Inhale, Exhale

by Matthews, C. L.

  I love my mom so much, but she’s draining me. How do I explain that to her? She’ll tell me it’s not my burden, to not feel so overwhelmed, but if I don’t watch out for her, who will?

  Dad is gone, and he did a shit job anyway.

  The more I fester, the more I miss Gray. We haven’t spoken in so long. Just seeing her face in my dreams is enough to haunt me. She could have told me sooner and saved my mom from heartbreak, told someone, anyone... done something.

  I hate her for her betrayal to me and my family and most of all to our friendship. She’ll pay one day, and it’ll be a long time coming. Bitterness doesn’t just recede because one wants it to.

  I shake my head, watching as my mom takes Grams’ place, pushing Jaz as she giggles and squeals. In these moments, I see her, the mom who always hugged me, tucked me in, kissed my head, and told me how special I was.

  We’ve drifted apart since then, and as much as I hoped it wouldn’t happen, I resent her. It feels as if I raised Jazzy these last five years, held her when she cried, got a booboo and everything else in between. I fed her, bathed her, made sure she was okay.

  My parents abandoned us both.

  They chose to be selfish.

  Now, they need to pick up the pieces.

  Mom makes her way to me, a smile present, warming me from the inside.

  “Hey, baby. Why don’t you join us?” She takes a seat next to me, her face a little flushed from the warm air. Her gaze drifts back to Gran and Jaz, a tell-tale sign she’s happy.

  “Can we talk?”

  She peers at me, her eyebrows pinched in concern. “Of course. Let’s go inside and get something to drink. They’ll be out here for a bit.”

  I nod and follow her to the kitchen. She grabs the freshly squeezed orange juice and pours herself a glass.

  “Want some?”

  Shaking my head, I take the juice and put it back for her. After picking out a Pepsi from the fridge, I turn around.

  She smiles proudly. “You’re such an amazing kid, Ace.”

  Unlike her, I can’t give a smile in return. Too much weighs on me.

  “Mom, why don’t you go to therapy?”

  She seems taken aback by my question. Setting down her drink, she avoids my gaze and then leads me to the table. I pull out her chair, as I always have, then scoot her in. It’s something of a habit that Grandma taught me. She taught me a lot, including everything I needed to know about being a gentleman and a good son.

  “Uh,” Mom starts, scratching her head as I take the chair beside her. “It’s a long story.”

  I give her the look. That’s not going to cut it.

  “I have time,” I comment, not allowing her the cop-out. We need to have this conversation.

  “When y-your... Lilac died, I tried. It’s not easy admitting defeat when it comes to being a mom. Even admitting it was possibly my fault for her passing was too hard.”

  I shake my head at her, having done enough research to know she isn’t to blame.

  She stops me from speaking by continuing. “I went to a therapist after, and I tried, or at least, I thought I had. Being on the couch, speaking with someone about everything that’s wrong with you... that was my downfall. I didn’t want to hear it. Why would I? It wouldn’t change that my mom was gone or that my daughter was, too. It wouldn’t fix me or help me or give me hope. It’d only tear apart my soul to bare it for this man that knew nothing about me.”

  She’s talking in circles, and my confusion has to show.

  “I realize now that I was wrong. He wasn’t someone I was comfortable with. He may have cared clinically, but he didn’t care in a way that resonated with me. The easiest way to explain it would be by saying I didn’t give therapy a real chance. Instead of thriving for closure, I stuck onto everything that ate away what made me me.”

  Tears leak down her face, transferring her pain onto me. Before I know it, she’s wiping my face. I must’ve started crying at some point.

  “Don’t blame yourself for me, ever. It was my choice to not give it a chance. It was me that messed up by abandoning my life for numbness. It was always me, Ace.”

  My heart throbs, or maybe it’s my head that hurts. Hearing her admit it was her is all I ever wanted. I needed her to see she forced me to grow up.

