Chapter 47 #2
“I hate that you grew up feeling exactly how I felt—like I was the reason my mom was miserable, that I’d ruined her life. I can’t believe I passed that on.”
“Hold on, hold on,” Michael interrupted. “Yes, to some of what you said, but nah to way more. You are not like Gran. I don’t think you have a mean bone in your body. I knew you loved me,” he repeated. “I also just knew, or felt anyway, like your life would’ve been different without me.”
“Different,” Vic rasped, still feeling crushed, “but not better.”
They talked late into the night, and eventually Michael confessed his motivation for responding to her email and having this long-avoided conversation about whatever lay between them.
“I’ve met someone. Well, met her a while back, actually.”
“Celia?”
Michael looked surprised. “Yeah, that’s right.
Celia. I didn’t realize I’d already mentioned her.
Anyway . . .” He blushed. He actually blushed.
“We’re serious, or I am . . . She says I have mother issues that I need to fix.
That I put you on a pedestal like you’re a saint and that I’m simultaneously furious with you. ”
Vic nodded. They talked some more. Apparently, Michael wanted to get married—she tried not to show her shock—but Celia wanted him to get some personal stuff sorted out first.
“And she’s not wrong, Mom,” he said earnestly, making Vic’s heart squeeze with love for him.
“I’ve treated women in ways I’m not proud of.
” His head bowed, as if under the weight of what he was saying.
“Like I was never mean to them, but I never let them get too close either. I—” His voice roughened, and he coughed a little to disguise it.
“I hated how men treated you and what you put up with—and then I acted the exact same way they did.”
That was her fault too, Vic understood. Because that was exactly how these types of dysfunctions rolled out. And yet here he was—seeing the patterns, growing. Just like she was. She couldn’t take credit, of course, but she could feel gratitude. And she did.
“And to be clear,” Michael continued. “I’m not angry with you now, like as an adult, I mean. Intellectually, I can see how it was for you and understand.”
“Just as a little kid and a teen, you felt rejected and neglected—and there is that child part of us that we never fully outgrow, especially if we don’t recognize it and deal with it.” The lump in Vic’s throat was a blade.
Michael nodded. “Just having this conversation though—it’s helping.”
“I’m glad,” she said. And she was—even if it all hurt so much. “And I’ll always have any conversation you want, even if it’s hard.”
“Well . . .” Michael flashed that grin of his. “You know I only have a limited capacity for self-reflection, so don’t worry, you won’t get grilled too often.”
Vic had to laugh. “Something else you get from me then.”
Their eyes met, and they nodded in the mutual understanding of overthinkers everywhere. Her son, maybe not such a playboy after all. Thank goodness. Thank goodness.
“So, tell me about your wise, brown-eyed Celia,” she said a few minutes later.
And Michael did, going on and on at such length that eventually they both started laughing.
“She’s just, well, awesome,” he said in conclusion. “You’ll see.”
“I will?”
“Yeah, our plan is to visit this spring or early summer.”
It was? Excitement rocketed through her.
“If that’s okay with you, that is.”
“Of course, it’s okay. It’s beyond okay. It’s absolutely wonderful—”
Michael held up his hand. “Okay, okay, I get it. I’m happy we’re coming too.”
Saying goodbye at the airport was bittersweet.
They’d just started really talking and now he was leaving—and yet, maybe that was for the best. It had taken them a long time to become pleasant, easygoing strangers with each other, and now they’d done a lot of work in a short time.
A breather would be good, pacing would be good—and she already knew he was coming back. There was a lot of sweetness in that.
“You’re different, Mom,” he said, giving her one final hug at the gate that would take him through security.
“Or maybe not different . . . just the most you I’ve ever seen you be.
Not trying to be something else or something more .
. . Just being. And I’m so glad you’re painting again. I never understood when you stopped.”
He shook his head as he released her. “I don’t make any sense. Ignore me.”
Vic reached up and patted his cheek. “I will never ignore you—or never again, and I think you make perfect sense. I feel exactly how you describe.”
Driving down the airport hill, she nearly asked her phone to call Cal, her heart and brain full of things she wanted to share with him about her visit with Michael—and then she remembered that he wasn’t her person to share things with, happy or sad or otherwise.
She sighed. “I feel really sad about how things went down with Cal,” she muttered under her breath, and just naming it, admitting it, somehow made it better. Encouraged, she continued speaking out loud—and only felt fifty percent kook.
“I am rebuilding. With or without Cal, it doesn’t matter. I can be sad and excited. I’m going to have a great life. I can’t make him see me any certain way or control the outcomes of my efforts. I can only control how I move forward from past mistakes.”
Exactly.