Mama’s gone. Gone. Gone.
Cold
tears slithered down his cheeks, but he lacked the strength to wipe them away.
Did this mean he was an orphan now or was that just for kids? Why hadn’t she
told him she was sick in any of the letters she’d sent? They were all about the
knitting club and the new restaurant in town that used farm to table practices
and had become a favored meeting place for her and all her friends. In her
letters, she’d keep him appraised of what books her book group was reading, and
sometimes, he’d head down to the local library and see if they had a copy, if
only because spending a rainy-day reading had been their favorite way of spending
time together.
He
remembered climbing into her lap when he was small, cuddling against her
shoulder and listening, fascinated at the worlds that spilled forth from the
pages. From a young age he’d fallen in love with the magic, mystery, thrill and
drama of those literary worlds, devouring books once he could read them on his
own, challenging himself to read above his grade level and always reading more
than the recommended number of words per quarter. Hell, sometime he’d finished
the annual requirements before winter break, and still kept going, earning an
outstanding reader award every year, which his mother proudly stuck to the
refrigerator.
Not
that books had been his only love. He’d excelled on the football field too,
those Friday nights in rain and snow made a little easier by his parents’ faces
in the crowd and the thermos of hot coco his mama always supplied him. She’d
been his biggest cheerleader, and when he’d announced that the girls who tried
to drape themselves all over him held no appeal, she’d hugged him and told him
it didn’t matter who he loved as long as that person loved and cherished him.
Love.
The tears flowed faster the moment it dawned on him that the last person in the
world who loved him was gone. There would be no more letters, no more lumpy
woolen sweaters hand knitted with love, no more Thanksgiving dinners to pop in
on, no more warm, welcoming presence to great him on those rare occasions when
he finally made it back home. No more home.
That
last part was like a knife to the ribs. With fumbling fingers he grasped at the
backpack, hugged it and the four sweaters it contained like they were a
lifeline, buried his face against the ragged cloth and wept until there were no
more no more tears left to give. There was no way to know how long he sat
there, minutes, hours, but eventually, his back protested the hunched position
and his aching ass reminded him that the worn carpet didn’t provide much in the
way of padding.
Unfurling
himself from that position took time and a coordinated effort between his mind
and body that he wasn’t sure he would be able to manage. With slow, deliberate
movements he grabbed the edge of the couch and struggled to haul himself to his
feet, the strength in his arms failing him twice before he could manage it. The
answering machine still flashed, but there was no reason to hit repeat, every
word was burned into his soul.
Mama’s gone.
In
a daze he shambled to the door, fumbled with the locks, patted his pockets,
frantic for a moment, until he remembered dropping the key. His eyes landed on
the answering machine when he went back to retrieve it, little red light
mocking him Why hadn’t Ray called sooner? Why hadn’t he hit the road as soon as
he’d received the message, instead of taking the time to shower and put on
clean clothes?
Cause it wouldn’t have mattered,
the voice in his head screamed. She’d have been gone before you even reached
the highway. Dejected, he picked up the key and trudged back to the door,
leaving the latest in a string of cheap apartments and rooming houses behind.
The
air outside smelled of snow, a welcome change from the marijuana and onion
stench inside. Drawing in a deep breath, he fought to center himself, get the
backpack strapped securely to the back of the bike and his helmet on, wishing
he had chaps, but as bulky as they were, they’d have taken up all the space in
his saddlebags.
At
least the cold would keep him awake. The roar of the machine, usually so
soothing, did nothing to calm him down. Over a thousand miles stood between him
and the place he’d grown up. The beautiful Smoky Mountains would still be alive
with summer blooms right about now, and yet, there would be nothing joyful
about this homecoming.
He
pointed the bike south, shivering the moment the winds started piercing through
his clothes. The jacket was some help, though he paused after less than a mile
to zip it. There was nothing he could do for his lower half, so he gritted his
teeth and gutted it out, watching the miles inch past as he rolled through the
night.
Twenty-seven
hours later, he pulled up in front of the house he’d been raised in, the light
burning in the kitchen a bit of a shock to him, but then, he hadn’t been sure
what to expect. The whole way down had been a blur, questions flashing quicker
than he could latch onto answers. What happened next? The funeral, or was that
something he and Ray would have to plan? He tried to recall what they’d done
for his father, another death that had happened so abruptly, it had taken him
months of wandering before it fully kicked in.
Dusty,
road weary, and exhausted, he trudged up the steps, backpack over his shoulder,
hesitating with the key halfway to the lock, wondering what he’d find inside.
Had she fallen? Had she lain in the house for hours, or even days before
someone had found her? Would the remanence of her fate be awaiting him on the
other side of the door? It was enough to make him wish he could hop back on the
bike and disappear somewhere. It wasn’t as if there was anyone left who’d be
itching to track him down.
After
the funeral, he told himself as he slipped the key in the lock and let himself
in, stepping into a foyer that had changed little since the last time he’d been
home. When had that been, anyway, he mused to himself as he removed his boots
and set them off to the side, adhering to that rule despite the fact that his
mother would never again pop around the corner and chastise him for forgetting.
That
pain in his chest returned, not that it had ever left completely, but somewhere
around southern Iowa it had eased up enough that he could draw a full breath.
Now, he leaned against the wall, eyes on the floor, terrified to take another
step, the silence reminding him of the emptiness of the place.
No
more mama singing while she cooked, barefoot in the kitchen dancing to whatever
song had popped in her head. No more warm aromas of baked goods permeating
every room, the sugary goodness tantalizing his senses, drawing him into that
hub of laughter and conversation. No more holiday decorations, the elves
perched on every shelf in the house. No more snowmen grinning from every corner
and crevice. It was the end of everything. What the hell had made him think
there would be time to come back and enjoy everything he missed once he’d
accomplished what he’d set out to do?