  “You left me all alone, Mom,” I cry. For the first time in years, I truly weep. The tears don’t stop, and the pain just comes harsher with each breath. “You made me raise my little sister and be an adult when you couldn’t bear to be around. You made us orphans because when you checked out, so did Dad.” The words tumble out of me, oozing like the cancerous hatred they’ve become. “He likes to claim he was this amazing person that took care of us while you had shut down, but he didn’t. Just like you, he was consumed. He just didn’t realize it.”

  She hauls me out of my chair and into a hug. We sob together as my heart lets out all the bitterness it held against her.

  “I’m so sorry, baby boy,” she coos, running a thoughtful hand through my hair. It’s been so long since she’s truly hugged me, so long since she’s been my mom.

  “I was so alone,” I admit, my voice small, like the kid I actually am.

  She doesn’t respond but continues to rub my hair and back and shoulders.

  “Seeing you that day you tried to kill yourself broke something in me,” I keep on, not trying to trouble her but attempting to absolve myself of all the hurt. “The tub had blood in it. Your wrists were sliced open.” I shudder, conjuring the memory. “Your skin was so cold.”

  She shakes, her whimpers the only acknowledgement that she’s present and hearing what I’m saying.

  “Knowing you didn’t want to live, didn’t want to be my mom anymore... I hated you for it.”

  “B-Baby,” she chokes, pulling away to look at my face. “I’ll always be your mom. I’ve never not wanted to be. My mind and heart couldn’t handle life any longer. I couldn’t stand the thought of being without them, too.”

  My mind grasps her lackadaisical explanation of depression, but it doesn’t make the pain I experienced go away.

  “You should have tried harder, Mom, tried to get help. Whether it be meds, doctors, or therapy... you should have done more,” I accuse, the anger rising back inside me.

  “You’re right,” she confirms, bringing me back into a tight embrace, “and I will now. I’ll push for better. I’ll be better and work toward fixing all the pain I’ve caused you, Jazzy, and your father.”

  I nod, hoping she’ll take action this time and her words aren’t just empty promises again.

  “You miss him,” I offer.

  She shakes her head, but her eyes tell another story. She loves him. After it all—the agony, the grief, the lies—she still cares.

  “That sadness I mentioned is there. Does he help with it? Does he heal you?”

  Her eyes close. It’s like she’s braving herself to lie to me. She doesn’t want me to know she needs his love as much as he needs hers. They’re fated that way. Horrible together but destroyed apart.

  “I’ll always love him,” she whispers, wiping away stray tears. “He’s my soul. He keeps me together, even when I fight him the entire time.”

  Nodding in understanding, I kiss her cheek. “I love you, Mom. For always.”

  She bursts into another fit of sobs, and I know, with those two words Mom and Dad recited to each other over the course of my life, she needs him. Jaz and I won’t be enough.

  I latch onto her, hoping my warmth will seep into her and give her some relief.

  “Loren, honey!” Millie calls out, making me break apart from her. I don’t want her to see me crying like this, and there’s something else I have to do.

  “Mom, I’m going to go back out for a bit,” I mutter. “Clear my head and all.”

  She looks at me like she wants to push, but she doesn’t. Jazzy barrels through, and I’m rushing away before she can ask me why we are both crying.

  I know what I need to do now,
even if what I need to do goes against everything I’ve been fighting for.

  “Dad,” I say when he picks up.

  “Ace,” he finally responds, his voice hoarse and worse for wear.

  “We need to talk.”

  chapter forty-two

  Jase

  We need to talk.

  He called me. Not the other way around.

  For once, my kid was fighting, maybe not for me, us, or himself, but his mom. He’s fighting for her.

  It’s been weeks. Fucking weeks. His voice has changed in that short period, that or I never paid enough attention like a dad is meant to do so.

  He didn’t tell me what he wanted, only that we needed to meet. I would do anything for him, so I asked for a time and place. He said he’d meet me at home, that Gene would bring him.

  It’s been a day, and I’m impatiently waiting for him to get here. Unlike our last conversation, he seems calmer. I don’t think he would forgive me after what he witnessed with Ellie. Knowing my kid can’t stand the sight of me is the worst feeling imaginable. Hatred washed over me every time he saw me, his hatred for me covering me like ink.

