Chapter 22 #2
She gestures to the couch, swipes the remote, and turns down the volume on the television. The night and day difference is shocking. Everything I rehearsed on the way over here is gone from my mind. Completely erased with the new information about my son bombarding me.
“Since when do you watch college baseball, Dominic?”
“Since when do you care, mother?”
“He knows one of the players. They meet under some unfortunate circumstances.”
An odd expression passes over her otherwise cheerful demeanor, and I know there’s more to that story.
“Marlowe, can I talk to you in the bedroom?”
His question is more of a growl. Irritation brims so close to the surface, I’m waiting for it to blow as it always does.
“Not necessary,” she dismisses him, sitting on the couch opposite mine.
So close that I can see, in the afternoon sun, that her face is makeup-free.
Her skin is flawless. She’s older than he is.
Obviously, more accomplished. Nothing that I would think he’d go for, being that he thinks he’s always the most intelligent person in the room.
Most of the time, he is, but she seems to be able to handle him and his moods.
I’m witnessing a miracle.
“Now, in all fairness to you, and something you should know is—"
“She’s not fucking staying, Marlowe.”
She looks over at him, smiles sweetly, and then winks. I can’t figure out if she’s taunting or sincere.
“Babe, I know this is not what you want to do on your Sunday, especially given your big project, but it’s time.”
She doesn’t miss a beat in forcing the issue. Pushing him into places he doesn’t want to go, and not scared of the eruption about to take place.
She turns to me, pats my knee, and says, “In all fairness to you, he told me everything that happened last night.”
I’m not sure how to feel about that statement. Her approach is genuine, warm, and full of understanding, but I can’t help being suspicious. My son and I have had many mediators before. Intercepting parties to work through things with us. None have been successful. Our relationship proves it.
“How are you doing? You can’t be okay with things.”
She eases back onto the couch, completely comfortable with asking.
I’m speechless. No one asks how I feel. There’s no space in the room for my feelings when dealing with a volatile person.
The only valid feelings are his, not mine.
Never mind. I decide to answer. Give her a try where everyone else has failed.
“I’m not okay. Far from it.”
I ignore the grumble across the room. She does too. Yet, here comes my son with a board filled with cheeses, crackers, olives, and some nuts. A mini hors d’oeuvres with the presentation style of our chef, with little sprigs tucked into the side for presentation.
“Thank you so much.”
She smiles up at him. He ignores it, dumps the small plates on the table with a loud clatter, and walks away.
“He loves putting these boards together. Like a puzzle for that big brain of his. Sometimes this is our dinner on busy nights.”
The amount of free-flowing sharing is staggering.
She waves a hand at me to partake. I’m not hungry in the least. My stomach is a tangle of knots.
It’s as if I no longer know my son. I’m holding onto an old version that I’m starting to think doesn’t fit.
Yet, I’m having an equally hard time grasping who he is now.
“This looks beautiful, son.”
The words come out quick and meaningful. Filled with the combination of all the changes he’s made, and making those I thought were virtually impossible. He doesn’t say anything, just delivers the wine glass for each of us, then plops down in the chair opposite me.
His boot stomps the edge of the coffee table, rattling everything on it, including the glasses. His childish show of anger doesn’t even faze Claudia. She leans forward, assembles a sampling of everything.
“Thank you, Dominic. This is really lovely.”
Her words fall over him like a fine mist. I’m entranced by the effect. His features soften. His gaze slants to her, soaking in her praise and studying every part of her. When our eyes meet, his expression turns back to a scowl. Hard and punishing.
“Why the fuck are you here?”
With his boot propped up on the couch, his black jeans and t-shirt seemed more like a rebellious uniform than clothing suited for comfort. My eyes dart to Claudia, wondering if we’re going to have this discussion in front of her.
“She knows everything, Mother. Everything.”
I’m not entirely sure what he means by that. Yet she remains unfazed, nibbling on her plate as if this is a typical conversation to be had. It’s a little unnerving, but if she feels more comfortable here, then I can’t hardly ask her to leave so that we can discuss this in private.
“Well, I figured you deserved an explanation.”
He huffs. It sounds condescending without actually saying a word.
“You fucked my friend. My friend fucked my mom. What more to explain?”
