To See You Again (25 page)

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I wake up around seven-thirty and sit up slowly. I
can feel my fever is gone and my body has started to heal. Events from last
night flood my brain and I search around the room to see if Collin is asleep in
a chair or on the floor. I pad out to the living room and see the folding tray
leaning against the couch with a note taped to it.

Rachel,

I hope you're feeling infinitely better this
morning. I had to go, but I left some things behind for you. There's chicken
soup in the fridge, crackers by the sink, and some unopened Gatorade. Do you
still like the green kind? The ginger candies are by the coffee maker – they'll
help with the nausea, so you may want to have one before you attempt solid food
today.

Vanessa stopped by while you were asleep last
night and also left some soup for you. She was very concerned about you and was
worried she had made you sick. Please call her.

Thanks for letting me take care of you. Call if
you need ANYTHING.

Collin

"Thanks for letting me take care of you." I reread
that line twice before carefully folding the note. He knows me so well. If I'd
had just an ounce more of strength last night I would've fought him at every
turn and ushered him out the door as soon as I could. My heart flutters, and I
search for my phone to send him a thank-you-text. When I find it, I see I
already have a missed call from Tim. Lord help me, it's time to face the music.
I glance at the clock and decide to call him back in five minutes or so, after
I try to drink and maybe eat something. That conversation will need all the
strength I can muster. In the meantime, I send a text to Collin.

Me: I don't know how to thank you. I'm feeling a
lot better this morning. I hope you got some sleep! I will give you a call
later this week.

He responds moments later.

Collin: It was my pleasure. Talk to you soon.

Before Leighton freaked out on me, the plan was
for her to come with me to see my Mom today, but I still haven't heard from
her. I guess
I
was supposed to call
her
, but I'm afraid I don't
have the answers she wants to hear. I'm feeling hopeful about Rachel in a way I've
never dreamed I would, and I'm determined to see it through to whatever end may
come. We texted the morning after she was sick and I was relieved to discover
that she woke up feeling better not only health-wise, but about us, too. I left
just before six in the morning, while she was still sound asleep, so I had time
to shower and get to work. I hardly slept, but it was completely worth it.

I feel thoughts of both Rachel and Leighton fade
away as I pull into the long driveway leading to my mother's house. The fact my
mom is dying is a sobering reality that manages to dwarf everything else in my
life, no matter how significant it felt moments ago. I park in the rear of the
house, take a deep breath, and let myself in.

"Hey, Mom." Her eyes flutter open, close, and then
open again slowly. A small smile rises on her face and I can see the effort it
takes just to work the few muscles that control her expressions. I don't think
there's anything that really prepares you for watching someone you love become sick
and frail. I saw my dad the night before he died when he kissed me and tucked
me into bed. His death was so sudden; there was no painful metamorphosis. Not
like this.

"Collin." Her voice is scratchy and weak. It's
been this way for so long now that I struggle at times to recall what it used
to sound like. I reach for her water and bring the straw to her lips. She
drinks appreciatively and then pats the bed beside her. I move to sit, careful
of her tiny legs, and place the water back down on her nightstand. "I'm glad
you're here." She looks more alert.

"Me, too," I whisper, holding her hand in my own.
"How's today?"

She sits up slightly. A cloud of pillows cradle
her delicate head, which is wrapped in a colorful silk scarf, a gift from Reba.
She attempts to clear her throat and it sounds marginally better as she says, "Today
is today, and I'm still here. I want to talk about you, though. What's this I
hear about you and Raven talking again, dear?"

I lean back, surprised at her knowledge of this.
"Reba?" I question. She nods in confirmation. "She goes by Rachel, now, Mom.
We're talking a little. I don't know. Why does it matter?" I run my hands
through my hair.

She gives me a knowing look. "Don't make a dying
woman explain the obvious, Collin."

I smirk at her and squeeze her delicate hand
gently. Her skin is soft and smooth, but thin, as though it could hardly be enough
protection for the fragile bones within it. I would've given anything in
childhood to be close to her like this. Part of me can't contain the pangs of
anger I feel toward her for waiting this long, but I know I'd be fool to toss
it away now.

"I get it. I get it. Not going to talk to your old
mother about girls. Well, have it your way, but for the record, she's lovely,
Collin. I've always thought so."

