Sick & Tragic Bastard Son

by Rowan Massey

  I had an urge that swelled my insides—an urge to blurt out things he shouldn’t know about.

  Sometimes I hallucinate. Actually, every day. Now I’m having blackouts. I take drugs so I can be normal around you.

  Did I do anything crazy?

  There I was with my complicated plans to lie effectively, but he could see plain as day that I was upset. I was weak.

  “Hey, what is it?” he asked, and rubbed my chest. “Did you really get scared?”

  I nodded.

  “Do you wake up next to strangers much?”

  There was no judgement in his voice, just a question.

  “Not exactly.” I hooked up with a lot of guys, probably every halfway decent gay guy in the area, plus all of the kinky ones, and a few married ones, but I never ended up spending the night with them. That was part of what had made it scary as fuck.

  “Well, you’re exactly with me tonight, so don’t worry about it, baby.” He kissed my cheek, and I had a small thrill from him call me baby. Some guys call everyone baby, but he wasn’t that type. “Let’s get some sleep, okay?”

  “Yeah. Sorry.”

  “It’s alright.”

  He laid in the same position he’d been in when I’d woken up, and that was that. I stared into the dark for a while, trying to believe that I could stay right there indefinitely. If I had a brain tumor, its insanity wouldn’t get in the way, my lies could be pulled off without hurting anyone any further, and Lottie would stay out of it. I fell asleep convincing myself that there were no worries.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Clay Age 38

  “LET ME MAKE your coffee. I’ve been making my mom’s coffee since I could walk. I’m a pro. Coffee is my specialty. How do you take it? Wait, how many scoops do you usually put in?”

  As soon as Zander was done with his morning piss and had brushed his teeth, he’d started acting nervous. He was hurrying himself around my kitchen as if coffee was his mission in life, opening all the cabinets and drawers to find the things he needed. It was a bit much ten minutes after waking up, and I wanted to grab him and make him relax, but if making coffee and asking me endless questions made him happy, he could go ahead. I didn’t even want coffee or anything else yet, but I couldn’t complain.

  I sat at the table, propped my head on my fist, and gave him instructions. We’d woken up late, which was easy to do in my dark basement bedroom. I usually slept around four hours a night. My sleepless brain was an anomaly that allowed me to become a very productive workaholic. Having Zander there, even after he woke me up the way he had, had a calming affect on me. It was nice to be needed. I couldn’t believe I’d fallen asleep again after waking. Maybe it was the sex.

  My eyes closed, and in my mind’s eye, I saw him naked in my kitchen, moving around with those slightly jittery movements, bare feet making little padding noises on the linoleum. The image made me smile, almost laugh. When I opened my eyes to say something flirtatious, the coffee was percolating and he had turned to look at me with wide eyes.

  “Why do you get nervous with me?” I asked gently. I put my hand out to touch him, even though he was too far. He slowly reached his arm out and gave me his slim hand but didn’t step closer. “Come on.” I pulled on his arm. He gave in, taking the two little steps it took to close the gab between us. Lifting his shirt up, I kissed his belly.

  “Do you feel better today?” he asked.

  Instead of answering, I hugged him and let him pull his fingers through my messy hair. I didn’t feel especially better. The pain had gone from searing to aching, but it was still there inside me.

  “We should talk about you next time,” I said. “Enough about me.”

  “Nah.”

  He pulled away and got two mugs from the cabinet near the sink, even though the coffee would take several minutes longer. When he handled them he had one hand in a fist. What in the world was he tense about? Was it about the way he’d woken me up in the middle of the night scared? I hadn’t minded.

  Remmy came to my side like he did every day whenever I started a brew. Years back, we’d gotten into a habit of giving each other attention during my little coffee breaks, but he was pressing close to my leg, probably insecure about someone else taking up my attention. I leaned down to hug his furry head to my chest and scratch his neck. I gave him a little bit of murmured baby talk out of habit before catching myself. It was kind of embarrassing to sound so silly.

  Zander quickly put something in his mouth. I wouldn’t have seen it if I hadn’t glanced up at the right moment. Had he taken a pill? His jaw worked slightly, there was a barely audible crunch, and he swallowed.

  I was a little alarmed by it. I figured I should probably ask, just for the sake of being responsible about STDs, keeping lines of communication open about health, and all that.

  Getting to my feet, I approached him with attentive movements. He turned to me and smiled unconvincingly. He tried to hug me, probably just to hide his face, but I stepped back a little and tried to get him to look me in the eye.

  “Did you take a pill just now?” I asked with gentleness, careful not to sound paranoid about it.

  There was only a flicker of change in his expression. I would have said he didn’t react at all, but his chest worked harder to pull in air. He put a hand in his pocket and drew something out in his fist. There were two circular, white pills in his palm.

  “It’s just an anxiety thing,” he said. “I think one fell out somewhere, but it’s no big deal.”

