Chapter 4 Lucas
lucas
I’ll never understand how this door is capable of making me feel like I’m ten years old again, small and unwanted.
The familiar brown color taunts me, tells me there’s no reason for me to be here.
I stand outside longer than I should, hand resting against the doorknob, the cool metal grounding me just enough to keep me from turning around.
The voice in my head whispers, ‘She won’t acknowledge you.
’ The soft, self-destructive tone familiar as I’ve come to recognize it as the version of me that’s been shaped by her silence.
‘You’re still not worth it.’ It says, digging the knife deeper into my chest. But the worst part is, I don’t argue, not right away at least. I just stand there, letting the weight of it dig deeper until breathing feels like a full-time job.
Truthfully, I don’t know why I still show up. I don’t know why I haven’t moved her into an assisted living facility. One where she doesn’t get to live like this anymore, alone and unreachable.
I told myself a long time ago that I was done begging for scraps of her attention. Yet here I am, like a dog running after its favorite bone.
Maybe it’s misguided loyalty to my dad, or guilt. Heck, it’s probably the pathetic, stubborn part of me that wants her to look at me with something other than vacancy, just once.
Whatever the reason, I’m here, week after week, continuing the tradition my dad started before I was even born, clutching a bouquet like a seven-year-old holding out a drawing, hoping it’ll be enough this time.
I stop at the same flower shop my dad used to go to, pick out the brightest ones they have.
The same kind that always felt like hope and love when they came from his hands.
And like always, I’ll replace the dead ones from the week before, while hoping she’ll light up the way she did when my dad brought them home.
“I couldn’t have picked a better example for our son, Jax.
Thank you, my love.” She’d say, week after week, a smile stretched across her face as she’d wrap her arms around my dad and then me.
But now, it’s my own little ritual of pretending there’s still life within these walls.
This time, though, I may have picked up an extra bouquet for Lettie’s birthday. I want to do so much more, celebrate her the way she should be celebrated, but I’m not going to push.
It’s been a couple of days since she showed up, and while I’ve seen her in passing, she keeps her distance, much to my dismay. Miller did tell me that her dad’s lawyer showed up this morning, and she signed the deed with Mr. Raynolds, the old ranch lawyer, as the witness.
While it felt like I could breathe for the first time in years, I realized that I’m still holding on to a bit of resentment towards her for staying away for so long.
I’ve put my own blood, sweat, tears, and dollar bills into this place while she hasn’t done a thing, just to show up at the midnight hour and cash in on all of it.
So instead of hanging around where I could possibly say something I can’t take back, I opted for a simple gesture, one where words aren’t required. For my own sake.
Letting out a heavy sigh, I slide my finger into the ring that hangs on a chain around my neck. It’s the only thing I have left of my dad, and I make sure I tuck it into my shirt every time I’m here out of fear my mom will try to take that from me, too.
I won’t pretend to know what it’s like to be in a crash that took the love of your life while you lived. But I do know what it’s like to be seven and lose both your parents on the same day, even if one of those parents is still alive.
Taking a deep breath, I push the front door open, calling out, “Hey, Ma.”
“Special delivery,” I sing as I step into the living room. I hold the flowers in front of her face, and she doesn’t even blink, just stares blankly at the wall in front of her.
The flowers fall to my side, heavy, useless. I swallow hard, walking into the kitchen and running through the familiar routine like I’m a puppet on a string.
When I’m done, I sit in the same spot on the couch closest to her, leaning my elbow on the armrest as my chin falls into my open palm.
It’s the place I pretend we’re having a conversation, even though we're not. At one point, I’d start responding to my own questions in what I remember her voice to sound like.
But I could be wrong, considering I haven’t heard it in more than a decade.
“Are you ever going to talk to me?” I ask.
I get nothing. “If I paid a therapist to make house visits, would you talk to them?”
Silence. Shocking.
She doesn’t care, Lucas. You’re wasting your breath. You’ve never been enou-
I cut the thought off before it could take root.
A visualization technique Dr. Williams taught me.
Every anxious, self-destructive thought is a balloon, and you have the scissors.
