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EIGHTEEN
“Is that you, Michael?” Mom shouts when I enter the house. Her voice sounds strange.
I walk into the living room, and sure enough, she’s drinking. “Dad went to New York, remember?”
“Right. Hi, sweetheart.” She contrives a smile and relaxes her shoulders, trying to appear normal. “Were you next door with Eric?”
“No. We were playing pool at Steve’s.” I shove my hands into my pockets, asking, “Where’s Brit?”
“Stayed back with friends from ballet. I let her be.” That’s a first.
Bracing forward on the sofa, she pours red wine into the empty glass, filling it to the top.
I squint at the bottle. It’s almost finished. “How many glasses have you had?”
Mom splays a hand as she replies, “This is my third.” A damn lie. She sips a little and tells me, “Your father has a lover in New York. That’s why he travels there so much.”
“I’m not a shrink. I’m your son, and you shouldn’t discuss that with me.” I turn to head upstairs.
“Brandon, wait,” she urges.
I halt in my tracks and look at her sideways.
Mom walks over with the glass of wine. “Are you ever going to forgive me?”
A sick feeling buds in my stomach. “I’m not doing that right now.”
Her eyes wilt and turn glossy. “I miss you, honey. Miss my sweet boy.” She cautiously teeters forward. “Please let me hold you. It’s been so long.”
“Don’t.” I step back, heart starting to sprint.
“Brandon, please...” She reaches out to touch my face.
Something horrifying ignites in me on impulse, and I roughly shove her hand away.
Mom wobbles and loses grip on the wineglass.
It shatters on the marble floor.
My breathing becomes uneven as I stare at the crimson liquid pooling between us.
Pieces of that awful day flash before my eyes, blurring my vision. Suddenly, I’m back in the bathroom, lying in my blood.
My head begins to pound, garbled ringing in my ears as if I’m underwater.
I wince from the phantom stings of the wounds on my back and arms. I hear the monster’s voice after every crippling lash.
“Tell me you love me,” she demands over and over.
“No,” I whimper from the pain, eyes filling with tears. Darkness creeps toward me, and I see her hands in it, touching me in places she shouldn’t. I glimpse her nakedness and feel the flood of embarrassment.
“Brandon, it’s all right, sweetheart,” Mom’s voice fights through the force of the memory. “Breathe.”
Afraid I’ll hurt her, I shuffle back and bolt out the front door, running to the guest house. I lock myself in the room with Kayla’s easel and oil painting, slither to the carpet, and hang my head as tears pool down my face.
The phone vibrates in my pocket.
Hands trembling, I slide it out and read Kayla’s text. The invitation to sneak into her bedroom appeals to every hungry side of me. But I’m too overcome with agony to reply.
