That One Day (That One #1.5) (9 page)

Time flies, when you’re having fun. Isn’t that how the saying goes? And I’m having a ball. It’s Christmas morning and I’m getting ready to visit my father. I’ve been visiting him once a week for months now.

I haven’t learned anything new from him, however. It’s always the same thing. Whenever I bring up anything to do with my mother, their marriage, and its demise, he clams up and gets upset. Then he’ll look at me apologetically and say, “I’m sorry, Son. I can’t talk about it. It’s just too hard. It hurts too much.” And we’re back where we started.

Hell, it really seems to mess with him. Whatever went down between him and my mother must have been awful, and he hasn’t gotten over it. Even when I just mention her, his eyes fill with unshed tears, and his mouth sets in a firm line. He runs his hand through his hair repeatedly and frantically, like this is the only thing that keeps him from losing it. That’s when I know it’ll take him ten or fifteen minutes to get out of the haze he’s in. At least now he doesn’t get up and leave, disappearing into his room. But I’d be lying if I said it doesn’t bother me. Besides getting to know him, I wanted to find out what happened. I want the truth.

The visits are draining. A mental hospital isn’t a fun place. I look at the people there and wonder what kind of life that really is; locked up not only behind walls, but more often than not, locked in their own mind. Therefore, the weekly pattern is good for us. It gives him time to collect himself and gives me the right amount of distance.

Now that my visits are usually an hour or more, I sometimes can’t wait to get out of there. Even though we’re allowed to go outside to the garden, it’s a completely different feeling compared to actually going outside.

We talk a lot about his life as a kid and teenager. He tells me about his high school years, his mother, and his father who passed away when he was little. Other times, I tell him about my life, the things I’ve done, usually with Dave and Frankie in tow.

I tell him about college, the music I like, and the movies I enjoy. We chat about my truck and the work I’ve done on the house. And I share childhood memories with him, although they aren’t complete. I don’t mention Mom, and definitely not Ron, in my stories. It’s harder than I thought since he’s been a big part of my childhood.

When we don’t feel like talking, although mostly it’s Noah who doesn’t, we play chess. He’s trying to teach me and it seems to make him happy to be the one teaching me something I don’t know. So I let him do it, although it’s the single most boring game ever invented. It’s about as engaging as watching grass grow. Oh no, wait, the growing grass is actually quite exciting in comparison.
 

On the days I don’t visit him, I work on the house and the jobs Mike seems to magically get me. After I refurbished the bar counter, they had me work on the tables. The money was great and the job fun. Other jobs involved me repairing things for neighbors and friends of Mike’s. The biggest job so far was an order from Mr. Murphy for a custom-made desk complete with drawers. That was one hell of a challenge and made me neglect the house while I was working on it. But the end result was definitely one to be proud of, and the money wasn’t bad either.

Most evenings, I spend with Allie and Jake. They have definitely grown on me, even if they will never compare to Dave and Frankie. But they have turned out to be good friends and keep me from spending too much time with my best friend—the whiskey bottle.

Occasionally, Kylie joins us. At first it was awkward and there was some hostility after the almost kiss, but after a while she relaxed and actually stopped trying to flirt with me constantly. The Kylie who isn’t trying so hard is definitely a much nicer and sweeter girl and so much more fun to hang out with.

At times, Mike hangs out with us, although that’s been rare lately. He actually started getting friendly with one of the strippers he met during his post-yard sale celebration. Whatever floats his boat.

I’ve gotten better at quieting the memories, the thoughts, the questions, and the emotions that continue to haunt me. Mainly by keeping myself busy. Not getting answers sucks and my mind has a tendency to come up with every possible horror scenario. I want to know what happened between my parents. I need to understand what brought my father to the point he’s at now.

Since I’m supposed to spend Christmas dinner with Allie, Jake, Kylie, Mike, and Kitty the stripper, I head over to see my father in the morning. I’m not sure what he’s allowed to have and what not, and I don’t know him well enough to know what he would like. Having no idea what to buy, I ended up getting him new pajamas. Since that was a bit pathetic even for me, I made a wood frame for a picture collage. It’s dark wood and can hold multiple pictures. All the corners are rounded for safety reasons and there is obviously no glass cover. I put in some pictures of us together when I was a baby, as well as the few the nurses let me take of us over the past few months. There are also pictures of me growing up, obviously minus Mom or Ron.

