Chapter 57
Will
I go home one Tuesday without letting anyone know.
My mother blinks, confused, when she sees me in the doorway, as if she’s just been shocked, then steps away to invite me in and starts pampering me right away.
You want a coffee? You look so handsome, Son.
Would you like a pumpkin muffin? You want to stay for dinner? I’m roasting chicken with potatoes.
“Sure, I can stick around,” I say.
She can’t believe it, and that makes me feel so guilty, I’m almost nauseated. I find Dad in the living room drinking a tonic and watching the Nebraska Cornhuskers. She announces the good news, and he looks at me as if not quite able to believe it. I don’t blame him.
“You need money?” he asks when we’re by ourselves.
“No.”
“What brings you here, then?”
“I wanted to come see you.”
He raises his eyebrows and nods. “Okay, then.”
Dinner is weird if not exactly uncomfortable.
Mom won’t stop talking. She’s obviously making an effort to avoid any awkward silences.
It’s hard to keep up with her, but I try to answer all her questions so she won’t feel she’s being overbearing.
Dad’s quieter, but he does pay attention when I talk about the Jeep and the RV I’m living in.
He knew about the latter, but I never gave him any details.
“How are things in Ink Lake?”
“Relaxed. It hasn’t changed much.”
“Will you stay there much longer?”
“I’m not sure.”
That’s the truth. I don’t really know what I’m doing at my parents’ or what my plans are, but I quit the pub, for real this time, and I only have a month left on my lease for the RV space.
When we’re done with dinner, Mom insists on bringing out the pumpkin cupcakes and we all take a seat in the living room.
The fireplace is lit, though it’s not even late October.
None of us seems to know what to say, so we just look back and forth, clear our throats, ask each other mundane questions.
My relationship with my parents hasn’t always been like this.
There was a time when we were close. Mom and I used to be able talk about things most teenagers would never discuss with their mothers.
We’d go to the movies some Sundays, and when we came out, we’d have a milkshake at this place that had like a million flavors.
Dad was a little less talkative, but still, we had the telescope, and I loved looking through it together as we talked about the stars or the family business.
I don’t remember when the bonds of affection started to break, but I guess it was when I went off to college.
I stopped seeing them so much. I only came home for a few days at Christmas or in the summertime, and even then, I often skipped going back because I was traveling.
As the years passed, our feelings for each other wore thin.
When I was living in New York and I’d see Mom’s name flicker on the phone screen, I always felt like whatever I was doing just then was too important to bother picking up, and I’d tell myself I’d call back later, but most of the time, I forgot.
Then came the accident. The greatest disappointment thus far.
The trial ate deeply into my bank balance, and at a certain point, my parents had to step in. They hired the best lawyers, went to countless meetings, fought till the end, and finally paid Josh’s settlement.
By logic, I should have been grateful and become a better son, more attentive and caring, but instead I did the opposite.
I ran away, hounded by shame and the sense of failure.
Seeing my parents made those feelings burn too hot, and it was easier to hide from everything that hurt, even if it meant hiding from them.
But here I am. Where it all began.
“Will, it’s late,” my mother says.
“Yeah.” Dad looks out the window.
“Your room’s just as you left it.”
“You should stay over,” Dad says.
I don’t respond. I just nod and let them take care of things, even if it reminds me of why I left.
I’m an adult now, but it feels nice to let others take the wheel and not to have to struggle to do it on my own.
Maybe that’s why childhood is so happy. You can just be naive; you don’t have any responsibilities.
I think about this as I fall into bed. From there, I can see the window across from me, the one Josh used to look out of every day.
I swallow and turn my back to it. It takes me forever to fall asleep.
I feel weird in this room that’s no longer mine and I ask myself what I’m doing there, but I can’t come up with any solid answer.
I remember I read somewhere that doubting is brave.
Those words worm their way into my heart. Then I fall asleep.
When I wake up, it’s rainy out.
I slept late, and when I go to the kitchen, Mom’s already got something in the oven. I can’t tell what it is. She’s sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee.
“Good morning, Will.”
“Morning.” I sit down beside her.
“Are you in the mood for toast, juice, some scrambled eggs, sausage?”
“Just a coffee, thanks.”
We watch the rain striking the windowpane. The wind blows hard, shaking the trees in the yard.
“This weather’s awful. You shouldn’t go out today.”
I nod, distracted. And I realize then that I won’t be leaving, that I’ve come here to stay.
Maybe for a few days, maybe for weeks. I can’t plan anything past the next few hours; my brain is numb and all I can think about is the here and now.
So that’s what I do. I listen to my mother as she talks to me about the new neighbors on the block and how the fridge light won’t come on (I promise I’ll look at it after breakfast) and the surprise that my father is finally thinking of retiring.
“I had no idea,” I say.
“It’s not like you talk to him much…”
I try not to sigh as I pick up tiny crumbs on the table with the tip of my index finger. I knew this moment would come: the time for explanations, apologies, making excuses.
“I’m sorry, Mom.”
“No, Will. It doesn’t matter.”
“I mean it. I should have called you both more. But…I couldn’t. I was paralyzed. I’m still paralyzed.”
“You know we don’t mind,” she responds.
“Don’t mind what?”
“That: you being paralyzed.” She smooths out her apron. Her eyes are glazed with tears. “We love you all the same. You’re our son. Our only son, Will.”
I try to nod, but I’m almost frozen. I don’t know if I deserve this unconditional love. It’s been years since I’ve done anything to earn it, and it’s hard for me to decide what to do with it.
But I accept.
And it’s easy. It’s…simple.
I don’t have much clothing with me, but it’s enough for now.
I have a few books in the car. Over the next few nights, I reread them.
I spend the mornings with Mom. I turn into a stranger, someone I barely recognize, going shopping with her, helping her out in the kitchen, doing lots of little repairs around the house, even if it would be easier to just call a handyman.
When Dad gets home in the evening, we catch up in the living room. He doesn’t usually go into details. But one day we end up talking about his retirement and how he wants to enjoy the years he has left: travel to Iceland, maybe, to see the northern lights. And that opens Pandora’s box.
“If you wanted to go on board at the company,” he says, “the other board members would probably approve it. You’d have your uncle’s vote, for sure.”
“Thanks, Dad, but I’m not so sure about it.”
If it had been a different moment, I might have just said yes. A well-paid job like that was a ticket to an easy, comfortable future. But I don’t think it’s for me.
“Do you have a better plan?”
“I’m not sure…” I think, doubtfully, of my options. This year’s already a wash. But I should start thinking about the next one. “I’ll look for something workwise. Maybe in a new field of law.”
“Do you need a loan? We’d be happy to—”
“I know, Dad. It’s not about you, though. It’s about me.”
It takes him a minute to assimilate my words, but when he does, he seems satisfied. I think he realized I don’t want to keep depending on him for money—not because I’m ungrateful but because I need to take back control of my life at all levels.
“Have you decided what field you want to specialize in?”
“Intellectual property. I could start off there, at least, and then…well, just see how it goes.”