“So, what are you gonna do Mom?”
“I’m thinking I need a getaway,” she says and my stomach drops. There are only two people who can tolerate her for any period of time; one is on the phone with her now, trying to get the address of the other.
Getting closer.
“Southwest is running specials to Arizona,” I say almost too eagerly, hoping to head off whatever she might be thinking.
“Too many migrants,” she scoffs.
Ding ding ding! Strike up the band, we have a winner. “Mom, how’s Lily doing?”
“Still living that lifestyle, and miserable,” she replies, and I can see her putting quotes around the word lifestyle on the other end, “Why do you ask?” She knows why, but I imagine the self-satisfaction of convincing herself that she brought us back together is too tempting to pass up.
“I’m gonna be in New York City and was wondering if she still lives there.”
“If you want her address, just ask. If your foreplay is anything like your social skills, it’s a wonder that you’ve ever had sex.”
Dr. Felt is likely to make her money from this phone call alone. To keep myself from hyperventilating, I focus on the bartender as she rinses the glasses near the register. We lock eyes and she gives me the thumbs up, as if to say it’ll all be worth it in the end. My mother has sensed that I’m not paying attention.
“Miles if you need help you should talk to Robert, he could talk the panties off of a nu…”
An image of my mother in a bar flashes through my mind. She’s sitting there and Robert is whispering in her ear with a hand on her thigh, slowly working its way up. The thought makes me wish I were adopted.
“Mom please stop.”
“Did you get the gift we sent you?”
The “gift” she’s referring to is a six month membership to Match.com and a year subscription to a porn site that encompassed all of their offerings—like a sample platter of smut. “Yes, I got your gift.”
“And?”
“And the neighbors kid is going through puberty, so it’s getting good use.”
“You’re so unappreciative, always have been.”
I can only smile at the idea that calling my mother would’ve be different than any other time. If anything, this has proven that no event will ever restore a sense of normalcy for us. We’re doomed to snipe at each other on the phone until another catastrophic event forces us into the same room again.
“Look mom, we both know there isn’t enough therapy in the world to fix this family. All I want is a way to contact Lily.”
“Why?”
“Because, I’d rather repair something that can be fixed than start anew.”
“Ok, I’ll shoot you her number.”
“I was thinking more like her address.”
“You’re gonna go visit her?”
“I’m at the airport now because, as you said so eloquently, I don’t have anything else to do.”
They announce over the intercom that my flight will begin boarding. I pull a couple of hundreds from my pocket and place them next to the empty glass. “Look mom, my flight is boarding. Just text me the address and I’ll get it when I land.” I say on my way out the door.
“She knows what happened to Sara and the kids, take her to a coffee shop and just talk to her.”
“I’m supposed to use my pain to rebuild our relationship?”
“Don’t act high and mighty. You’re using the settlement money to get there.”
“They offered me th…” I start but stop myself, knowing she’s got a point.
“Just talk with her, play the grief card you’ve been holding onto. Think of it as life’s draw four card.”
Two
Session 1: Keepsakes Left Behind
I can’t pinpoint the moment exactly, but I know the blame was placed on my family sometime between me slipping on the toy Batmobile and my bare ass cheeks pancaking the cold tile of our master bathroom—or my master bathroom. No one has written a book on grief that successfully outlined when possession shifts to one person. Someone should write that book, it would establish clear guidelines for us grieving folks and answer vital questions such as:
Can you blame the deceased for your own living failure?
Are you allowed to use your plight to score with that cute co-ed suffering from abandonment issues?
Is using memories of sex with your now deceased spouse while masturbating an acceptable way of bridging the gap between raging hormones and the inability to start over with someone else?
You know…the important shit. I’ll stop there, though I need the answer to the last question the most because it makes me sound like some Ted Bundy/Bill Cosby hybrid.
Life wasn’t always like this, producing these thoughts and emotions. In fact, it used to be much more simple. I had a wife and children who I loved dearly. But now they’re gone, and I’m left alone with keepsakes left behind as a cruel reminder that the grass isn’t always greener on the other side. Let me explain.
When you get married, you let go of some of your dreams to take on those of your spouse. If you’re like me and can’t cook or balance a checkbook, it’s a swap that pays off. If you’re lucky, children come along and you become more concerned about their dreams and ambitions. Frustrations will arise from time to time, in which you’ll wish you could have the single life again. Because the ability to screw up and the repercussions only affect you. Like being able to spend money freely on shit that doesn’t matter, because you know your intestines can handle two weeks of Ramen until the next paycheck. While that feeling for most is fleeting, some—like my father—act on it and tear the family apart. I wasn’t him and my family was still torn apart. We’ll get there, but right now I’m running late.
After collecting myself, I stand in front of the mirror. The steam from the shower hangs heavy in the air, so thick that I can barely breathe. As I start to brush my teeth, my eyes stray to the other toothbrushes in the holder. One is Thomas the Train, it was my son Harry’s. It’s one of those electric ones, but never quite did the job.
“It tickles, Daddy,” he would say, closing his mouth and giggling a laugh of innocence that’s painful to think about. I’d turn it off, wipe the toothpaste from his mouth, and watch him run off to eat breakfast just so we could repeat the exercise before he left for daycare.
Next to his toothbrush is a small aqua device that could pass for a finger puppet. That was Grace’s. She was so young it would go on my finger, and I’d run it between her teeth before she got tired of it and would bite down on my finger.
“Daddy got a boo-boo,” she’d say, as if it was an accident of my own accord. Then she would take off down the hallway, making sure to run her fingers down the air vents to announce her presence to the next room.
I quickly grab some clothes from my closet and head to the living room to dress. Since they left, I haven’t been able to stay in our room without falling apart. It’s left just as it was the day they went away. The Cars Blu-ray we would use to distract the kids while we snuck away for some time to ourselves still sits on the TV stand.