Page 96 of Bastard Bartender

“I can’t sit around all day. The wait is killing me.”

“That fractured rib will take four to six weeks to heal. Until then, you are lying on that couch and doing as your mother says.”

My ass falls to the couch way too gently than I’m used to as I curse my cast that keeps me from getting comfortable. “I’m a grown man who can take care of himself.”

She has a cup of tea in her hand, which she holds while she takes a seat. “And I’m a mother, so if I want to stay and take care of my son, then I’m going to do so. It also doesn’t hurt that I’m a nurse practitioner. I’ll get you back in the saddle faster than you would on your own.”

I have to smile despite myself. My mother is beyond headstrong. Mix that with her natural caregiver personality, and there is no use fighting with her. She’s been like this since before I was born. My earliest memories are of her sitting by my side as I lay in a hospital bed. She made sure I had everything I needed to feel comfortable, safe … normal. She was soft and sweet, yet when it was time to discuss my care, she was a tiny pit bull, a true advocate for her dying son. I wonder if that’s why I made it to the other side of cancer when so many others don’t.

“I love you, Mom.”

She looks up at me over the rim of her cup with crinkled eyes. “I love you too. What was that for?”

Her obvious confusion is warranted. I always tell her I love her at the end of a phone call or visit. Never impromptu while lounging in my house.

“You just put up with a lot of my shit, and I want you to know I’m grateful for it.”

Her confusion morphs into a red-cheeked grin. “This is what you do for those you care about. There is nothing I wouldn’t stop in my life to run and take care of you. You’ll understand someday.”

Someday.She’s thinking about when I settle down and have a family. I’ve always wanted one. A wife who makes me smile and a couple kids to spoil rotten. When they misbehave, I’ll have to send them to their mother because I’ll be laughing too hard at their antics. I’ve always wanted a future like that. I never put too much thought into how it would happen and who with.

I prop my feet up on the coffee table. It’s so quiet in here. All I hear is the dishwasher running from the kitchen.

“This is nice,” Mom says from her seat.

The Vegas sun is far from setting. Back home, it would already be dark. The long desert days always make her happy when she visits.

“You always have liked the sun.”

“Not just the sun. It’s the stillness. Moments like this are rare.”

I look at her like she has ten heads. The silence in this place is killing me. I want the noise and commotion. A TV on in the background wouldn’t kill us. If I could leap out of here and go for a run, I would.

Mom just sighs and sips her tea. “Stillness is good for you, Nicolás. It gives you a chance to appreciate where you are and think about where you’re headed.”

My brow rises, and I let out a frustrated groan. “I’ve had a lot of chances this week to think. All I do is think.”

“Care to share your thoughts?”

My quick answer is no, but she’s staring at me with this bewildered grin, like she knows exactly what I’m thinking about. I won’t bring Evette up to her. She already told me I was a fool to let a good woman walk out of my life like that.

I didn’t argue with her.

She’s right.

I’m a damn fool.

I clear my throat and ask her something completely unrelated, “This stillness you love so much. Is this how you did it all those years I was in the hospital and you stayed by my side? Just sitting in silence and thinking?”

“The opposite. When your child is in the hospital, every sound is exaggerated. The heart rate monitor sounds like a glaring siren, and the blood pressure cuff is a 747. You panic with each footstep that walks through the door, wondering what the doctor is going to say next.” Her eyes soften. “And then there was you. My sweet, brave boy. You tried to act like everything was okay, but we saw your fear. We knew how much you wanted to go home.”

I smile halfheartedly. “I thought I had you all fooled.”

“Never for a second.” There’s a shift in her as she looks over at me with a quizzical expression. “We never talk about your days in the hospital. The people who cared for you, how sick you got from treatment. The friends you lost.”

“Mom, let’s not go there.”

“You have to face your past at some point. How else do you plan on moving forward?”