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Cary didn’t dispute, just watched one of his sons emotionally diffuse.
“She called her guards while I was right in front of her, begging for her to rekindle some sort of relationship.” I almost sagged through my legs. “I was a waste of her time.”
“Don’t say that,” Cary hissed. “You’re not a waste of anyone’s time.”
“I quoted, Cary.” I trained my eyes on his, knowing how deeply honest I was. “Every word I just said, she literally pronounced while I hovered, looking at a female I thought who’d… She’s not human. She let them escort me out of the building. I’m not! I’m her son!”
Cary bit the inside of his cheek, fumbling with his hands. In and out of his pockets. Then in. Out again. The rings around his fingers clinked, a habitual sound when he was nervous. I used to witness it before he took his spot behind the drum kit onstage. When I was little and still sort of felt normal.
Oddly, the sound comforted me. I realized there were hardly any things I could remember about our mother. Cary, though, had always been here. Except for those long tours and extensive periods in rehab, I couldn’t remember never having him in my life. Admittedly, there’d been more bad times than good. A broken man, sure, but he was still standing in front of me while I’d hated him the entire time. I’d blamed him for everything.
He looked… murderous.
“I’m going to fucking kill that woman.”
“I’ve got some methods. Gunshot, poisoning her coffee, push her into the sunlight,” I joked.
Neither of us laughed. We just stared at each other, fuming mad, wordlessly mulling over Cary’s mistakes but concluding that my mother was the catalyst for ruining our family.
Digging further into the issue, I asked him a question I already knew the answer to. “Who were those birthday presents from, Cary?”
He clucked his tongue, responding after a loaded pause. “Me.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m the man who fucked things up so badly, my presence was contemned. It radiated upon the people around me.”
He was right.
The nannies. New ones every month.
Teachers. They had absolutely no control over me whatsoever.
Paul. God, the dude had been pissed he had to mentor a fuckup like me.
Dita. I had no words. She had to be so disappointed.
I swallowed.
Cary continued, “It was hard to keep you happy. Hell, it was hard enough to keep myself upright. I wanted you boys to know how much you were loved.”
“Using money.”
“Using money, yes.” Cary backed against the island. “But I had no idea how to let you in, and you didn’t want me in either. I felt myself falling back into a habit I was afraid was going to embrace me like a warm and welcoming hug. I wanted to be here when you needed me. And then… I came back from tour. Portia had left you with a nanny I never met before. That day, I learned my wife and Sean were fucking.”
What the hell? “Your bassist?
Cary scratched his forehead. “And best friend at the time.”
“I never knew that,” I murmured, realizing so much was going on at the time. Me and my brother were two little shits still choosing our mom above him.
“And I… I completely lost it that night,” he said absentmindedly, as if he was reliving that day.
“Yeah, you did,” I blurted, still vividly remembering how much it gutted me, seeing his face for the first time in six months while he demolished everything in his wake instead of cradling his kids into his arms. Eyes crazy with rage, drops of sweat on his forehead. Lost of all control while he smashed everything to pieces like a human missile.
He was lucky to still be able to use a guitar pick because after denying treatment, his bent right pinkie was still out of place, serving as some sort of druggie mascot. His bad coping mechanism must’ve been the good pain-numbing shit back then because I remember him not feeling anything at all.
“I own it, Ares. Everything,” Cary said, so much of it a whisper, but that one word was enveloped in so much pain. “Every damn mistake.”