Claudia shifts away, positioning herself to face forward, where each of us only has a glance at her side profile. At first, I think it’s a result of disgust. Then I realized it’s a neutral position, not showing alignment to either side.
“Dominic, language like that isn’t helpful.”
“Don’t even start, Marlowe. It’s fucking true, and there’s no need to sugarcoat it to save her feelings. The point is, she has none.”
I release a shaky breath, setting my plate down on the table. This is what I prepared for. I steel my insides for all the insults yet to come. To bear the brunt of them now and fall apart later, not in his presence.
“Babe.”
They do that stare-down thing again. He looks away, suddenly interested in the game on television.
“Remember, we talked about ‘you’ statements and using ‘I’ statements’ in their place?”
Both he and I have heard this before. Elementary psychological advice that never worked in the past. It wouldn’t work here today.
“Fine. I think this is fucked up. I think moms shouldn’t fuck their son’s friends. I think moms stick to the life they built on the backs of fucking over their kids.”
He did what she asked, even if the results are still insulting and scathing.
“Good. Now Babs. It’s okay if I call you that, correct?”
“Everyone does.”
“Alright, what would you like to stay, knowing how he feels?”
She sounds like so many others who have gone before. A judge in the center court, observing the volley that always happens between him and me. Both sides wait with anxiety for the screaming ace to be served.
“I understand why you’d think those things. And for a long time, I would have agreed with you. But I didn’t expect this to happen.”
He jumps to his feet. The wood floor groans from the impact.
“Bullshit. Hell, mother, it wasn’t that long ago that he was a kid, not even legal. Doesn’t that shit bother the fuck out of you? It sure does me.”
My eyes slide to his girlfriend. Older and more mature. I doubt she’s close to my age, but there’s an age difference.
“You didn’t have a problem with your father doing it. Didn’t bother saying any of this to him at the last event. You even saw me upset and were still cruel about it.”
My accusations may not be fair, yet they have to be said.
There’s always been a double standard. My ex can do and has done whatever the hell he wants.
Dominic has always given him a pass regardless of how egregious his behavior is.
Where I have to walk the line, and the second I step out of it, my son is there crying foul and making a massive deal of it.
“Because my father is a fucking worthless piece of shit. I couldn’t care less if the man lived or died. He’s always coming at me for shit. I cut him off years ago. I don’t care what the fuck that asshole does. He’s a waste of oxygen and carbon dioxide.”
He’s pacing now. His hand runs through his hair, tugging at the ends. He reaches into his pants pockets, coming up empty. Then he glares at his girlfriend. She’s content to sit amid the chaos, eating from her plate as if none of this bothers her.
“Fuck I need to vape.”
“You’re doing fine. But this is good. Keep going. Get it all out.”
Her encouragement to continue berating me is disturbing. Suddenly, I feel like I’m becoming an enemy of Miss Suzy Sunshine too.
“With all due respect—”
“You’re not him. You’re my damn mother. You don’t do shit like that.
You sit in that damn house he paid for after the divorce, and you do that wealthy woman stuff.
The kind all those old bitties do at your club.
That kind of stuff, mother. Not chasing after playboys who think they’re hot because they’re covered in tattoos.
That stuff poisons your system. And someday, you’ll end up slumming it with paid prostitutes like my father. ”
My eyebrows are into my hairline.
My mouth hangs open. I can’t decide if I’m offended at how little he thinks of my life. That I’ll backslide into the slums, or that he holds me to a different standard, or that my ex is hiring prostitutes to keep up the facade.
“I . . . I . . .”
I don’t know where to start.
“But why the fuck would you let it be Hollister? Of all people. Couldn’t you have fucked one of those lifeguards or masseuses at your club? Hell, a tennis instructor would have been a more obvious choice. All the other women there do that.”
His pacing grows more rapid. As if trying to stomp out each word he’s saying.
“But my fucking friend. You know how hard it is for me to keep relationships, and you fucking torpedo it by jumping on his cock. Do you know how fucking disgusting that is? How it’s fucking with my head.”
He starts slapping the side of his head, and both of us are on our feet. But Claudia reaches him first, and I stop. It’s not my place anymore. She’s overtaking the role I once had. One I took for granted for many years, just trying to survive him.