 I nod and smile. She is lovely, but she's
certainly not mine, even if my mother thinks she can will it so. There's no
mention of Leighton and so I'm guessing Reba reported on that, too. I'm a
little surprised Mom isn't more concerned about troubled waters with her. Those
two have always gotten along. You wouldn't believe the mileage they got out of
conversations about Prada and Gucci.

Mom gazes at me, hoping I'll talk on either
subject, I think, but nothing comes. I wish I could share something with her
that would make her proud of me, and prove to her I'm not the emotional cripple
everyone's worried I am. I weigh telling her about taking care of Rachel when
she had the flu, but before I can get any words out she says, "I have something
for you. It comes with an apology, I'm afraid."

"Why's that?" I feel my heart accelerate; this
isn't like her at all. What in the hell could she be talking about? Part of
what has made things work between us these past few years is how little we've
talked about issues that matter.

She doesn't answer me, but her smile fades away.
She points toward her dresser. "In the top drawer there is a long, white box
with a rose printed on top. Bring it to me."

I cross the room silently and retrieve the box
from her tall, ancient dresser. I slide the wooden drawer back into place and
it creaks ominously. My stomach begins to churn in response. Returning to her
bed, I set it down between us.

"Open it up, Collin." She gestures for me to lift
the lid.

I carefully remove the top and inside it's nearly
filled to the brim with folded papers on yellow legal paper.
What is this?
"Mom?" Tears form in her eyes and I feel so lost. "What's going on?"

"Collin, these belonged to your father. Some of
them are things he wrote down in his journals; others were notes, sort of. He put
them all together in this book-like thing. There are also letters addressed to
you that he'd been compiling for some time before he died." She runs her finger
around the edge of the box. "It was all for you. Listen, I know I should've
given these to you years ago. The truth is…I was afraid." She pauses and I'm in
agony trying to listen to every word. I feel like I've been sucker-punched.  "I
didn't want you to get stuck. I wanted you to be able to move on."

I stare at her for a long minute—speechless. I look
back down at the box and the bright yellow papers within it. I always wanted
more. There
was
more and she kept it from me! I must've asked her a
hundred times for anything Dad left behind, and her answer was always ‘no'.

When Dad died I remember the removal of his things
from our home being swift and abrupt. His parent's health had been poor my
entire life and their decline after my dad's passing was rapid. Visits with my
grandparents on his side were infrequent to begin with, and after his death I
maybe saw each of them a handful of times before their respective funerals. On
one of those rare visits, I asked my grandma for something of Dad's, and she
told me gently but firmly, that it was up to my mommy. As young as I was then,
I knew what that meant. Everyone wanted to forget—everyone but me.

"I don't understand, Mom. When did he write all this?
Was he sick, then? Is that why you didn't want me to see?" My voice breaks. I'm
struggling not to cry but the withholding makes me feel as though I'm being strangled.
She reaches for me, but I stand up, backing away from her. "So, he planned it?
These papers, or whatever? His death?" Mom doesn't answer me; instead she just
looks at the box and then her hands. I'd always thought his suicide had been an
impulse. The idea of his leaving me being premeditated…I just…I just can't. All
of this—this bomb she's dropped on me, so many years later…I can't handle it. I
feel as though everything I've worked so hard to accept and contain is coming
unraveled all at once. Honestly, I'm not sure which parent I feel more betrayed
by. There's only one left, though, and I feel all of my anger shift to her.

She reaches again for me. "I don't know what he
was thinking. You can't go there, honey. He wasn't well. Collin—"

"Mom, you knew I wanted more. I would've done
anything
for more from him and you lied to me! Over and over again, that's what you've
done!"

I think I'm going to be sick. I dry heave and
cover my mouth. My mother looks on—horrified. She's can't handle emotional
displays of any kind, especially not from me, and as far as we've come together
these last few years, I know she'll do anything to stop me from expressing what
I'm feeling now. 

"You had to move on.
We
had to move on. I
didn't want you to be stuck," she insists, her tiny voice coming out more
forcefully. I hear her strain to get the words out and notice she looks paler
suddenly. This stress isn't good for her. I'm torn between my worry for her
health and the mix of rage and fear sweeping through my body, but my anger wins.