  My thoughts turned immediately to Remmy. I looked down at him, and he perked up his ears.

  “It’s kind of a big deal when you drop pills around a dog.”

  “Oh, shit,” he stared at Remmy with horror and hurried toward the living room. “I’ll find it. I can find it.”

  When I followed him into the next room, he was running a hand under the affixed couch cushions where it had to be a gritty landscape. I went over and patted his lower back.

  “Hey, don’t get all worked up. It’s around here somewhere.”

  He didn’t respond, only got on his knees and started looking around under furniture. I took Remmy by the collar and led him into Lottie’s room, where I left him, but not before looking him in his calm and brown doggy eyes, and becoming satisfied that he didn’t seem drugged. When I got back to Zander, he was pale and sitting slouched and limp, a throw pillow hugged close. He held up his hand, which had lint stuck to it, and showed me the pill between his thumb and forefinger.

  I went and sat next to him, throwing an arm around his shoulders.

  “Glad you found it that easy,” I said. “I was afraid we’d have to get into all the nooks and crannies.”

  “I’m so sorry. I would have never forgiven myself if I killed your dog. I’ll never do that again.”

  I had a sense he was going to carry on, so I stopped him.

  “I don’t think it would have killed him,” I reassured. “He’s eaten all kinds of things and survived.”

  He put the pill in his pocket, pushing it deep, and wiped at his brow.

  “I fuck up so much,” he said quietly.

  I hated to see him feeling small, despairing. I hugged him and tried to get him looking at me, but he wouldn’t.

  “Who made you think you’re a fuck-up?” I asked into his ear, suspecting that it was his father. “Will you tell me about it?”

  He was silent, but put a hand on my leg and squeezed. When he raised his head, the look he gave me was wrought with pain. I remembered growing up with the same lack of belief in myself, convinced I was worthless to everyone.

  “If anybody knows what it’s like to be fuck up, it’s me. And losing a pill? That’s called being human. You’re not a fuck-up.” I told him.

  “Well, you don’t know much about me.”

  “I want to.”

  He stared into space a moment before answering. “There’s something wrong with me. It’s getting worse. I’m not sure what we did last night after the movie. It’
s getting hard to remember things. I’ve probably always been crazy or something.”

  His voice was almost a monotone, slow and deliberate.

  “What? I don’t understand. What do you not remember?”

  “Sometimes I have false memories. Especially when I was a kid, I couldn’t tell between dreams or daydreams and real life. The problem didn’t start right after I woke up from a dream, but weeks later. Anyway, now apparently I’m having blackouts or something. I think I remember that we basically just went to sleep, but last time it happened, I jumped right through time and didn’t end up remembering what I’d been up to.”

  His hand kept moving up to his lips and back to his lap, and he was blinking with unnatural deliberateness.

  “This started when you were a child?” I asked.

  He nodded. I wasn’t sure what to think or what to say. It sounded serious. I hugged him and kissed his head. His shoulders heaved once, shakily, and he seemed to force himself to relax.

  “You really didn’t know where you were,” I said, thinking out loud.

  “I just woke up with a man. I didn’t know it was you. Pretty scary.”

  I couldn’t imagine.

  “I’ll put a night light in there next time so you can see who I am right away if it happens again.”

  He shook his head and straitened up, rejecting my embrace. “It won’t happen again. I’m good.”

  He stood abruptly and escaped into the kitchen. Wanting to get myself together, I sat there a few seconds, thinking, then went and let Remmy out of Lottie’s room. He jumped around a little, acting like I’d been away much longer than I had.

  I heard the slurpy sound of Zander pouring coffee into mugs. I hesitated before going into the kitchen. There were a lot of questions to be asked, but I also wanted to be sure he wasn’t telling me more than he was comfortable with. What he described sounded terrifying. It would be hard for anyone to talk about. I stepped forward and stood leaning in the doorway. He was putting one and a half spoonfuls of sugar in each cup, making his to match the way I’d told him I liked mine. When he brought it over to me with his head down, I had an urge that I knew was stupid and unrealistic. I wanted—needed—to fix him. Maybe it was because I was tired of trying to fix myself, and improving someone else’s experience of life sounded somehow less daunting.

  We stood there two feet from each other and blew on our coffees. They were way too hot to drink yet.

  “What do the doctors say?” I asked, keeping a compassionate tone.

  “Oh, they…they say to take my pills.” He glanced up at me, then back down into his cup.

  “You don’t have to tell me. I’m just worried. Also, it’s not going to scare me off. Having a mental illness doesn’t make you a fuck-up.”

  He finally looked at me steadily. “I think, in my case, it is my fault.”

  “I’m pretty sure it doesn’t work that way. Ever.”

  “I make stupid choices and then it gets worse because I’m stressing out.” He gripped his mug with both hands and shook his head in frustration.

  “What choices? Never mind, let’s chat in the living room.”

  I motioned for him to follow me, and he did. Sitting shoulder to shoulder again, I put my mug on a coaster and shooed Remmy away from it.

