‘About as bad as it looked for the entire town when I got arrested, I’m sure. Or when I was committed because of my cutting.’
‘I can’t believe you’re bringing that up.’
‘And I can’t believe you called me.’ I get up from the bed and start pacing the room, trying to channel my adrenaline in the healthiest way I can think of. I will not give in. I won’t. ‘Dylan could have given me the update.’
‘Update? I can’t believe you just called your father’s death an update.’ She’s verging toward crying. I should feel bad, but I can’t find the will to bring that emotion out of me for her. ‘After everything he did for you; put you into sports, put a roof over your head, bought you all the things you needed.’
‘There’s so much more to life than materialism, Mother. And so much more to being a parent than buying your children the shit they need, like, say, loving them and not beating them up or stabbing them.’
‘I didn’t do any of those things.’ She tries to sound calm, but I can tell she’s crying, almost losing it completely, which is something I’ve never seen or heard her do before.
I should stop.
I should care enough to stop.
But I don’t.
‘No, you just let it happen,’ I say through gritted teeth, ‘which is just as bad.’
‘We are not bad parents!’ she cries hysterically, shocking me because I honestly didn’t think she possessed emotion. ‘We’re not …’ The last part sounds like she’s trying to convince herself, not me.
I can’t take it anymore. Bad mother or not, I don’t want to be the kind of person to bring others pain. Don’t want to be like them. Don’t want to carry this heaviness in me anymore. I want to let it go – be free. So I make a choice, one that will hopefully set me free.
‘I’m sorry.’
‘For what?’
‘For saying all those things …’ Even though they’re true.
‘Good. Now, let’s talk about your father’s funeral and what you can help me with.’
I stop pacing. ‘No.’
‘What?’ She sounds shocked.
‘I’m not helping you with any of that.’
‘But he’s your father …’ That’s the best argument she can come up with and it’s sad. ‘And you just said you were sorry.’
‘Yeah, for saying hateful things,’ I say, breathing through the pain tearing at my chest, through the tears starting to fall. I’m letting go – accepting what is. I can feel myself on the edge of it. But the thing is, I’m letting go of a lot and I’m worried I’m going to explode when I finally say goodbye to it all – the hate, the pain, the resentment. ‘But not for feeling the way that I do. I’ll never be sorry for that, nor will I help with his funeral.’
‘So you’re not coming.’ She’s still crying, but she sounds angry.
‘I might, but I’m not sure yet.’ I stand up and grab my car keys and jacket before heading out of the room. ‘You can give Dylan the details and then he can pass them along to me.’
‘You’re a terrible son.’
The only things that keep me from listing off the terrible things she is, are 1) She’s hurting and even though I despise her, I don’t want to be that person. And 2) It doesn’t matter; she’s my past if I choose to let her be.
And I think I do.
‘No, I’m actually in the parking lot.’ Emotion surfaces through his voice, cracking down the line, and I swear I can actually feel it. ‘I needed to see you so I’ve been sitting out here waiting for you to get out of class.’
‘I’m coming.’ I burst out the doors and sprint across the snow, grasping onto my bag. ‘Where are you parked exactly?’
‘At the front.’ There’s a vulnerability to his voice, like he’s fighting not to break apart before I get there.
I scan the parking lot and when I spot his car, I veer right, not slowing down until I reach it. I throw open the door and jump in. He’s sitting in the driver’s seat, staring ahead at the campus quad, his jaw set tight, as his chest rises and crashes. He has on his pajama pants and a hoodie which means he probably left the house in a hurry.
The warm air kisses my skin, but the silence of him chills my heart. I’m not sure what to say – if there’s anything I can say. What the heck does one say to someone in this type of situation?