"What the hell does that mean, Mom? What the
hell?" As the first word leaves my lips tears pour down my face. I've lost it. "I
was a goddamn kid! You can't just move on when a parent dies. It doesn't work
that way! Do you have any clue how
stuck
I've been? Keeping him from me
didn't prevent any of that. It just made everything worse." I clutch my hand to
my chest in response to the sharp, searing pain I'm feeling.

"Collin, please. I know I have been far from a
perfect mother. I wasn't a perfect wife, either, but you have to know that just
because I didn't know
how
to love you and your dad in the right way,
doesn't mean I didn't love you. That's why I kept this from you. I was trying
to protect you."

Is she fucking kidding?
"You were trying to protect me?" She nods. "You
can't be serious, Mom." She sits up slightly in her bed, and I can tell doing
so causes her more pain, but I can't even begin to focus on her now, I'm so
filled with rage. "So, let me get this straight. Your version of protecting me
was to rob me of the last bit of anything I had from my father and then force
me to put up with whatever shit that maniacal psycho you married did to me?" My
voice is low and quiet but thick with menace. I can't help it. "He hated me,
Mom! He made my life hell while you did nothing!"

"Collin!" she cries out. I can't decide if her
desperation is because she knows I'm right or if it's because I'm acting
out—making a scene, as she would say. She reaches for me again. I stand my
ground a few feet away. For once I'm not going to let my guilt and worry for
her override everything else that I'm feeling. I wipe my face with my shirt and
focus on my breathing, trying to regain control.  

She gives up reaching for me and says, "You don't
understand what it was like for me back then. I was terrified to raise you on
my own. I couldn't do it. I know Victor wasn't perfect, but he provided a life
for us, a life I never could've afforded for you on my own. You know, living
with your father was far from perfect. I think sometimes you were too little to
see that. He gave love away freely and easily, but that didn't mean he was
always easy to love in return." She pauses, I think maybe waiting for me to say
something, but I can't. "His problems, Collin, they had a way of hurting
everyone. I didn't want anything in that box to hurt you more than you'd
already been."

"But whatever hurt Victor inflicted, that was just
fine with you?" I shoot back.

She closes her eyes and recites the mantra from my
childhood. "He wanted to push you to be your best, Collin. He could see how
brilliant you were, how capable. He wanted to encourage you to succeed." That
was always her rose-colored version of his bullshit.

I narrow my eyes at her. Could she really believe
that bullshit? I say nothing in return. There's no point. Memories from my childhood,
my dad and Victor's abuse, come flooding back like a tidal wave, and it's all
too much to handle. I sink to the floor and put my head between my knees and
just try to breathe. After a moment, I can feel her eyes on me. She's waiting,
but I'm not going to speak.

Her voice interrupts the angry pounding of my
heartbeat; and though hushed and raspy, I can discern every word. "I blamed
myself for years for what happened to him, and my guilt made it too painful for
me to face what he'd left behind."

I place my palms on my temples on either side of
my head, press hard, and let out a loud groan. "Ugh! Just say what you actually
mean, Mom, not
what
he left behind, but
who
!" My voice echoes
throughout the room bouncing off the wooden floors and furniture. I pound my
fists on the floor in frustration. I'm loud as hell, tantruming like a child,
but I just don't give a shit. I can count on one hand the number of times I've even
so much as raised my voice to my mother. I've never shouted at her, not like
this. The hospice nurse, Lucille, comes rushing in. She looks panicked and
shocked when she sees me on the floor. I offer no explanation and instead wave
her off. She tentatively backs out of the room, but I strongly suspect she's
hovering just outside the door. I know if I yell again she'll kick me out. She
likes me, but she won't put up with me stressing my mom out like this much
longer.

A long silence expands between us. She doesn't
deny my accusation. I've implied as much before in my own passive aggressive
way, but this is the first time I've outright said what I've felt for almost my
entire life. I look up at her. She's staring at me, and I stare right back,
feeling like someone is sitting on my chest. I fight through the pain, and then
she closes her eyes, ending our standoff.

Time passes, I don't know how much, and then she whispers,
"Collin, come here. Please." It takes everything I have to stand and walk
toward her. "I don't know how much you remember, but there were times when he
didn't make a lot of sense to the rest of us. I don't know." She sighs. "Maybe
you will find more meaning than I did, but I just don't want you to be too let
down."

Of course, no real apology, just more
excuses—that's my mother. "It's too late for that, Mom."