When I follow the nurse to the big room, I feel like a seven-year-old boy who painted a picture for his dad at school. It’s fucking embarrassing. He’s already sitting on the couch, our usual place, and he has an embarrassed look on his face as well.

“Hi, Noah.” I sit down next to him, reaching over and placing the gifts between us. “Merry Christmas.”

He copies the motion, placing a small wrapped gift next to me. “Merry Christmas, Son.”

I wait for him to unwrap the first gift, the pajamas. He takes them out and they are somewhat old-fashioned, but it’s not like I know what he wears to bed.

He holds them up and looks at me, his mouth pulling up into a crooked smirk. “Pajamas?”

“Yeah, sorry. I wasn’t sure what you could get here.”

“No. They are great. There’s always use for them. I just suddenly feel thirty years older.” He starts to laugh, and I’m relieved he isn’t offended or insulted. “At least now I don’t have to feel bad about my gift.”

He points to the package, urging me to open it. “It’s your turn, Ben. Then I’ll open your second gift.”

I unwrap it carefully, pulling out a small canvas, maybe six by eight inches. The background is grey and has baby shoes and a rattle drawn on it. In the middle is a text and it takes me only two lines to know it’s the lyrics to “Father and Son” by Cat Stevens.

I rub the back of my hand over my eyes, wiping away the moisture. I feel like such a sissy, but this is the first time I feel like I really mean something to him, like it’s not just talk.

“I know it’s not much, Son—” he starts talking, but I interrupt him.

“No, this…it’s really great. Thank you.”

“You really like it?”

“Yeah, I love it.”

“Well, I used to sing you this song when you were little. You were so fussy and it was the only thing that seemed to calm you down. I could get dementia and this song would be etched into my brain as often as I sang it to you.”

It’s the first memory of us he shared with me and it nearly knocks the air out of my lungs.

“Thanks. I’m…this means a lot to me.”

He squeezes my shoulder before he turns to his gift. Opening it, he sees the pictures of the two of us, from back in the day and from now, as well as the many pictures of times he hasn’t had a chance to witness. I’m biting the inside of my cheek, wondering what his reaction will be, when he suddenly lets out a sob.

“God, I missed so much. I missed you growing up. This is killing me.”

I place my hand on his shoulder and say nothing. I’ve learned over the past few months it’s best to keep quiet when he gets emotional. I’m surprised though when it only takes him a few minutes to continue. His eyes shift to the side, his face marred by pain.

“Ben, I don’t want to talk bad about your mother.”

I know I won’t like what he’s going to tell me.

“I loved your mother. More than life itself. God, I worshipped her. I still do. What she did destroyed who I was, leaving behind a broken man.” He pauses, slightly shaking his head, and I barely dare to breathe so I don’t risk doing anything that could keep him from opening up.

“You were the one thing to complete us, to make us whole. But after a while, she was more and more distant. I chalked it up to post-partum depression, didn’t think much of it. Then she started going out, seemingly visiting friends or picking things up from the store, but she’d be gone for so long. It went on for weeks, months. One time I followed her and…and…” His voice breaks and he takes a ragged breath. I look up at him and see a hint of a sneer. It feels out of place, but just as quickly as it appeared, it’s gone. “She was there with this guy. He was hugging and kissing her. It tore me apart. I couldn’t believe what I saw. I thought we were happy. I thought she loved me. When she came home, I confronted her but she denied it, telling me he’s just a friend. I knew she was lying, but I didn’t want to lose her. I didn’t want to be without her. So I didn’t say anything. I tried harder, spending more time with the two of you, helping out around the house. I thought it was getting better. She seemed a bit happier. Then, about two months later, I came home from work and you, she, and all your things were gone. I looked for her, but couldn’t find her. A week later a letter came—an official letter from the court. It was about a hearing—termination of parental rights. Until then, I didn’t even know such a thing existed. The things she said in her appeal—they were horrible lies. She said I was abusive, that I tried to hurt you.” He clenches his fists before he continues. “It broke me. By then, I was already so depressed about her betrayal, her leaving, and taking you from me her lawyers easily took me apart. I didn’t even get to see you one last time. Didn’t even get to say goodbye.” He’s crying now, sobs shaking his frame. “I should’ve fought harder for you. Should have exposed her lies. I was too weak. I’m so sorry, Son. Can you please forgive me?”