  Thirty minutes pass before I hear a car door opening. Fuck. I didn’t even clean up. Yes, weeks later and my house is still a mess. I haven’t slept in our bed since then either, if you could even call what I’m doing sleeping.

  The door opens, and in comes Gene and Ace.

  Gene looks at our wall that once housed an array of family photos but now is beat to shit. His eyes widen, and I go for an excuse, but Ace beats me to it.

  “Don’t worry, Pops. Mom went a little crazy before she left.” He says it like it’s a joke, but the undercurrent of despair is in his face even if he hides it from his voice.

  “I’d never—” I start, but Gene stops me.

  “I believe you.”

  “Gramps, I know you’re, like, caring and shit, but I’m good.”

  I go to scold him for his cursing. Lord knows I was doing much worse at his age, but Gene just laughs and slaps Ace’s back. “I’ve got you, kid. Always.”

  Ace nods, a small smile on his face. “I know. I’ll call you when I’m ready to go.”

  “Where will you go?” I ask Gene, unsure of what he could possibly do in the time.

  “See Toby, of course. He hasn’t called in weeks. I’m worried about him.”

  Weeks. He’s been unreachable for that long? Why is that?

  “I’ll see you boys later. Millie says she loves you, Jase. Stop avoiding her calls.”

  A chuckle escapes me. Mom never ceases to care even when I can’t care about myself.

  Gene comes over to me, bringing me into a hug. “You smell like shit, boy. Clean up and get your life together.”

  Unlike Brant and my father, Gene has filled shoes I never could have. He’s been so supportive and strong and has shown me a way to not hate my mom quite so much. We’re not best friends or anything, but he cares about me and Toby. He has done a lot more than either of our pathetic dads ever did.

  With another laugh, he turns and leaves, waving at Ace.

  I stand here, my stomach now filling with an insane amount of anxiety being alone with my own kid. He’s good at hiding his emotions, like me and Lo, but he’s a stronger version of us.

  A scarier, more volatile version.

  “Want something to eat?” I ask, attempting to break the awkward bubble threatening to swallow us both.

  “Dad, I could cook you under the table in a heartbeat.”

  We share a moment and laugh. Over the course of my relationship with Lo, I never did learn how to cook. There are so many things I took for granted. Cooking is the least of it.

  “Plus, they fed me before dropping me off.”

  After a pause, his face loses the lightheartedness, almost hardening all over again. He starts for the loveseat in the living room, and I go for a glass of tap water, praying for strength. I’ve cut out alcohol since that day, unwilling to be such a loser. You can’t take your life back if you don’t change.

  “So...” I say, stretching out the word, eyeing him casually. He’s not relaxed sitting on the furniture I’ve seen him sit on over and over again. It’s almost like he’s protecting himself with the stiff posture and nonchalant attitude.

  “What happened here?”

  His question is sincere but also laced with confusion and anger, so much anger. How did I not notice before? Was I really that shitty of a parent, unable to see the destruction of my own son?

  “A lot.” I leave it at that. I don’t want him worrying about his mom spiraling. Regardless of what he thinks, I know he pays attention to her, especially after she tried hurting herself all those years ago.

  “Don’t. Like I told Mom before coming here, I’m sick of the lies. Be honest for once in your goddamn life.”

  My eyes connect with his, feeling his temper raising by the second.

  “Okay.” I want to reprimand him and tell him to stop cursing, but I can’t. Not when he willingly came here to try. “Your mom... she left me.” My throat aches with the admittance. My words are barely there, choked with the emotions ripping from the seams.

  “I know,” he says with a nod, like this isn’t news.

  She told him?

  My shock must show because he smiles unapologetically. “She should have left ages ago.”

  It hurts, the words and the wrath behind them. His disgust practically gut punches me.

  “You’re happy she left,” I state, not ask. It’s rhetorical with how pleased he seems.

  “At first,” he admits twining his fingers together, almost fidgeting. “Now...”

