Say Goodnight Before You Leave

7. Rusty

Present

I feel deformed as if this moment had been painted by Picasso on his last days. Nothing has quite the right shape, the colors don't match. I am tired, exhausted, worn out and Dallas is quiet. Too quiet. Furious under his silence and I know it. But now that picture is painted, I couldn't change a thing.

I move the food on my plate, feeling as if I took a single bite from it I would throw up, starving but not hungry at all, not here at all. My mind is upstairs, thinking how could I translate that single tricky sentence. That script is all I've been thinking about lately. I should call Weaston tonight. No... I don't feel like talking. An e-mail will do the job.

I almost don't notice Dallas getting up from the table. I call him before I could stop myself. He stands in place.

"What?"

I don't know what to say. "Talk to me, please."

He shrugs. "What do you want me to say?"

"I don't know what has been going on with you for weeks."

He ironically laughs. "I've been home mostly. That simple."

"No, it's not that simple. It's ridiculous that I have to ask you to talk to me."

"Maybe is so that I don't have to listen to the ridiculous lies that come out of your mouth."

I get up from my chair with a finger to his face. "Watch your tone."

"Does my tone matter? When it's the truth? When dad wish the contrary, when everybody did? When it was the right thing for you to do?"

"It was my life, my past."

"NO, IT WASN'T. It was mine too. My dad's also. Do you understand the concept of family? Altruism? That the world doesn't revolve around you?"

"You don't know what I've been through."

"Of course, you never told me anything! You don't care about what I'm going through right now. That's why I don't wanna talk. We won't be getting anywhere, you won't make me agree with your side and vice versa. I just don't see you the same way anymore."

Each word was like a blade to my heart, I sit down again as I felt my muscles soften. "However you see me, I'm still your mother. You can't run from that."

"We get the family we deserve, I guess." He says before turning around and walking away.

Once I'm alone, I wanna cry for hours on end. But I'm too tired even for that, completely exhausted. My mind is in an endless spiral of thoughts and my thinking seems like a photo taken from a fast-moving car, blurred, confusing and I could barely tell the shapes. I hug myself, my body is stiff and weak under my hands. A pathetic rubbery version of myself.

It feels like had experience multiple grieves. My husband, my son, my father, my own.

As if Weaston had read my mind, the second I'm back in my office, the phone starts ringing with his name on the display. I let it ring for a couple of times, thinking of ignoring it, but I soon pick it up. I try to appear as excited as I can.

"Hiii, Weaston, why the call?"

"It's late in Berlin, I knooow. But it's been a while since we last talked and I'm wondering, how's it going?"

"Very good, I'm already at the translation part. You called at the right time, by the way, cause I have a few questions for you about a couple of things. If you have the time, of course."

"Sure, I do."

I scribble down every single word he says as he answers my meticulous questions. I notice how I could say the many of the lines from memory from how much I was spending working on them - there were many days I would read the paper until the lines starred blurring before my eyes and the story would be the only thing in my head. I'm slowly losing interest in the project and the fear of disappointing Weaston consumes me every time I think about giving up on it.