Tears are running down my face while my hands are clenching and unclenching at my side. I’m hurting, and I’m livid. I can’t believe what I’m hearing. I don’t want to believe it. But the broken man before me—I don’t think he has it in him to lie.

“It’s not your fault, Dad.” It’s the first time I call him that and it feels right. For the first time, I didn’t even have to think about it. “It’s not your fault.” I place my arm across his shoulders and draw him closer, hugging him, knowing my mother’s betrayal has destroyed both of our lives.

I thought my world fell apart with one letter. But it turns out it fell apart that one day when my mother decided to be a lying, cheating whore.

We spend the rest of the visit singing Christmas carols with other patients and visitors, both of us thankful for the reprieve from the mental turmoil. All the while I keep stealing glances at my father, at the man he is today. I can’t help but wonder if this is my future, too. What if his illness isn’t just caused by the trauma of losing my mom and me? What if it’s something that always has been there, just waiting for the right trigger? The thought shakes me to the core as I think of the possibility of ending up like him, in a place like St. Michael’s.

I leave the hospital two hours later. I thought I was at my worst when I got the letter, but I was wrong. There is a voice inside my head trying to make me believe this is not the truth. It can’t be. But my mother lied to me for years, so it doesn’t seem impossible.

Actually, it seems quite likely. I need to let go of this stupid hope I keep clinging to. I need to face the truth, no matter how painful. And the truth is my mother is a heartless bitch.

I pull up into my driveway and for just a moment, I consider not going over for Christmas dinner. There is nothing merry about my Christmas and I don’t want to spoil anyone else’s mood.

But if I’m alone I’ll only end up drinking, and I don’t want to let it get out of hand. Not after the talk I had with Mike a few days ago, when he addressed my close relationship with the whiskey bottle. Apparently it has come to his attention—he wouldn’t tell me how but I guessed it was a little bird named Allie—that there’s always a whiskey bottle in my house and more often than not, I tend to nurse my emotional wounds with it.

He told me his story, and I’d be lying if I said it didn’t scare me. He also thought he had it under control, until he hadn’t. When he finished, he stared me in the eye. “Ben, when you feel like you need that drink, come over. Talk. Or just sit in my living room. Don’t go down the same road I did.”

Therefore, instead of spending Christmas by myself and getting drunk, I decide to do what he asked and go over there.

I’m greeted by Allie and quickly ushered inside where the rest of them are already waiting.

“You all right?” Mike asks with his arm over Kitty’s shoulder.

“No. But it’s okay,” I reply, sitting down and trying to look forward to an evening with good food and friends. It actually turns out to be a great evening. We eat, we talk, and we end up playing board games, which is surprisingly fun since Jake is a sore loser and Kitty a con artist who cheats at every opportunity. For just a moment, I think everything might be all right. Then I remember this is my life we’re talking about.

I visit my dad on the morning of New Year’s Eve. It’s the first time since he told me the truth about my mom and him. It’s still warm outside, even at the end of December, so we take a walk through the garden.

“How are you doing, Ben? After last week?”

I think for a moment, unsure how to answer. I don’t want to worry him or make him feel guilty. His state of mind is frail enough as is.

“I’m shocked. Hurt. But, I’m glad I know the truth. It’s better than not knowing, you know?”

“Yeah, I suppose I do.” He nods absentmindedly, his eyes fixated on something a few feet away from us. I turn to look and find he’s watching a ground squirrel, looking for food.

“It’s because of her that you’re in here, isn’t it?” I already figured out that much, but I’d like to hear it from him.

