Some nights I wonder if he ever cared about us. Why wasn’t Mom enough … or us?
“I set my alarm clock to make sure I caught you before you headed to bed,” she answers. “I was hoping you wouldn’t be at work at ten o’clock on a Friday. Shouldn’t you be out on a date or at least with your friends? You have those, right?”
I can’t help but chuckle. “I’m not a hermit, Mom.”
Telling her that my friends are spending their weekend with their families will give her another excuse to set me up on another not so blind date.
“We weren’t the best example,” she continues.
“What’s that?” I ask, confused.
“Your dad with his string of mistresses and girlfriends, and I … well, it wasn’t that I was alone. I dated after the divorce, just no one was good enough to introduce to you and Carter,” she explains. “Still, I tried to find love, you know—it didn’t happen until Lars. He makes me happy. You should try searching for the person you can spend the rest of your life with. It’s fun.”
“Sounds exhausting,” I say.
“Not if you do it right. At least I hope you’re having sex, Hayes.”
“And we’re getting too personal,” I complain.
“Sexual activity is important for a man your age,” she insists. “You have to get out there and at least have fun with the women you meet.”
Is she for real? I’m not sure if this is a European thing, or if she just doesn’t care about the lines she’s crossing. Mothers shouldn’t be meddling in their children dating lives—or their sexual lives either.
“Yeah, I promise to go out more often,” I say, instead of telling her that I don’t have time to waste on dates that won’t lead to anything else than an emotionless fuck.
She said it, I’m thirty-five. Too old to be fucking around.
“In the meantime, why don’t you reach out to your brothers?”
My mother asking me about my father’s bastards confuses me.
“Look, we might share the same DNA from William’s side, but we are strangers,” I remind her. “You’re the one who tried to force us to become a family.”
“Because you guys are brothers.”
I don’t get why mom keeps pushing this relationship. When your partner cheats and you find out they have other offspring, you don’t try to create a family. Do you?
It might’ve been her upbringing. She was born in Mexico City, the youngest of five. They still get together to celebrate my grandparents’ birthdays, their anniversary, and everything in between. They’re close, even when they don’t all live in the city.
“At one time, the seven of you were close. Until…” her voice lowers.
Until Carter, my baby brother, died. She doesn’t finish, and I don’t say it out loud either. It’s been twelve long years since we lost him. There’s a picture of him on my bookcase. His senior portrait. There are a few more of all the Aldridge brothers. Henry, the oldest, Pierce, Mills, Carter, Vance, and Beacon.
I touch the one with Carter and his best friend, Blaire.
My Blaire.
My stardust.
My best everything.
I trace her fine features with my finger. She’s not petite, but at five foot four, she’s almost a foot shorter than me. In this picture, she looks fragile, but she’s so fucking strong. Her big ice blue eyes stare back at me with so much love. Those were the last days we spent together. It was right before I left for Baltimore.
Before we … before it was over.
Knives carve my insides. The loss of what we had, what we dreamt. A thousand wishes lost forever. I rub my chest, missing my heart. It’s been gone for years. Twelve years to be exact.
Every time I have to amputate a limb from one of my patients, I explain about the phantom pains they may have. Their arm might not be there, but for some unknown reason, the twinges, the hurt still happens—and it’s normal after the loss of a part of the body.
They might not think I understand them, but I do. I feel those twinges daily, ever since I removed her from my life, and she took my heart with her. This picture isn’t the only one I have of her, but it’s the only one I allow myself to see.
Everything I have of hers is in a box, locked, because I can’t seem to be able to forget her. In the past couple of years, I’ve been tempted to look for her. I went as far as calling her old number, but it’s no longer hers. I turn the portrait around, because, today, the reality of not having her hurts too deep to withstand.
Walking to the floor-to-ceiling window, I stare at the dark horizon. The lights illuminate the city, even the bay. There’s not one star in the sky, but I know they are there. Just like I know my past still exists, and she is somewhere in the country or the world. At least that’s what I hope.
Blaire Wilson stole my heart the day we met, and her memory makes it impossible to fall in love with anyone. Perhaps it is the fact that I can’t stop loving her.
“Give Dorothy a chance,” Mom insists.
It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell her the name isn’t appealing. It just makes me want to ask where Toto is and whether or not she’ll be asking me to join her on the search for the Wizard? I refrain, or she’ll lecture me for not taking her seriously.
“Mom, I like my life the way it is,” I explain, as calmly as I can. Ignoring the memories that unleash each time I see Blaire’s picture.
Maybe that’s why I have it there, to punish myself for losing the best thing that ever happened to me. I fell to pieces after what I did to us, but when she chose him I … it still hurts like hell to think about it.
“My work is too demanding to think about having a family,” I explain trying not to sound ungrateful. Mom doesn’t like to talk about the past, Carter’s last days, and bringing up Blaire … well that’s just opening Pandora’s box. “But if I change my mind, I’ll find the right person on my own.”
Maybe when I learn to stop loving Blaire.
She chuckles. “There go my hopes of having grandchildren.”
Her statement makes my heart ache because, twelve years ago, I was scared when Blaire said, ‘I missed my period.’ Today, I yearn to have her back, to have the family we always wanted. The future we planned. What I would give to repeat the last few months we spent together.
Now if she told me “I think I’m pregnant,” I’d hug her and twirl her around, telling her how much I love her.
I close my eyes, pain burning me all the way to my bones. When I open them, I look again to the dark sky and touch the window, trying to reach for the stars. Wanting to make a wish, to see her one more time.
“It’s Saturday on your side of the world,” I say, trying to move the conversation forward. “Shouldn’t you be getting ready to enjoy the weekend with your husband. He has grandchildren. I’m sure he can share one or two with you.”
“I see that I’m not getting anywhere with this,” she says, with a resigned tone. “I just want you to be happy.”
“Love you, Mom.”
“Love you, too, dear.”
After I hang up, a notification pops on my screen, indicating I have a new voicemail. I’m tempted to leave it for tomorrow, but I don’t, since it could be an emergency.