Page 28 of Second Chance

“Mother. It’s Denton.” I stop a few feet from the bed, afraid to come closer, afraid as if she’s contagious. It’s cancer. I can’t catch it, but I’m frightened and my skin tingles. She’s so pale. Her hair greasy and slicked back from her head. Her blue eyes are dull like the room, and she squints.

“Calvin?” Her fingers twitch on the coverlet, inching their way to the edge of the mattress. I assume she intends to reach for me and I step forward, curling my hand over her pencil-thin fingers. She’s cold, her skin like tissue paper, illuminating the blue in her veins on the back of her hand.

“Denton,” I repeat. Is she delusional? Medicated? I don’t know what to say or do next. How are you? is not something you ask the dying, so I kneel next to the bed and stare at her. Her eyes close, her breathing labors.

“It’s been a long time.” I expect her to call me son. I haven’t heard the label in years. Has she forgotten me? Memories haunt me.

Get your ass over here, son.

Don’t you give me that look, son.

I’ll kick your ass from here to Texas, son.

My father meant everything he said. He did it for years. Then one day, I pushed back.

You’ll pay for that, son.

I did. He went after her next. My head lowers to her hand, my forehead resting on her cold skin. Suddenly, I realize how warm I am. Her touch feels pleasant, like a mother’s touch soothing a feverish child.

“I’m sorry, Mama.” I don’t know what to say to her, how to comfort her. I could give her a million excuses. The endless tours. The award shows. The band breakup. My modeling. My photography. None of it seems relevant. None of it will bring back the years.

“You came back,” she whispers in her raspy, quiet voice. “I always knew you’d come back.”

I came back, I repeat, but I don’t know what to think of being here.