He looks away and lets out a sigh. There is nothing but silence as he avoids looking at me, shaking his head occasionally. He runs his hands through his hair—just the way I do when I’m at a loss. After another deep sigh, he starts talking in a quiet, shaky voice. “Losing her—losing you—broke me. I couldn’t cope. I know it must seem weak. I just couldn’t get out of bed anymore. I barely ate and every single day I thought about how worthless my existence was. I lost my job, the house. Your grandmother finally had enough. She was worried about me. So she arranged an appointment with a psychiatrist and he admitted me to a hospital. Not this one at first. While I was in there, I started to get better. I had setbacks, but it seemed like I was on the mend. But, as soon as I was out again and realized I was all alone, it just started again. I’ve spent most of my time after your mother left in these types of institutions, Son. Sorry.”

“Dad, look at me,” I urge him, as he’s still not facing me. It takes him a moment to look into my eyes, and when he does, I want to grab his shoulders and shake him because there is shame written all over his face.

“It’s not your fault. None of this is, Dad. There is only one person to blame. And that person isn’t you.”

“I didn’t want to ruin your relationship with your mom, Ben.”

“You didn’t. She lied to me all my life. There is no relationship to speak of. I’m done with her. I’m not planning to ever see her again.” Saying those words hurts. One parent is a liar; the other will probably never leave this hospital. I basically have no parents.

There is a fleeting glint of satisfaction in my dad's eyes, but when I blink it's gone and replaced by sympathy and understanding.

“You know, you don’t have to do this for me. I’d never ask you to.”

I pat his shoulder. “I know. But I couldn’t be in the same room with her even if I tried. Not after what she did.”

There is a moment of silence before his face breaks into a mischievous smile that makes me wonder what caused the sudden shift in moods.

“And, Son, is there a special woman in your life?” I’m surprised. He never really asked about it before and I didn’t volunteer any information.

“No. Yes. I don’t know.” I shrug, unsure how to answer that. Do I really want to tell my dad about Frankie? It’s not like he can give me much advice considering he’s been institutionalized nearly as long as I’ve been alive.

He doesn’t seem to expect an explanation. Instead he starts laughing.

“Yeah, they are confusing creatures. Women will drive you crazy.” He laughs at his own joke, but I don’t find anything funny about this fucked-up situation.

Deciding to ignore his outburst, I take a deep breath. I figure I might as well share.

“There is a girl, but I really messed up. I doubt she wants to ever see me again unless it’s to dance on my grave.”

“You think she likes you?”

Thinking back to our night together and remembering her words, I have no doubts about it.

“She definitely did. I doubt that’s still the case, though. I can’t even blame her.”

“If she liked you then, she probably still does. Look at me, despite everything your mother has done, I still love her. If she ever asked, I would forgive her. I think you still have a chance to make things right.”

I’m unsure if I should put any value into his advice. It does, however, manage to make me feel a bit better. Hell, if he could forgive my mom, I’m sure Frankie can forgive me. But that depends on going back. That’s not something I have given much thought so far.

“Thanks, Dad.”

“No problem.”

Back home, I just hang around on the couch, having a few hours before Allie, Kylie, and Jake come over for a New Year’s Eve party. Well, if you can call the four of us hanging out at my house a party.

After talking to my dad about Frankie, I’m curious as to what she’s doing now, how she’s doing, and if she’s doing anyone. God, I hope not.

On a whim, I make a new Facebook account using my dad’s last name. Then I go on to find her, but her account is still set to private so I don’t see anything other than the same photo she had back in May. It’s not much different with Dave’s profile, although he seems to be in Florida now, and judging by the two blond chicks on his arms, he seems to be enjoying himself.

Hmmm, my curiosity is still not satisfied, so I look for Drake’s profile, wondering if she might still be in touch with him. From the look of his page, it’s his birthday today. I scroll down for a while until I see her picture. So they still talk. Well, isn’t that fantastic. When I read her message, I nearly crush the mouse in my hand.

Happy birthday to the best and baddest there was, is, and ever will be.

Best and baddest? Seriously? Best at what? I knew I hated that guy for a reason. When she first started dating him, unknown to her parents of course, I wanted to run him and his stupid bike over. All the times when Dave and I saw him climb out of her window in the morning when going for a run, both of us pondered where the best place would be to bury his body.

I guess they didn’t stop talking when she went off to college. Who knows, maybe she even went to see him the weekend she was in Michigan. The weekend she told me she loved me.

I slam the laptop shut, groaning when I hear a crack and open it back up to see the screen is broken. At least it’s New Year’s Eve and I can get drunk.

