Wearing My Smile | ✔

Saturday, April 7th, 2007

Your mom came to my house that morning after your funeral and she just started bawling.

She told me and my sister and my father the story behind her self-destructive drunkenness. How she understood the whole time she was a danger to herself. And I was this close—this close, Sam—from completely losing it. I wanted to fucking yell at her, you know? Because sure, she knew she was being self-destructive and a danger. She was like that because of her upbringing and messed-up life, and all I wanted to say was: so what? So fucking what? She was wrong when she thought she was the only one being affected because didn’t she take part in ruining you? She ruined what was left of you a few years before then, somehow, she just walked up to me, the witness of your suffering, and confessed the whole fucking idiotic excuses of being a horrible fucking parent without accepting the fact that she had ruined you.

I wanted to hurt her, Sam. I wanted to hurt her so much it drove me crazy because that was not me. I don't hurt people, wasn’t that what you used to say to me? You'd say to me again and again, it's not in me, it's your job, you're the violent one, and yet I wanted to hurt her because she took you away and in return, you took yourself away from life and it wrecked me.

It wrecked me so bad not to have you here to listen to me talking anymore, or to talk to me or to sit by me on the couch in front of my house's television while I kiss you softly on the lips without saying anything, because nothing else is fine but this, us, being together, still makes it alright. There would be no more late night rendezvous, late dinner, watching soccer game in a stadium next town over, smoking at the backyard looking at stars in a clear night sky, talking about conspiracy theories, laughing at silly videos online, trash-talking bad movies, no more anything.

There would be nothing, Sam. What’s going to be an easier way of coping other than blaming other people from taking you away? What's going to be easier than blaming your mother, who let that violent man who shared your blood beat you up black and blue every time he had a little more than a bottle of whiskey to drink? What's going to be easier than blaming this frail woman who felt sorry for making herself deaf and blind only after you're gone?

After the stupid confession, she raised up her head, wiped the tears with the sheets of tissue Luce had fetched for her. She told us she had already filed for a divorce and it was in progress. I didn't say anything, but my father, the better person like he had always been, told her it was the right thing to do. I added spitefully in my mind that it was. It was the right thing to do—only a few days, weeks, months, years too late.

Except, we both knew this wasn't about you at all, was it? It was all about her, what it would do to her. This kind of selfishness, how could you ever stand it, Sam? How could you stand all the blows and the painful words, coming back home to this every day, staying even as I saw how exhausted you were? How could you ever love them at all? I remember asking you this once and you said to me wearily, “I can't help it, Roo. They're all I have.” And I was angry at you. I hated those words for coming out of your mouth. I despise it even now because you had me, Sam. I swear you'd always had me, and yet, still, you didn't know.

She looked at me and said to me. Have you got any idea what she told me, Sam? She told me, “I forgive you, Roo, for influencing my son in such way. I didn't like it, but I understand now that you both must have been lonely. Were there more girls around, you both would have gone for them, I'm sure. I'm just sad he didn't get the chance. He seemed happy in his last months, though. So, I thank you.” and then there was this loud rushing sound inside my ears, like waves hitting the rocks in the middle of a mean storm. I couldn't comprehend past the fact that she thought that I'd turned your sexuality because she was too busy wasting her years getting drunk and high.

So, I stood from my seat, took her by the hand and led her quietly to the front porch. I smiled at her sweetly and closed the door calmly at her face. She didn't say anything, she only looked confused, but I didn't care much since I was trembling with rage the whole time. Luce knew this, that was why soon after I felt her arms around me, and I breathed loudly on her shoulder because I was furious. You'd told me once that it didn't matter how long you stayed here, your parents would never understand, and I remember telling you to give them time, but now I start to think that maybe you were right. That maybe my positive conviction regarding your parents has been a stupid faith based on nothing. I was angry, so angry because even though everything else was shit, at least I wanted to prove to you that they could redeem themselves if they wanted to.

Perhaps you're right, Sam. Perhaps you were always right and you knew this even before you decided to go for good. It is all just so fucking sad.