Chapter 33 #2
“It’s natural that he’s suspicious,” Hannah explains to my mother. “We’ve given your son a fair amount of shit.”
Kenny dips a finger in his latte foam. “More than a fair share, probably.”
“We abandoned him on the streets of LA once,” Ripper adds thoughtfully, and my mother’s smile slips.
“But the truth is,” Hannah says, her eyes finding mine.
“We know he’s a good guy.” She pulls another petal off the peony and rolls it between her fingers.
“And he keeps talking about how he misses you and wants to find time to talk. So we figured, why not bring you two together. Who knows, maybe there are some things you want to get off your chest.”
I still, eyes locked on hers. Hannah must’ve heard me that day in Ginny’s room, when I talked about how I regretted growing apart from my mom.
I thought she’d fallen asleep, but she’d processed what I said and arranged this brunch—this whole day—to offer me a chance to make amends.
It’s surprisingly thoughtful, in the most micromanaging of ways.
Is this what it feels like to be managed by me? I can only assume it is as Hannah raises a coy eyebrow, watching the realization sink in. “That said”—she clears her throat and stands—“we’ll leave you to your day. Brunch is on us, which means it’s on Manifest. So go crazy.”
“But don’t do anything we wouldn’t do,” Ripper adds, and the thought of what a very low bar that is makes me laugh despite the new thickness in my throat.
After the Saints say goodbye, and everyone in the dining room stops turning to stare at us, I clear my throat and glance at my mom and Bruce, suddenly bashful and unsure where to start.
But before I can say anything, Bruce leaps to his feet. “You know what, I’m going to head to the little boys’ room. And then maybe I’ll check out the lobby. I saw a fascinating collection of . . . ” He pauses a moment, thinking. “Um, cherub statues. You know how I love those.”
As Bruce winds through the restaurant, I raise an eyebrow at my mom. “Cherub statues?” She smiles. “All right, maybe he isn’t the best at thinking on his feet.”
“Well.” The two of us are now alone at the table, sitting side by side.
I take a moment to study her face, all the familiar features that have meant comfort and home to me.
This is my big moment to apologize for all the distance I’ve created since she married Bruce, to tell her that I know it’s irrational, but I haven’t been able to shake this sense of betrayal since the day he showed up.
But before I can begin, she says, “What a treat to have this time with you. You rarely come to visit anymore.”
I react defensively on instinct. “You know work keeps me busy.”
She rests her chin in her hand and looks up at me. She still wears the small gold watch I got her for her birthday with my first real paycheck at Manifest, back when I was twenty-three. If I end up getting my promotion, I’ll replace the timepiece with something better.
“There’s something I want to talk to you about,” we both blurt.
I do a double take. “Hold on. You want to talk to me?”
She nods.
“About what?”
“Well.” She takes a deep breath. “I don’t know if you know this or not, but I’ve always kept an eye on the news for any mention of you or your bands. I like to print off the articles and keep them in a scrapbook. Because I’m proud of you and the work you’re doing.”
I find her hand and squeeze it.
“But I have to confess,” she says, “it’s been hard to stomach lately.”
I frown and release her hand. “What do you mean?”
“The band seems lovely,” she assures me. “But Hannah . . . honey, I’ve seen someone in a spiral firsthand. Before your dad left, I knew there was something wrong, that he was battling demons. I just didn’t know what to do about it, and then it was too late.”
I’m so surprised I find myself stuttering. I’ve never heard this version of the story before. “Dad was s-s-struggling? Why didn’t you ever say anything?”
“You were thirteen, Theo. And you were already so hurt when he left. I didn’t want to put more on your plate. But the point is, I don’t want you to be where I was, watching a train wreck unfold in slow motion, helpless to stop it.”
My defensive instinct triggers again, but this time in defense of Hannah.
“Okay, sure, the Saints are a challenge. I hear you on that. But if you’re paying attention to the news, then you know this band is also my biggest success to date.
Mom, I think they have a shot at a Grammy nomination.
They’re incredibly talented under the dysfunction. ”
“I don’t doubt it,” she says. The pity in her voice confuses me. “But just because someone’s talented doesn’t mean they don’t also need professional help. I wish I’d realized sooner that what your father was struggling with was beyond my capacity to manage. But it’s not
too late for you.”
“Mom . . . ” I’m grasping at straws. “I care about these people.”
Her small laugh manages to sound sad. “Oh, honey, I know. Your feelings shine out of your eyes. They always have, ever since you were a little boy. I see it when you’re sitting across the table from her, and all the way from Virginia, in the tabloid pictures of you swooping in to protect her. The caring is the problem.”
I shake my head. “Where is all this coming from?” This brunch was supposed to be my chance to apologize, fix things long broken with my mother. It wasn’t supposed to be her opportunity to stage an unnecessary intervention.
“You’re my beautiful, sensitive boy, Theo.
I’ve watched you throw your heart into everything you’ve tackled your entire life.
Watched you get swept up in art and music and people and it’s a good thing, really it is.
You have an emotional intelligence your father never did, and I’m so grateful.
But I’m worried you’re in over your head with this band, and eventually they’re going to crush you. ”
My heart squeezes. “Mom, I’m not the kind of person who walks away.”
Her face softens. She looks older than her years as she sighs. “I know. And I understand why that’s so important to you. But I say this with love, honey: you’ve got to stop letting what happened with your father dictate so much of your life. Release him.”
The air is thick with tension. I feel leveled by this conversation and desperate to escape it, envisioning faking a work emergency and fleeing the restaurant, running back into the safety of distance, missed phone calls, busy schedules. Avoidance.
And then what would I tell Hannah? I swallow hard, pressing my thumbs into my knees, trying to displace the discomfort.
Hannah would be disappointed in me for squandering this moment, wasting this time with my mom, when time is precious and fleeting, when she would give anything to sit next to her sister, Ginny, even just to fight again.
I let out a long, low breath, closing my eyes. “Okay, Mom. I think I can work on that.”
I feel warmth and open my eyes to find my mother holding my hands in both of hers. Her eyes are shining. Over her shoulder, Bruce makes his way back into the dining room, then spots us holding hands and does an abrupt about-face. Maybe he’s not my dad, but he’s a good guy. I can give him that.
“Now what was it you wanted to say to me?” my mom asks.
I picture Hannah watching me from across the table, her eyes nudging me along. Then I square my shoulders and, for the first time in years, tell my mom the truth.