Bereavement

Chapter 8

My mother stands at my front door, looking anxious at first, but she noticeably sags in relief when she sees me. Her hair is unruly and she has dark bags under her eyes, making her look tired. I wonder what she has been up to recently, considering I have not talked to her in a while.

"I came by yesterday," she explains, stepping inside. I push the door shut behind her. "You weren't here, obviously. And then I hear that there was a mass shooting in the Bureau and that you were there? I was really worried about you."

A warm feeling runs through me. Once again, I find myself glad to have my mom back. She cared for me when I was young, when Marcus beat us both daily, and showed me how to find enjoyable things in my hellish life. When she supposedly died from childbirth, I felt empty, yet I still found it in me to cherish the stolen moments and beautiful things she told me about. I am grateful for her influence to this day because it taught me that there are still good things in this world. Now things are different, but at the time it was enough to get me to keep going.

I didn't have much hope for our relationship when she came back into my life—she abandoned me for God's sake, an action I do not understand to this day. I used to repeat to myself that she never cared about me, to spare myself from the pain, but this is one of those reminders that she does care after all.

"I'm fine," I assure her. "Just a nick in the side with a knife."

I lift my shirt up, only enough to reveal my right side that now has a white bandage covering it. The wound turned out to be decent-sized, and I ended up having to get stitches for it.

She grimaces. "I don't like the thought of you in a war."

I want to remind her that I was in a war before, and that she didn't seem as concerned then. But times were different, and she was too blind to realize that I was her son, not her puppet. So I keep my mouth shut.

"Yeah, well..." I momentarily debate whether or not to tell her about the imminent war, and the affirmative side wins. Our relationship requires honesty, even though I struggle with it. "There's going to be another attack on the Bureau soon. And I am going to be involved."

"Tobias," she sighs disapprovingly. Her dark eyes bore into mine, and I remember her frowning like she is now when I did something wrong as a child. Well, when Marcus wasn't home, that is, since my punishment would have been a lot worse if he found out about my wrongdoings. "Are you trying to throw yourself into danger? Is this because of your depression?"

I narrow my eyes at her. "I'm not depressed." The lie comes off my tongue naturally, although I know she—or anyone, for that matter—doesn't believe it for a second. I am now accustomed to the falsehood in the way I act around people, and the untruths I tell about my mental state, but apparently it does not fool everyone. It is like a switch that is flipped; whenever I am around people, I pretend to be my normal, stultified self. But in the privacy of my own thoughts, I am despondent and forlorn.

I am depressed. But I am also stubborn and won't admit it out loud.

"I'm not stupid," she exasperates, perching on an arm of a couch and crossing her arms. "I can tell when my own son is not happy."

"Well, you're right. I'm not." I don't bother denying it. "But just because I'm not happy doesn't mean I'm depressed."

My mother purses her lips. "Why won't you admit to that weakness and get some help? I can't stand watching you destroy yourself with your drinking and always saying that you're 'fine' when you're clearly crestfallen." She pauses momentarily, as if she is considering whether or not to continue. She does, and I wish she wouldn't have when I hear the words that leave her mouth. "I hate that you're like this only because of a girl."