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Fighting with Sebastian isn’t hard. Sure, it hurts, his punches land hard, and my knee is still giving me trouble two days later, but it’s all physical, superficial. The pain will fade.
Being in the gang is hard. Keeping my damn mouth shut, my fists in check, doing my best to appear harmless and obedient, watching over my brother, it’s hard.
Visiting her, though… That’s the toughest shit. Seeing her like this hits me in the chest every fucking time, grabbing my insides and twisting.
Mom, I think, though I’ve never said it to her.
Because it isn’t true, anyway, and it doesn’t matter. It shouldn’t.
She’s seated in her chair, the TV playing on mute, her gray hair coming loose from its tie at the back of her neck. She’s dozing, and I stare at her, my throat closing up.
I could go. Come back another day. Put off this conversation, that it’s the same every time. Same questions, same answers, same ache in my chest.
A floorboard creaks under my foot, and her eyes open.
Too late. Fucking shit, it’s always too fucking late.
She stares at m
e, and I know she doesn’t recognize me. I’m always a stranger to her, every time.
“Hi,” I say, stepping closer, trying to smile. “It’s me, your favorite man, Rett. How are you today?”
She shoots me a suspicious look. “The food here is terrible. They’re trying to poison me.”
“No, they’re not.” I sit down across from her, reach for her hand, but she draws it away. “Besides, you’ve got cake.” I nod at a small cake on a plastic tray beside her, on a coffee table. “A friend of yours brings those, right?”
She shakes her head a little, as if not understanding my words.
My chest tightens. “How are you?”
“Fine. Who are you?”
“Rett.” I swallow hard, smile wider. “Your awesome secret admirer. Don’t you remember?”
She snorts a little. “You young men, these days…”
Every time I make her laugh, I give myself bonus points. It warms up something inside me. Makes me think my visits are worth it.
Then she glances up at the TV, and her gaze goes distant again. “I don’t like this show.”
I grab the remote. “Let’s change it then. What do you want to watch?”
“Nothing.” She turns to look at the door. “Where is my son? Is he here with you?”
“He couldn’t make it today,” I lie.
I lie to her every time, and every time she asks about him.
Sebastian, her real son.
It’s normal, I tell myself sometimes, when I’m feeling sorry for myself and need a lie to believe in. Her short-term memory is gone. She probably doesn’t even remember meeting me, let alone taking me in. Having me in her house. Those memories are gone.
In her mind, there’s only Sebastian. As it should be. Right?
Damn right. That’s why I try to keep him safe. Keep him alive. For her. As for me, I’d never have made a good son anyway.
Funny how it still hurts, like a bullet lodged under my ribs, sinking deeper with each breath. Funny how I like that pain and I hope it never goes away. It carries in it all my memories of her, the ones she has forgotten, and I need them. Memories are all that’s left in the end, all you have—and the good ones are too few to let them fade.