***

It’s around nine when Allie, Jake, and Kylie show up. Kylie looks sexy as hell in a short, glittery dress that shows off her long legs emphasized by heels that should be illegal. A picture of Frankie and Drake flashes through my mind and that’s all the encouragement I need. I walk over to her, pulling her into a hug.

“You look hot, Kylie.”

She pulls her head back to look at me, her eyebrows pulled up, and she’s biting her lip. She seems surprised. I guess that’s to be expected, since we’ve been strictly buddies so far.

“Thank you, Ben.” She doesn’t say anything more, but slings her arm around my waist, when we walk into the living room. At least the downstairs is finished now—the kitchen, living room, and dining room look modern and cool. The upstairs is a whole different thing.

We decide to watch a few movies, mostly comedies. According to Allie, it’s the way to start the New Year in a good mood.

Kylie sits next to me on the couch, while Jake and Allie are snuggled up on the arm chair. The steady supply of drinks is making me carefree, and so I place my arm around Kylie, drawing her closer. Her breath hitches, but she relaxes into me, placing her hand on my stomach, precariously close to the waistband of my jeans.

By the time midnight strikes, I’ve had a few drinks too many. Two or twenty, I don’t know—it doesn’t really make a difference. I have a nice enough buzz going and it seems to help with stopping all the feelings and thoughts. I want to forget everything—my mom’s lies, my dad’s mental health, and most of all, I want to forget Frankie and Drake.

Why not accept the help of a hot girl who’s been eager to get in my pants since we’ve met.

When the clock strikes midnight, I throw all caution to the wind and kiss Kylie. I draw her close and press my lips against hers. It doesn’t even take any coaxing for her to open up to my tongue, and it’s not until Jake clears his throat that I stop the kiss.

“Umm…Allie and I will go home now. We want to ring in the New Year in private.” He grins while Allie blushes. She quickly hugs Kylie and me, wishing us a Happy New Year before they both take off, leaving only the two of us behind.

“Where were we?” Kylie smiles at me before grabbing my shirt and pulling me with her to the couch, pushing me down on the seat. She straddles my lap and starts kissing me. I kiss her back, ignoring the hollow feeling in my chest and the nagging thought in the back of my mind. The thought that's telling me this isn't right. That it isn’t enough.

I'm haunted by a past full of lies, and I'm haunted by the memory of a woman who will never be mine.

I know it’s wrong but I don’t care. I’m done questioning things. I want to stop worrying and just enjoy the moment.

It gets easier when Kylie drops to her knees in front of me, unzipping my jeans and pulling them down along with my boxer briefs, freeing my cock in the process. He seems to like the attention he’s getting. I hiss, my muscles tightening when she closes her hand around the shaft of my now hard cock and starts stroking with a slow, strong grip. I thrust my hips to meet her movements. It’s all the encouragement she needs. The strokes of her hand become more determined and faster. I can see her licking her lips through my half-closed eyes.

When her lips touch the head of my cock, I decide to stop thinking and to just go with it. I moan loudly when she suddenly stops and jerks back. “What did you call me?”

I'm confused for a second before I realize the mistake I made. Apparently, my mind wasn't on board with the direction my cock was going.

“I didn't say anything.” I lie despite knowing full well what I said.

“You just called me Frankie. What the fuck?”

“I…listen…forget what I said.” I try to pacify her, but she's not having any of it. Huffing, she dives for her dress. She must’ve discarded it at some point and starts pulling it on—her irritation palpable. Her back is ramrod straight, her movements jerky as she yanks her dress on.

“This was supposed to be just a nice fuck, but that doesn't mean I have no pride. You're hung up on some Frankie guy and that's fine by me. Just come out of the closet and stop picking up women you aren't interested in. Maybe you wouldn’t be such a miserable ass then.”

“No, Frankie is not a…” I don't get to finish the sentence before she’s out the door, her high heels in her hands. She slams it shut, muttering profanities loud enough for me to still hear it even with the door closed.

I drop back onto the couch with a groan, running my hands through my hair before packing my junk back into my jeans. Not like my cock is interested in a party anymore.

Of course I’d say Frankie's name. Why wouldn’t I?

Happy New Year to me.