“I don’t even know where to go,” River says, and he looks so dejected that I reach out to pat him on the arm.
“I’d invite you home with me, but we don’t have a spare room or anything,” I say. Besides, I could never let any of them go home with me. The thought alone has me cringing.
“Nah, I’ll be fine,” River says. “But thanks for the thought.” He glances back at the desk as the assistant returns, then tells me, “I should go.”
“Thanks for the help,” I tell him.
He nods, and I watch him go.
I feel bad, but there’s nothing I can do to help him.
I head out of the building, and I step to the side before pulling my phone out of my pocket. It’s late in the afternoon, and my mom is probably working—assuming her new job is still going well—but I need to hear her voice.
“Hey,” I say when she picks up. “I’m sorry if I’m interrupting.”
“What’s wrong?” she asks, and I can practically see her full attention focusing on me.
“Nothing,” I tell her. “Really. I just wanted to say hi and that I love you.”
“I love you too,” she replies. “But are you positive nothing is going on?”
“A lot of things are going on,” I say. “But I have them handled. Look, I…” I falter. “I know I said we’d talk when I was home, and we really didn’t, but things are okay, right?”
“Of course they are,” she says. “What’s this really about, Asch?”
“Dad,” I find myself saying. “What really happened to him?”
She’s silent for a moment. “All the Bouchards would say was that there was an ‘accident’ at work,” she finally says when I’m about to prompt her. “He did a lot of things for them, things he couldn’t talk about. Things he wouldn’t talk about, because it would’ve put us in danger.”
I understand why now.
I wish I didn’t.
“Why?” she asks.
“I was just curious. We never talk about him,” I say. We talk a lot, but I realize that we don’t talk abouthermuch either. Beyond the impact her mental health has had on me, along with the hoarding, I don’t know much about my own mother.
“I’ll tell you more about him,” she tells me. “Anything in particular you want to know?”
“Not… not right now,” I reply. “I’m on campus. I really did just want to say hello.”
And maybe start repairing some of the damage that’s been done to our relationship in the wake of so many shitty realizations.
I should’ve talked to her more when I was at home, but I’d been so ashamed and overwhelmed that I’d let it get in the way of everything that had really mattered.
I’m suddenly aware that I could be like my dad.
Gone from one day to the next, in service to a Bouchard—and a Pavone.
It should bother me more.
I’d do it for either of them.
But I don’t want my mother to suffer for it.
“Okay,” she says. “But you’ll call me later?” She sounds so fragile, so hopeful.
“Yeah,” I say. “I have a lot going on this weekend, but after? We’ll have a long talk.”
