted each other again, voluntarily, desperately , and were likely one more kiss away from doing a lot more than that.
It's a mess.
My phone buzzes in my lap, and I quickly open the message.
Cora: Yes
Shit. She’s probably terrified.
Me: Do you have candles or something?
Cora: I can’t find my lighter. I’m using my phone’s flashlight, but my battery is almost dead. Shoot me.
I run my tongue along my teeth, weighing my options. There are only two options, and it doesn’t take long for me to pick one.
Me: On my way
Cora: That’s not necessary.
Me: You’re afraid of the dark.
Cora: I’m afraid of a lot of things. You’re one of them.
I stare at her text, my heart sinking into my stomach.
She’s scared of me? What the hell?
Me: Wow. Ok then.
A few minutes tick by before her response comes through.
Cora: I didn’t mean it like that. I’m afraid of the way you make me feel.