  “Maybe you could use somebody to bounce ideas off of,” I suggested. “What kind of choices are you talking about?”

  His mouth opened, but then he shut it and bit at his lip. I let him sit and think about it.

  “My…my…dad. It’s about my dad.”

  He had such anguish and terror evident in his features that it frightened me. What could he possibly be about to tell me that would merit so much anxiety?

  “Okay,” I coaxed. “Keep going.”

  “No, forget it. Sorry. You haven’t even gotten a chance to take a shower and read your morning book or whatever.”

  I laughed. “My morning book?”

  He shrugged, wincing, and I regretting laughing.

  “Seriously, it’s fine. Keep going.”

  “I can’t. I really can’t tell you. I wish I could tell you everything. Like, about my whole life, but I can’t. Okay?”

  His eyes went to the mantel where Lysander’s old photo still sat. It was a sobering thing for him to decide to look at.

  “Is it about your dad abandoning you?” I asked.

  He turned his face away and scratched the back of his head.

  “I thought so…” he said. “But now I don’t think he did anything wrong. Actually, you helped me understand that he isn’t a bad person at all.”

  “Really? I’m glad.”

  Trying to piece together his story wasn’t going to be easy. I had a lot of questions, but he was looking increasingly overwhelmed. I took his mug from his fingers, set it next to mine, and gave him a big bear hug, making him oof a little, but he didn’t pull away.

  “Thank you,” he whispered. “You’re kind of amazing.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Zander Age 18

  I LEFT CLAY’S strangely calmed by my vague confession. In the hour before I left, he hugged me or kissed me every few minutes. He seemed to keep thinking that just one more hug might cure me of all my anxieties, and he wasn’t wrong. Each time his arms snaked around me, I trusted him a little more. I trusted myself too. By the time I said goodbye, I did feel a little cured.

  My mind was working with precision after taking one of my pills. I understood that he loved Lysander, and he liked Zander just fine, but that didn’t mean he was in love with Lysander, or me, or anyone else. And yes, I was completely in love with him. Freely embracing that fact felt better than fighting it. I also loved having my dad in my life since he was such a good person. If I rejected the conflicts in my situation and just enjoyed what I was experiencing with Clay, I could be grateful for what I had, which was love. Accepting everything as it was in reality gave me confidence.

  It was a Saturday, so I had the day to kill. I drove home, planning on getting a shower and getting in touch with Lottie to see if she wanted to hang out again. When I got home, still clear and high from my time with Clay, I walked into the house and sensed something weird immediately. It stopped me in my tracks. The place was darkened and oozy. I could smell Mom’s cigarettes, as always, but the air was curling with smoke. She didn’t usually smoke indoors.

  Alright, so she was stressed or something. That shouldn’t have been alarming, but I kept still and peered into the slick shadows around every piece of furniture. The creepiness of someone or something watching me, lurking, could have been written off as just a smudge of insanity, but I found myself wandering through the kitchen to have a look around, checking to see if Mom was sitting at the table or on the back patio. She wasn’t there.

  The TV was on in the living room, so I went and turned it off. Again, I stood there and tried to see clues to what I was sensing, but everything was visually normal, besides the shadows reminding me of that Lovecraftian other dimension. I walked down the hallway and checked her bedroom and bathroom. It was a tiny house, and there was no other place for her to be. She was out. It wasn’t like her not to be in bed all day on a Saturday. Maybe I’d ask her about it later, but I probably wouldn’t bother.

  When I went into my room, I had a sense of emptiness. After being at Clay’s place, it hit me for the first time how much it looked like a squatter was living in my bedroom. The dirty white walls had seemed refreshing for a long time, but there I was wondering how much a bucket of paint might cost. I shook my head, rejecting the idea. I wasn’t wasting my cash on that kind of nonsense. The wholesome act I’d been putting on was just getting to me.

  Opening my phone to edit my notes felt like something I could have done blinded. I checked my notes extremely often to make sure I was lying correctly. I wrote down, “Don’t forget the real me”.

  I took my shoes off, kicking them into a corner, and headed for the bathroom. The fact that the door was closed should have tipped me off to somethin
g, but I opened it and walked in with my mind distracted. I was playing scenes from the night before on repeat.

  Mom was in the bath, curtain drawn most of the way, arm resting along the rim. I startled so badly that my arms shot out as if I needed to defend myself. I couldn’t see her face, but the water sloshed and her hand gripped the edge of the tub.

  “Holy shit! Sorry! Jesus! Sorry!” I kept on like that even after backing up and shutting the door. Why the fuck was she using my tub? Was her shower fucked up or something? I didn’t even know she took baths. There had been a strange smell to the steaming water that reminded me of when some woman at Mom’s work had started making candles and giving them away. It had smelled like a musty closet mixed with cheap air freshener. Maybe she had used a shitty bath bomb or something.