Every
muscle quivered as he made his up the hall, intent on a glass of lemonade and
giving Ray a call. Then sleep, ‘cause he’d been up for almost forty hours and
every cell in his body screamed that it was exhausted and on the verge of
giving out completely. Those last few miles had been accomplished on sheer
force of will and grim determination.
On
trembling legs, he stumbled into the kitchen, blinking at the sight before him.
Ray, a bottle of whiskey by his left hand, an empty bottle by his right,
staring glassy eyed at him from his seat at the table.
“’Bout
time you showed up,” Ray slurred, the undercurrent of anger and frustration
that always seemed to be there whenever they spoke was even more prominent
tonight.
“What
are you doing here?” He asked, placing his backpack beside the microwave stand
before dropping into the seat across from his brother, lemonade momentary
forgotten.
“Waiting
for you. Took you long enough. Thought you were only twenty hours away.”
“That’s
without taking a break, unless you wanted to get a phone call telling you I was
smeared all over the highway.”
“Don’t
you think there’s been enough death in this family to last us awhile?”
He
punctuated his words with a guzzle straight from the bottle, and Derrick
cringed, imaging the burn and wondering how his brother could chug it like that.
“You
should have been here,” Ray muttered as he set the bottle down. “She asked for
you. She wanted to know where you were. If you were okay. She made me promise
to bring you home and tell you she loved you, not that it’s ever mattered to
you.”
Growling,
Derrick felt his exhaustion give way to a hot burst of anger as he smacked his
hands down on the table, causing the whiskey bottles to rattle.
“Why
didn’t you call and tell me she was
sick!” Derrick growled. “I started packing the moment I got your first message
on the answering machine. I’d have been here if you’d let me know something was
going on.”
Face
flushing red, Ray came half out of his seat, firsts clenched. Derrick waited
for him to throw a punch, throw a bottle, but all he did was snarl whiskey
breath in Derrick’s face.
“You
should have been here regardless!” Ray snapped. “I hope whatever you were out
there doing was worth all the worry and heartache you put mama through. She
needed us here, especially after pops died, but you couldn’t be bothered to
stick around for even a week!”
Sighing,
Derrick scrubbed a hand over his face. He was too tired for this shit, nerves
too frayed and he kept having to remind himself that this was his brother and
they were in their dead mama’s kitchen and no way could he disrespect her
memory by cracking his brother in the face no matter how much he was itching to.
“You
want me to tell you I couldn’t handle it? Fine, I couldn’t handle it,” Derrick
admitted wearily. “I hit the road and I wandered the country until I could wrap
my head around the fact that we’d lost him.”
“And
you think I could handle it?” Ray ranted. “You think mama could handle it? You never think about anyone but yourself. It’s
always about what Derrick wants, what Derrick needs, though in a way, I blame
mom and dad for that ‘cause they spoiled you rotten and you never learned to
appreciate a damn thing, did you?”
Derricks
fingers dug into the wood, a mantra going through his head, reminding him not
to choke the hell out of his brother.
“I
appreciated plenty,” he grumbled between grit teeth, body tense, shaking with a
bust of adrenaline, endorphins and fury that was making his head ache. “You
don’t know shit about me, never have, and I doubt you ever will. You want to
think the worst of me, fine, go ahead, it’s not like I’m going to be around
long anyway. After the funeral, you’ll never have to lay eyes on me again, I
can promise you that.”
Snorting,
Ray lowered himself back in the seat and finished off the bottle. “Should have
figured you wouldn’t stick around. It’s the same old shit with you. When is it
going to end?”
Derrick
threw his hands up, frustrated and tired as hell of trying to figure out his
brother’s double speak. “You know what, talking to you while you’re drunk is
making me want to drink.”
“Fine,
here,” Ray replied, reaching down beside him and lifting a bottle of tequila
from a brown bag on the floor. “Go ahead, we can toast to whatever the hell has
been going on in your life for the past few years, may it always be a poor
substitute to the family you kicked to the curb.”
“Fuck
you,” Derrick snapped, even as he snatched the bottle from his brother’s hands
and made short work of getting it open. God that shit burned, but he kept on
swallowing, hopping for blessed oblivion, or better still, to wake up and
discover that every moment from the time he’d stepped foot in his old apartment
to now, had been nothing but a horrible nightmare.
“Maybe
one day, you’ll be honest and tell me what we did to make you hate us all so
much,” Ray muttered as he lay his head on the worn wood of that old table.
Tipping
the bottle up further, Derrick chased the numbness he knew it would bring as
soon as the alcohol hit. Shouldn’t be long, considering there was little in his
system as it was. Food simply hadn’t appealed, not the smell or the taste. That
last burger he’d eaten had left him vomiting in a trash can, vowing not to
bother until he could settle the twisted knot in his gut and the burning
anxiety that roared through him. God, if mom could see them now, she’d be so
disappointed in them on so many levels, he thought as he set the bottle down,
half empty. In her last few letters she’d urged him to reach out to Ray to
finally lay to rest the animosity between the two. Only problem was, the
animosity had always come from Ray, all Derrick had ever tried to do was stay
out of his way and do as little as possible to be a burden or a source of
frustration.
Laying
his head on the table, Derrick closed his eyes, his brother’s soft, drunken
snores lulling him to sleep. His last thought, before the alcohol swirled with
the exhaustion in his brain, was that it was a hell of a thing to bond over,
easing their grief over their mother’s death by getting pickled with booze.
Damn but she deserved more than that from them.
