by R. S. Elliot
“You want me to take you home?” I ask.
“No. I mean, yes,” she stammers. “Just, not home-home.”
“You can come home with me.”
She’s trembling. I resist the urge to pull her into my arms. “Yeah, I’ll just get my stuff. Would you give me a few minutes alone with my mother, please?”
“Of course.” I make my way out into the reception area. Three women monitor the counter. I check once over my shoulder to ensure Aly is nowhere in earshot. I shouldn’t be doing this behind her back. But she has to see reason. We can’t take care of everything on our own.
Even I’m slowly learning that lesson.
“What can I help you with?” one of the receptionists asks.
If Aly never talks to me over this, it will still be worth it to know she’ll have some relief.
“Can you put me in touch with your billing department? I’d like to make an anonymous donation.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Aly
The first time my mother did something like this was three years after my father’s death.
It hit me hard, came out of nowhere. I knew she’d been sad for a long time. How could she not? She had just lost her soulmate, and things were never the same again after that.
After that, we lived in constant fear of losing the house. In constant fear of the phone ringing because we were trying to avoid debt collectors. I finally arranged something with them after the first year, once I’d started working. That eased some of the stress.
Until it didn’t.
I had spent so much time with my head down, just trying to get from one paycheck to the next, keeping my grades up, applying for scholarships, keeping the house in order. Mom had checked out. She went to work. She came home. Sometimes she would stare at the old magnolia tree my father planted when they moved in. Just sit there for hours, as though she could imagine him still standing there beside it.
When you lose someone you love, it isn’t the anniversaries or birthdays that hurt the most. Not like you’d think. Even the holidays are so full of chaos and family and friends, you aren’t left alone for too long with your thoughts.
It’s those tiny triggers instead that make you crumble. You draw out his features in another person’s face. Maybe a conversation sparks a half-forgotten, inane memory you suddenly treasure. Someone’s voice, their cologne is the same as his.
That’s how it happened.
It wasn’t a holiday, not an anniversary. It completely caught me off-guard. And there was nothing I could have done to prevent it. Someone simply came to the hospital where my mother worked wearing the same cologne as my father.
She drove home that night, parked the car in the garage, left the motor running, and never got out.
Not until I came home and found her. That was the first time we realized how bad things had been for her.
“You’re quiet,” Zach says beside me.
I haven’t said a word since we got in the car. “Did you fall asleep?”
“No,” I speak into the window. “Just thinking.”
“Not beating yourself up about this, are you?”
Is it the psychology degree or how well he knows me that forces him to ask this question? “What else am I supposed to do? I should have been there with her. I should have recognized what was going on.”
He reaches across the center console and squeezes my hand. “This isn’t your fault. You can’t control everything your mother does. What? Do you expect you’ll be able to when she gets out? Watch her for twenty-four hours a day?”
“I could certainly try.” I yank my hand away. If I was looking for a pep talk, this was the furthest thing from it. “At least I’d be there when something happens.”
“And when you’re not? I mean, what happens if you need to sleep? You going to hire someone to watch her then?”
All the points he’s making are valid. I would have to sleep eventually. Even if I stayed up for the first forty-eight hours, I’d nod off keeping watch at some point. And then what would happen? Am I never to go back to work again? I would need to still take care of her. I can’t afford a psychiatric facility. She isn’t crazy. Just sad.
Even if he is making sense, I’m in no mood to hear it. “Zach, I’m not looking for a reasonable solution at the moment. If I wanted your input on the matter, I would have asked.”
“You can get mad at me all you want, Aly. But I’m not letting you go down this path.”
The car stops.
He’s pulled over into a parking space along the street. When he faces me, the icicles clinging to the edges of my heart begin to thaw. I’ve shut everyone out this past couple of days, including Lyndsey. A method of self-preservation to keep me from dealing with emotions too intense to handle.
He leans across the console and takes me by the shoulder. His warm green eyes look more like emeralds than jade in this lighting as they lock over mine. “There was nothing you could have done. There is still nothing you can do. Other than getting her the help she needs.”
And what help are they going to prescribe her that we can afford? Antidepressants? Maybe a therapy session once a month? And what is she supposed to do the other twenty-nine days in between sessions? “I need more assurances than medicine and therapy. She was on medicine before. It didn’t help”
“It’s not assurance you need, Aly. It’s control. And you’re not going to get it.”
