IT WAS FRIDAY NIGHT AND I HAD BEEN STANDING ACROSS the street from my parent’s shack of a house for almost thirty minutes. It had been months since I had been back home, and I was still trying to convince myself that coming back was the right thing to do.
You’re the reason he’s not coming back! You’re the reason I’m all alone. I wish I had never found you! The sting of my mother’s toxic words still burned in my mind as I stared at the front door. How could she have said that to me? I wondered. Sure, she had had a few drinks that night, but that’s nothing to tell your son even if you are drunk. That’s nothing to tell someone you love.
Perhaps that was the reason I came back. Maybe I wanted to find out if I really was her son and most of all, if she really did love me.
SHE WAS ASLEEP ON THE COUCH WHEN I FINALLY ENTERED the front door. I was surprised at how clean the living room was. My mother was quite the neat freak, but my father was as filthy as she was neat and she could never keep the house very clean due to his presence canceling out hers. As I stood in the front room and peered around, I couldn’t find a single trace of his usual filth. The only thing out of place at the moment was the empty wine bottle lying on the floor beside the couch on which my mother slept.
She stirred a bit as I approached, but she still remained asleep. She looked cold as she lay in a somewhat fetal position in the corner of our ancient couch. I grabbed a blanket from the laundry room and gently placed it over her frail body.
A painful wash of despair came over me as I noticed the dried tears that stained the hardened skin on her cheeks. It was painful to even look at her. She was only 45 years old, but she could have easily gone for over sixty. I had seen pictures of her when she was much younger. She was so beautiful back then. So beautiful and so smart, but that was before she met him. Seeing the physically and mentally broken woman that lay before me made it hard to imagine that she had ever been as good looking as she once was. It was hard to imagine that she had ever been happy.
My father’s hold over her baffled me. I had seen younger pictures of him as well, and based solely on looks, she was completely out of his league. The more I thought about it, the more I realized that Monica was out of my league as well. Were we destined to repeat the same path as my parents?
My perpetual nightmare came to mind as I watched my mother sleep. I wondered if the hatred that I saw in Monica’s eyes within my dream represented the way that she would feel about me if I turned out to be just like my father. I knew the dream was more than just a meaningless nightmare. I knew that it was real. The same way Monica knew that her own recurring dream was more than just a random sequence of subconscious images.
In my heart of hearts I knew that it ultimately meant that at some point she would be placed in incredible danger. That realization should have compelled me to spend every waking second around her in order to protect her from whatever was coming, but my hatred of The Suspect was pulling me down the dark path of revenge. The only thing in the world at that point that could match the strength of my love for her, was my hatred for him.
“Phillip?” my mother murmured as she finally opened her eyes and squinted at me. She wasn’t calling for my brother. Phillip, Jr. was dead. We both knew that. She had obviously mistaken me for, Phillip, Sr. Her voice sounded so hopeful that it hurt. It was as if she would have burst into tears of joy had I actually been him.
“It’s me, Mother,” I whispered, ignoring the sting of her confusing me with my father.
“That’s right,” she said, slightly slurring her words as she attempted to stand, “You can’t be him because Phillip’s dead.” She lost her balance as she tried to take a step. I zoomed over and caught her before she had even fallen an inch.
“I’ve got you, Mom,” I said to her as she grew tense, still bracing herself for the fall.
I gently placed her back on the couch and sat beside her. She was still disoriented, but I could tell that she was starting to regain some of the awareness that was taken from her by the alcohol.
I couldn’t look her in the eyes. I knew that I still loved her, but after what she had said to me the night I left home, I didn’t feel like she deserved my love. I hoped that at some point the flicker of love that still remained within me would wither and die, leaving nothing behind but the hatred that I wanted to feel for her disowning me. The hate was definitely there. In all honesty, I hated her more than I loved her. I hated her for what she had done to me. I hated what she had done to herself, and most of all, I hated her for what happened to PJ. Despite the magnitude of my hate, the remnants of love that remained would not allow me to completely cast her away.
“Adam?” she asked as she peered at me through teary eyes.
“Yes, it's me, Mom,” I said as I fought back tears. I clinched my jaw and fought harder as tears began to race down her cheeks. I could never stand the sight of her crying. A few deep breaths allowed me to gain my composure.
“I'm sorry, Adam. I shouldn't have said those things,” she sobbed.
“It's okay, mom. I know you didn't mean it.” But it wasn't okay and something told me that she really did mean what she had said. She may have regretted it, but that doesn't change the fact that those feelings were there, buried deep within the bowels of her subconscious. Deep within the part of her mind that was only accessible by way of the bottle to which she clung to on that night. The one thing my father's insufferable brand of parenting taught me was that people often told you how they really felt once they were under the influence of alcohol.
“He's gone, Adam. You're all I have left,” she said, while fighting hard to maintain her consciousness.
“Who's gone, Mom?” I asked.
“Your father,” she whispered as her face twisted into a painful grimace and more tears poured from her eyes. A part of me was hoping she would say that, but I wished it didn't cause her so much pain.
“He'll come back, Mom. He always does.”
“No, he won’t. Not this time.” The look in her eyes said it all. I could tell that something big must have happened.
“What's wrong, Mom? What happened?”
“Your father, Adam; he's dead. They found his body at the bottom of Lake Victoria yesterday.” Every bit of the composure she had regained vanished and I pulled her into an embrace more out of obligation than out of solace. I couldn’t care less about his death. I only cared that it caused her such terrible anguish.
I didn't say a word as I tried to comfort her. I couldn't. Instead of remorse, all I felt was anger. Anger brought on by the fact that even in death, he was causing her great pain. When she finally drifted off to sleep, I placed the blanket over her and retreated to my old room upstairs. My plan was to grab a few hours of sleep and then head back to 3D.
As I approached my old bedroom door, somehow I knew that this would be the last night I ever spent in that house.
51. FROZEN SKY IV