“Who’s him?”
At that, I sink. I just want to say “Forgheddaboudit!” and run away and never return, leaving my stupidity behind. Despite not saying anything stupid, I feel idiotic for thinking it mattered I tell her what he did after all this time. It doesn’t really matter now, anyway.
“No one. Just one of your boyfriends.” I sit up. As I tuck my knees up to stand, I hear her voice.
“Chester?”
“God, no!”
I probably should have kept that thought to myself. Habits die hard.
“Phew. He was a great husband, and still is a good father to Seth and Tristan when he has time to see them.”
“I agree.”
“Anyway, who did I like so much?”
I gulp and paste on a smile to mask my shame. She really loved him. He did nothing wrong to her, I think. I blink and stick my finger in the corner of my eye to buy me time while I pretend to scoop out dirt.
That moment’s break from the intensity of staring at Mum makes a voice ask me. Ask me do I realise how screwed up that sounds? He did things to me I can’t think about. Of course he hurt her, by hurting me. Even now, I know I’m safe because the memories are tucked away in that compartment I don’t remember too well. In my nightmares? Holy shit, yeah, I remember there.
Okay, I think in a geed up voice, spurring me on like a sports coach, you can do this.
Spill it. Spill!
“Another boyfriend,” I mutter.
“Hey, baby,” Mum says.
Her hand touches my shoulder and before I can shrug her off she draws me to her, enveloping me in a hug that turns me into a scared kid again. She may have been high a bit then too, but as a kid I screamed for attention from her.
What worries me is that when I stopped trying to get love from her, I craved boys. Kissing, touching, fucking. That feeling of forgetting everything but the euphoric high I could only get when a hot guy with no real brains, was mine for just that moment.
“Can I ask you something?”
I nod, don’t speak.
“Did you want me to marry one of them? Back when you were a kid? I know Chester didn’t last but maybe if I settled earlier, I could have formed a life with someone when I was still young, given you brothers or sisters who were closer to your age. If I had to pick, I know which boyfriend I would have said yes to.”
“Fuck, Mary,” I cry out. I push back from her arms. Overcome by rage, my vision is rocking for some reason and it feels like the ends of hammers are knocking at the sides of my temples. Could I explode from anger? Now, I could see it escalating until it was possible. “Why the fuck is it always back to him?”
Mum is taken aback. Her fingers come up to touch her chest, her face frozen in shock. So, so quietly, she whispers, “I didn’t even say his name.”
“You didn’t have to.” I crawl back and step off the bed. “You never have to. I swear to God you see fucking rays of sunshine radiating out of every orifice of that idiot. Even his fucking asshole. It’s like he’s made of fucking sunshine.”
Hating my outburst, I walk to the closet and back. I realise I’m pacing. It’s too late to just stand here like a stricken idiot, though, so I shake my head, grinding my teeth and expelling pent up air through my nostrils. I stop at the closet again, feel depleted and relieve my neck of the pressure, letting the top of my head rest against the door.
“He was an asshole to you, wasn’t he? God, was I that dumb I didn’t see him picking on you?” In a surer, lower tone, she adds, “He offered you weed or something, didn’t he?”
I turn and focus on keeping my hands unclenched, although the rage within me begs to smash something. Glaring at her, I reply, “No, Mary. He was a fucking saint. He was cleaner around me than you were. He packed my lunchboxes. He even tucked me into bed.”
My eyes go wide. I just blew it. She picked up on that intone for sure. My chin trembles. I don’t trust my voice to sound still enough to cover my tracks; instead, like the guilty victim I am, I bite my lip and look away.
I don’t think I can do anything other than stand in this spot and hope to become invisible. No matter if Mum tried to console me. Even if I sensed movement, saw her feet come into view first, felt her put her arms around me, and trapped me stiffly against her.
“Would you tell me the truth?”
Good question. When she came and sat on that bed, I felt power release through me, like how an orgasm touches every fibre of your being, except this was with happiness instead of sexual release. Then, I was so sure I could finally tell her. Her sober. Me wanting to work on my issues. Us together, alone.
What a fucking fool I am. Someone could hold a knife to my throat and demand the answer and I’d still stand mute. Those words are so dirty, so full of shame I absolutely cannot even mouth them.