“Yes, yes, that’s it,” he beams and takes my hand. “Have you met my sister, Annabeth?”
I could cry as Colt goes along with it. He told me that is the best way. Trying to convince him otherwise agitates him.
I listen as he reminisces about the things he used to do with my mom when they were kids. It kills me that I look like her when she was my age, and it’s triggered memories for him.
All I want to do is tell him she wasn’t the person he is describing. She was a shitty person, a terrible mother, and she stole from and treated Joe like a piece of crap for years.
It’s even more heartbreaking than I expected. Especially when every fifteen minutes or so, he acts like he is seeing my mom for the first time in years. It’s jarring, and I struggle to fight back tears.
Colt dotes on him, gets him what he needs, talks in a soothing voice that calms him when he gets muddled. He does it all, knowing that his father has no idea who he is. How is he not a shattered mess?
After half an hour, I have to excuse myself, apologizing to Colt who nods in understanding as I choke back the ball of emotion and hurry out of the room.
In my hurry to get out, I get lost in the miles of corridors, the doors to faux apartments making my heart hurt even more. Eventually, I run into the woman from reception who sees how I’m fighting tears and directs me to a garden. She offers tissues and says she will let Colt know.
He finds me there twenty minutes later, when I’ve stopped crying but have been lost in the horror of my childhood memories for too long.
“You alright?” He sits beside me.
“How do you do it?”
“I’ve had two years to get used to it,” he takes my hand. “It wasn’t easy at first, Kins. It hurt seeing him forget me. Now I take pleasure in getting to know him not as his son, but as someone he finds comfort in.”
“You’re a better person than me. I almost told him more than once not to call me that.”
“That must have been difficult to hear.”
“It’s not fair that he remembers her at a time in her life when she was a good person. She doesn’t deserve that. Not after everything she did.”
He squeezes my hand, knowing he will never convince me to forgive her or my father.
“He’s never mentioned her until he saw you.”
“Thanks for the reminder that I look like the bitch.”
“Kins.”
“Don’t get all priestly on me now, Colt. Let me be bitter and miserable.”
“What if I don’t want to see you that way?”
I can’t help it. It took me years to get past the abandonment and fear I’d lived during my younger life in that apartment with them.
“You’re getting your life together. You have wonderful talent and people who love you.”
“The bright side of life is your thing.”
“Open your heart and let it be yours. The only thing standing in your way is you.”
Easy for him to say. We sit in the garden a little longer, then make the journey back home. Well, back to his church and my temporary abode.
We separate after I assure him I’m okay and will see him for dinner later. Then I hurry inside and go straight to the canvas and draw.
Sketching out his face shouldn’t bring me comfort, but my mind focuses on that, shutting out all the bad memories. He is someone I have very conflicting and worrying feelings about.
Watching his handsome face come to life makes me mad, it overrides the sadness and makes me steadier, which is so damn fucked up, but I need it. That tension and raw anger gives me something else to think about, something to push out what happened.
I’m so lost in creating his image, I forget to go for dinner, but Colt leaves me alone.
