We All Fall Down

Chapter 10

John

Present Day

I peeked through the 2-inch crack in the door to watch her. Even at the tender age of five, I understood that her room was forbidden. I needed something, but immediately forgot what it was when I saw her. My mother. A beautiful mystery. I loved the smell of her long blonde hair, like warm cake just out of the oven; which is ironic considering she never baked a day in her life. She had piercing green eyes that somehow felt like she could see into my soul, yet not see me at all. When she entered a room, people would always stop and stare. It was something my father both adored and loathed her for.

When she wasn't having one of her episodes, it was like observing a butterfly fluttering delicately from flower to flower. When she was, it was more like watching a wrecking ball swinging through a glass room. We never knew which version we were going to get.

This day was no different, yet it was.

She didn't know I was standing there so I kept quiet, holding my breath not to ruin the moment. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, until I watched my father come into view. His back was to me, so I could not see his expression but it was a surprise because he, too, was not allowed in her room. My heart pounded in my chest, alerting me. I should have walked away, this was adult business. But I so rarely had the opportunity to watch my parents interact for more than a few passing moments. I wasn't able to make out what they were saying, and I jumped at the sound of her raised voice, "Please!" Please, what?

My dad ripped his arm from her grasp which was unusual. My dad did nothing roughly or quickly. He was, at times, infuriatingly indifferent. If we hit a ball through the neighbor's window, he simply went to the hardware store for supplies to fix it. If I made the basketball team, he would offer a nod over the morning paper. He was mild, predictable, and my mother hated him. So, watching her tug at his arm, begging him to stay, was unusual. What struck me even more, was that he did not turn to exit through the door I was standing behind, he climbed out of the window.

I watched on as my mother fell back onto the bed, slumping over, tears streaming quietly down her splotchy face. We knew what to do when she was a wrecking ball. We knew what to do when she was a butterfly. But I'd never been a witness to that level of fragility. My dad often said that she was meant for more, that she was a movie star stuck in our small town. I spent many years of my youth terrified that I'd wake up one day and find her gone. Maybe that would have been better in the long run. Maybe not.

She heaved a heavy sigh and twisted around. I thought she'd decided to take a nap, but instead of laying down on her floral quilt, she slid her side table drawer open and pulled out a mirror. She set it in her lap and reached back in the drawer for something so small, I couldn't make out what it was. I made a mental note to check later. Her finger gently tapped out a white powder into a pile on the mirror. She tucked her hair behind her ear, hunched over the mirror, and held a playing card stiffly, scooting the powder into a straight line before sniffing it up loudly. I exhaled a small breath, as I noticed the immediate sag of relief in her shoulder, the way her forehead relaxed and her eyes closed. She was better.

I felt a small wave of panic as my nose itched with the threat of a sneeze. I tried to hold it, stepping back slightly to disappear into my room that was behind me. But I had stayed just a moment too long. Her head jolted up, locking eyes with me. My heart hurdled into my throat as I waited. I stood frozen in my spot, watching as she slowly slid off the bed. The floorboards creaked as she walked towards the door. Towards me. I began to smile because for a split second, I thought she was happy to see me. She was smiling. Maybe she wanted to scoop me up and twirl me around to make her feel even better. Maybe she was going to sneak me in and tell me one of her stories. But as quickly as my smile formed, it vanished as she slammed the door in my face.

I wake from my daydream by the sound of my phone trilling off to my left. I pace over to the window where my desk overlooks the busy streets of Manhattan and pick up the receiver. "Hello!" I say, expecting it to be Victoria.

"Hello, John," says a voice I recognize, but one I definitely wasn't looking forward to hearing today.

"Hey, mom," I say flatly, hoping this will be a quick call and not one that drags out and ends up with one of us screaming and slamming the phone down.

"I just wanted to check in on you, make sure you're doing well. I hear you and Victoria are still going steady?" My mother doesn't call often and when she does, it's to guilt-trip me into visiting her. I have yet to agree. I absolutely do not want to introduce her to Victoria. She is the purest part of my life, and I can't give mother the opportunity to spoil what I've built for myself.

"Yeah mom, I'm fine. Vic is fine," I sigh and check my watch, "Do you need something?" I ask, half-heartedly concerned about her well-being and more out of obligation.

"I miss you John. It breaks my heart that the last time we saw each other, it didn't go so well. I'm clean, I promise. I've been doing the steps. I take my meds. I even see a shrink! Can you believe that? I'm not crazy anymore!" She lets out a self-deprecating laugh, trying to convince me that she was better, but we both know that will never be true.

"I'm sure you are doing fine, mom. I am just not ready to see you." I'm aware this crushes her every time I say it.

"Well, when John!? You're my son, don't you miss me?" She pleads, her voice shakes. It's funny because I'd never had my mother genuinely miss me or need me around without it benefiting her in some way. She never wanted to see me simply because she loved me. Honestly, I don't think my mother knows what that even feels like, to love someone or have the capacity to feel love. Not by my father, Ben nor myself.

"I'm sorry mom, but I'm just not ready to see you." A pause stretches from wherever she is, waiting for me to change my mind. "Listen...I gotta go. Vic is coming over soon, and I promised to take her out tonight." I don't give her a chance to protest. "Bye, mom."

It has been almost eleven years since I'd seen my mother, and it does eat at me every day at how we left things. I just can't bring myself to go see her, because it would mean facing all the things that she had done. All the things that hurt us. I finally have a good thing going, and it has taken so long to get here. The past still feels raw, as if it was only yesterday that we had the big fight after dad's funeral. He'd be so ashamed of how I handled things. I imagined him saying something like, John, I've forgiven her, you should too. Or, You know she's not well, you can't hold something against her that she has no control over.

I just can't help it. My father is a good man, or was. A better one than I am, that's for sure. She hit a nerve that day, and I just can't forget about it. Not this time. To be honest, in some ways, I have forgiven her. It's taken time. I did talk to Victoria's father, Marshall about that. He's always so wise. Like my dad, he knows exactly what to say to put things into perspective. We shared a few beers in his office one afternoon, and he asked why my parents never came around. Marshall is my boss, and over the last few years, we have grown close. So, when his beautiful daughter came to meet him for lunch one day, it was fate. I told him my father had passed away when I was in college, and my mother and I had a falling out and haven't spoken since. He didn't need to know the details.

"Well, don't you think that it's time to let some of that anger go? Try forgiving her for yourself." He had a point. I did need to move on, so I ended up calling her the next day. We had a nice conversation to start with. But like things always were with my mother, the more we spoke, the more she would bring up things that only made us angry. It's a work in progress, but we are closer to getting to a point in which I feel comfortable seeing her again. I guess that counts for something.

I don't talk to Ben as often as I'd like. He's busy with his entertainment career. He is in several Broadway shows and really fantastic at it. He and his partner have apartments in New York and San Francisco, they split their time between the cities when he's not working. I have made every lame excuse in the book for why I haven't been to either, but he'll call and check in every so often, despite his New York apartment being just down the island.

I don't blame him for the distance. After the childhood we had and the fact that I left, he probably felt abandoned. But I had to get out of there. If I stayed, I would have gone nuts, or ended up like Dad and I just couldn't have that end. I always promise him that I'll come watch one of his shows, and he politely responds back with, "Sure Man, anytime you want. I'll always leave a ticket for you." Ben is a good man, and I admire him as if he were the older brother.