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“You do realize that you're in love with him, don’t you?”
I immediately shake my head.
“That’s not possible.”
“Of course it is.” She giggles playfully. “And whoever he is, he’s such a lucky boy to be the recipient of it. Love is a strange thing, Evangeline.”
“And do you love your husband?” I ask, wondering where he is, I’ve already figured that he doesn’t live here with her.
“Very, very much.” Her eyes glisten differently when she thinks about him, and I notice a tiny tear developing in the corner of her eye.
“Let’s take a walk in the gardens.” She stands up, shaking away her sadness, and I let her take my hand and lead me outside.
“Well, that was a waste of time.” Jessie’s frustrated when he gets back on his bike. Me, him, and Nyx came to the address Skid asked us to check out, but the place is empty and it’s fucking clean too.
“This is gonna piss Prez off. He wanted this issue stamped on.” Nyx lights up a cigarette.
“Maybe he’d be in a better fucking mood if you hadn’t just knocked up his daughter again,” Jessie sniggers at him, and I can’t help smirk at the scowl Nyx gives him back.
“Come on, we’ll ride back to the club and call Skid.” Jessie goes to start up his bike.
“You guys ride on. I got somewhere I need to be,” I tell them, and they both nod back at me before tearing off.
I turn my bike around and head for Forestbank.
It hasn’t been that long since I last went to visit Mama, but spending time around Rogue makes me think about her more. My mother is the victim that I refuse to let Rogue become. Spending more time with her will help me remember how vital it is that I don’t let myself slip.
I’ve never lied to my mama about who I am or what I do. I’ve just never told her. I allow her to make up her own version of the man I’ve grown into.
It’s the only way she’ll ever get the dedicated, hard-working son she always dreamed she’d raise.
Visiting her is always tough, especially when she talks about Father like he’s the perfect fucking husband. And playing along with that is draining, but I continue to do it out of guilt.
I park my bike up outside the care home. The rates here are expensive, especially with all the extra handouts I pay to the staff in order for them to play their part in mother’s charade. But it’s all I can do for her now, and as frustrated as it gets me, sometimes, I find myself wishing that I could live inside her hollowed-out head just for a fuckin’ day.
I walk straight past the reception toward Mama’s room. It’s rare for me to visit on a weekday. I usually show my face on the last Sunday of every month. Mama won’t be expecting me, but I’m sure she’ll be happy to see me. She smiles continuously when I visit her and tells me endlessly how proud I make her. It makes me feel like shit. But never as much as I do when she tells me how much like Dad I am.
I let myself in and find her room spotless as usual. The patio door is open, so I figure she’ll be outside, either reading one of her books or admiring the roses she prides herself in growing. And as I brace myself to step outside into her imaginary world, I see something that stops me.
Rogue… She’s here, and she’s talking with my mother. The pair of them are laughing, and look so content in each other's company.
Quickly, I step back out of sight, managing to keep my eye on them from behind one of the thickly lined curtains.
Rogue is crouching down now, smelling the bloom that Mama is proudly holding between her fingers. The outside breeze carries the sound of her giggle toward me, and instead of the burning rage I should be feeling, I feel a smile hook on my lips.
I have no fucking clue how she found out about this place or how she’s managed to uncover one of my biggest secrets, but I get a strange kinda comfort outta seeing her here. And so I watch them both for a while longer.
They sit down to rest on one of the benches and seem comfortable talking to one another. Mama doesn’t stop touching her, stroking at her hair, and holding her hand in hers while they speak. And the more I watch, the more I realize that Rogue doesn’t seem like herself. There’s nothing sarcastic or fake about the way she beams back at my mama. She’s lapping up her attention and accepting all her affection welcomingly.
“Mr. Carter it’s good to see you.” A female voice distracts me from the unlikely scene in front of me, and when I look over my shoulder, one of the carers is watching them too.
“Your mom will be delighted to have two visitors today.” She beams brightly.
“You didn’t see me.” I try not to make that sound like a threat.
“But…”
“The girl, how often does she visit?” I interrupt, needing answers.
