Page 60 of Carver’s Craving

“First…I need you to promise me that you’ll hear me out. That you’ll try not to get mad.”

He blinked. “Okay. Well, I’m not exactly known for my temper. Except when that idiot stagehand nearly knocked over the rigging because he was fucking around. And I caught him stealing one of your notebooks.” He gazed up at the ceiling. “I think you called it incandescent rage.”

Unbidden, I chuckled. “Yeah, that sounds about right.”

“I fired the fucker. No one gets away with that shit on my stage. But anyway…I’m trying to say I can’t imagine what you might’ve done to make me mad.”

“I went through the drawers of the dresser in my room.”

He opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again. And once more closed it.

“Look, I was just going to put a few clothes away. So they weren’t just laying about. I was trying to be neat—the way my mother always harangued me to be.”

To this, he smiled.

“Right. So the drawers are full of writings. Poems, scores…scribbles, notes and all kinds of stuff. I don’t figure they’re yours—”

“They’re not.”

I couldn’t read his tone, but chose neutral. “So yeah. I started to go through them. I mean first I finished the book on Mission City. Which was hard to read, but really, really good.”

“Hard to read?”

I waved him off. I didn’t want to get derailed. “Anyway, these writings…” When he nodded, I continued. “Right. So I’m struggling to make sense of all of them…but there’s real genius in them. I want…I dunno. I guess I want to see if I can put something together. It’s been a long time since I’ve been inspired. Well, this stuff inspires me. But I don’t want to do anything with it unless you say it’s okay.”

Carver gazed at his food and swirled his fork in the beef. He let out a long breath. “They’re my mother’s work. I mean…they’re a disaster. I found them after she…died. I couldn’t bring myself to throw them out. I also don’t have the ability to look at them. Either from a professional perspective or from some emotional…whatever.” Finally, he met my gaze. “Does this make sense?”

I nodded. “Yep. If I’d found something in Frank’s stuff, I know I wouldn’t have been able to deal with it at the time. Hell, it’s been over a year, and I’m still not certain I’d be able to look at it.”

“She’s been dead more than fifteen years.”

Which meant he’d only been about my age—or a little younger. The idea of losing either parent—despite how they nagged the shit out of me and drove me nuts—hurt my heart. I need to do better—even if they don’t understand. “That’s rough, Carver. That kind of hurt—” I swallowed. “Yeah.”

He nodded. “True that. But I’ve sort of accepted—” He again gazed at his food. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he met my gaze. “She was bipolar. I told Justin that tonight. The counselor. That she was unstable. Manic and depressive and just a disaster. But she was my mom, and I loved her so damn much. I tried to get her help over the years. Sometimes she’d get better. And I’d think we were in the clear. But we never were. In the end, she killed herself. Just a couple of weeks after my university graduation. I guess she figured I could cope. That—” He swallowed. “—sort of broke me.”

My heart seized. For the young man who’d already dealt with so much and then had to cope with his mother killing herself. I reached out my hand.

He placed his in mine.

I squeezed.

He closed his eyes and let out a long sigh.

That’s been inside him for years. I bet today was the first time he’s shared that in a while. Maybe ever. I could be wrong, of course. I didn’t know what his life had been like for the past fifteen years. Still, I was probably pouring battery acid in the newly reopened wound by bringing up her writings. “I’m sorry.”

He blinked. “Why?”

“All of it? That you went through that? That I found her writings and brought it up tonight of all nights?”

A little watery laugh came from him as he blinked again. “Maybe this was the way it was supposed to unfold. I guess I’ll have something to tell Justin when I see him again next week.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I have more shit I need to work through—even I can see that. So I’ve agreed to a couple more sessions.”

“That’s great.” Because that was the right thing to say? I was so far out of my depth, and I needed him to throw me a lifeline.

He cleared his throat. “You’re saying her stuff…writings, you called it?”