  Taking a huge swig of water, wishing it was more potent, I level with him, wanting to know what I’m missing. “Now, what? Is she... is she relapsing?”

  I use the word softly. Lo isn’t into drugs, but the depression is as crippling. It’s a disease. It taints, taunts and leaves no survivors. It doesn’t please. It doesn’t ask. And it doesn’t warn.

  He nods, but then shakes his head. “Not exactly.”

  “You’ve got to give me more than that, kid.”

  “Why do you suddenly care? It’s not like you cared when you stuck your dick in Aunt El or when you kept doing it. Hell, you didn’t care enough to wear condoms and not get her pregnant,” he barks, venom dripping over every word.

  I close my eyes, pain slithering across my skin like a venomous snake bite. If it’d make a difference, I’d tell him I never, not once, went without a condom. But that’s not where the anger is really resonating from, it’s everything adding up.

  “You were a piece of shit, Dad. You ruined her. You ruined our family. You ruined happiness.”

  It feels like there’s so much weight on my chest, as if there was a dog pile, and I was on the bottom, but they made sure the weight remained on my ribcage.

  “I-I’m sorry.” It’s all I can offer. What can I say otherwise? I am a prick for not being enough, for not loving enough, for not fighting enough.

  “It’s too late for that, Dad. You should have been better.”

  He rakes a hand through his hair, pinching the bridge of his nose in the next second. He looks so old and aged here, with too much running rampant in his mind. Kids his age should be hanging out with friends, enjoying their childhood, partying. Not this. Never this.

  “Ace—” I try, but he interrupts.

  “No, let me get this out. While you were fucking a whore—” He shakes his head at me when I go to interrupt him. “Don’t. She’s a whore, and nothing you say can change that. The fact that she burrowed herself into our lives just for the sake of fucking you is pretty whorish.”

  He stands up, grabbing the back of his neck, pacing back and forth.

  “You forced me to grow up, both Mom and you, her with the depression, suicide attempts, and the meds, and you.” His voice drips with disdain. “You made me realize men are pigs. When their women need them most, they walk away. When life gets hard, they don’t care. When
someone easy and nice to look at comes along, they spread their legs. You ruined my depiction of what a man should be. How am I supposed to grow up and be a man someday, have children, and be able to do what you never taught me? Words are just words, Dad, so before you get on your high horse and spew your BS about how you told me how to be good, your actions showed the exact opposite. I admired you, looked up to you. You were my hero, but one day, you took that away from me. I thought it was when I came home to a nearly dead mother, but I’ve realized it wasn’t then.”

  He stops pacing long enough to peer at me with barely abated hatred.

  “It was the first time I saw Aunt El touch you. I was about thirteen. It’d already been three years since Lilac and Grandma. Mom had put me to sleep. She was doing better, smiling more, being less robotic. The light was barely lit, but it was thriving in her heart. It was really late. You and Mom weren’t talking, but that was more due to the fact that you were never home anymore. That night, when you did come home, you were ragged and almost like you were drunk, but you were quiet.”

  He glares down at me in my seated position, the tick in his jaw flickering fast.

  “I’d woken up, thirsty for some reason. Not wanting to wake Mom, I snuck into the kitchen to get a glass of milk. At the door, you stood there whispering to someone. Thinking it was Mom, I creeped around the kitchen island. The thing was, it wasn’t Mom. It was Aunt El.”

  He blows out a long breath, like this is hurting him more than me. I don’t even recall this night. There were so many I spent drinking until I couldn’t walk and hanging out with Ellie just to have someone to talk to.

  “Well, Dad,” he deadpans, like there’s some quick catchphrase or joke coming, but there’s not. This is real life with real situations and real problems. “She grabbed your wrist, looking you in the eyes like Mom looks at you, and then she kissed your cheek. But unlike my smaller brain from before, I thought she was saying goodbye nicely. Now, though, I know it’s because you and her were cheating long before Gray told me.”

  Out of all that, the thing that connects is her name.

  “Gray told you?” I merely whisper, knowing she would eventually tell someone. I just didn't think it would be Ace.