Let it float into your mind, then cut the string and let it float away.
It works a good chunk of the time, but some days I want the thought to hurt.
Just to feel something other than the loneliness I’ve become accustomed to.
Squeezing her thigh, I quickly plant a kiss on her cheek.
“See you when I get back, Ma. I love you.” I hold on to such fickle hope that maybe this time will be the time she looks at me, or the day that I can make her lips twitch.
Make her eyes move, anything. But every visit, I’m sorely mistaken.
We may have lost my dad, but her? She chose to leave me.
The sun is low enough in the sky that it’s not blinding as I drive home, reds, oranges, and lighter hues of blue paint the horizon in long strokes of color.
Thin wispy clouds are strewn throughout, whimsical and light.
A reminder that no matter how hard your day has been, there’s still beauty to be found if you just allow yourself to be still for half a second and look around.
My breath comes a bit easier, hands relaxing against the steering wheel as I make up the song of the day in my head. It flutters through my mind like a bee looking for the perfect flower to feed on. It’s higher in pitch, something you’d hear in a children's movie when the character is happy.
I could add lyrics to it like I usually do, but this is comforting today. One I’m choosing to flip the script on, I still have a mom I can see. How many people can’t say the same?
Pulling through the main gate, I take a left on the road that leads to Lettie’s.
Parking a bit down the way, I pull out a pen and a napkin and scribble down a note.
My mom may get the brightest bouquet in the shop, but I chose each of the flowers in Lettie’s because they mean something.
Because she means something. More than she wants to acknowledge.
Lettie,
These reminded me of you, bright and full of life. Orange Lilies signify confidence. Hot pink roses to show my appreciation for you being in my life. Purple Stock flowers signify lasting bonds. Sunflowers bring you happiness. And orange alstros to celebrate a new beginning.
Happy Birthday, Pretty Girl.
-Lucas
I slow as I pull up in front of her house, tires crunching against the gravel, her kitchen curtain pulls slightly to the side, quickly falling back into place. I purposely walk slower, squeezing my hands around the stems to make my forearms pop on the way to her door.
The plastic wrapped around the flowers crinkles as I set them on her doormat. I adjust the napkin so it drapes over the bow wrapped around the stems, no chance of it sliding off before she sees it. After knocking twice, I jog back down the steps, my pulse strumming rapidly in my neck.
The door opens at a snail's pace as if she’s waiting to see if I’m still standing outside. She hesitates, eyes dipping to the flowers before she bends and lifts them to her nose. The curve of her shoulders rises on a slow inhale.
Our eyes stay connected, a lifetime of things left unsaid, yet the pull of the invisible string I’ve always said ties me to her, pulls taught when she raises the bouquet in a silent thank you.
The sensation is enough to make me lift my own hand, thankful I had the foresight to make an effort. Even if it’s from a distance.
Like always, after visiting my mom, I head straight for the kitchen when I get home.
The knife slides effortlessly through butter before I coat two slices of sourdough.
This loaf is fresh from my teammate, Markus Samuels’s little sister.
Grilled cheese has always been my comfort food.
My dad was far from a culinary expert, but grilled cheese was our thing.
I close my eyes, letting the memory hit me so hard I have to brace my palms against the counter. It’s been twenty years, and still, it comes to life like it’s happening right in front of me.
My feet are too cold for me to sleep. I climb out of bed and notice the familiar light in the kitchen.
Dad's awake. I pad down the hallway, following the sound of his frustrated voice. I assume they still can’t find the animal they were trying to locate in the .
He’s a wildlife photographer, a good one from what I understand.
But the second I step into the light, he hangs up and smiles. “Hey, Kiddo.”
He scoops me onto his lap, wrapping his arms around my shoulders.
“Bad dream?” I shake my head no, and he shivers when I pull my knees into my chest, letting my icicle feet rest against his thigh.
I can still hear the laugh he tried, and failed, to keep inside.
Then he whispered the magic words: “Grilled cheese time.”
My head bows over the counter, throat tightening as that smile of his floats up behind my eyelids, bright and full of life. It splits me down the middle every time. I’d give just about anything to see it again.