His words strike me like a slap to the face. Fine, I’ll admit it. I want control. Is there something so wrong with that?
You can’t control everything.
I know I can’t control all the singular factors in my life. But I should be able to control the one remaining parent I have.
What are you going to do? Put her in a little plastic bubble-like some control-freak parent?
My God. The revelation hits me. When did I become the parent? When did I start treating my mother like a child? Even parents must let go of their children every now and then.
“We have as little control over the lives of others as we do on making the world stop,” Zach adds. The roughness in his voice makes me think he’s speaking from personal experience. Someone with Zach’s influence and inexhaustible wealth must have very little trouble controlling everything around him. Yet the pain I see there behind his eyes, the one he is trying so artfully to mask, tells a different story. One I long to hear now more than anything.
“Then what am I supposed to do?” I ask.
“You make sure she has everything she needs,” he says. “You can even ask the doctor about placing her in a facility for a few weeks until the medicine finally kicks in. Then you have to stop placing all the blame on your shoulders.”
I nod. He’s right. Once my mother is recovered, there isn’t much I can do to help her other than meet the recommendations made by the doctor. Maybe with the charity up and running, I’ll be able to admit her as my first patient.
We arrive at a tall iron gate with a security station separating the entrance from the exit on the left. The guards wave to Zach as he punches a code into a black box one row away from where the officers are standing.
As we pass through the gates and drive down the road, the houses tower above the car like small castles ripped from the pages of a fairytale. Each unique design, though not entirely exclusive in the neighborhood itself, conveys elaborate architectural feats I’ve only seen in historic buildings or travel magazines.
When we arrive at his home, I can no longer contain the awestruck wonder bubbling up inside me. I’ve never seen a house this large. You could easily fit four of my mother’s home inside this one. I can’t imagine why someone would need this much space for one person. Though I suppose coming from a billionaire’s perspective, this is a downgrade.
The interior of his home leaves me breathless. For all the personal artifacts he lacks in his office and apartment in the city, his home could not be more filled with memories. One wall displays a series of degrees, each one encase
d in a silver frame.
“You went to medical school?” I ask, stopping at one degree in particular.
Zach is standing by a drink cart on the opposite side of the room. He’s pouring himself something from a brown bottle. “It was the only way my father would let me get my degree in psychology. The advantage is, I suppose, I am now a licensed psychiatrist. So I will always have that to fall back on.”
I continue my perusal of his things. Beautiful mementos from around the world line the shelves of one bookcase, alongside paintings and pictures to commemorate each adventure. Places I want to see, to explore for myself. Places I will likely only ever dream about visiting.
Another area showcases carefully selected photos. They would have to be. I mean, who actually prints out photos anymore? I recognize Derek and Marianne the quickest. One looks like a wedding photo with Derek and Marianne, while another shows Derek beside Zach in similar attire.
“You were in the wedding party, I see.”
Zach tips his glass outward. “I was the best man.”
“Oh.” I pretend as though I’ve just offended him. “I’m sorry.”
“Well, I don’t like to brag,” he says. “But I’m kind of a big deal.”
I laugh, feeling the tension and worry slowly leave my body. This is good being here, being away from home. With him.
My eyes inventory the remaining photos, instantly wanting to know all the stories behind them, wanting to know more about Zach and what makes him cherish each and every one of these photos. One woman appears in multiples. A lovely older woman with the same beautiful sandy brown hair as Zach. She doesn’t look a day over forty, though Zach doesn’t have any siblings. So it must be his mother.
The heat of his body brushes against my back. He’s moved so close that every nerve within me suddenly sparks to life. I turn to face him. His eyes shift from the photos to me. A tenderness lingers there, almost as if he’s enjoying watching my eyes light up with wonder at his photos.
“Your mother, I take it?” I point to the woman in the photo.
He nods and takes a sip from his glass.
“Who’s the man next to her?” It doesn’t look like his father. In fact, I don’t see any photos of his father anywhere amongst the other pictures.
Zach growls lowly, then turns back toward the drink cart. “He’s our groundskeeper.”
“You have photos of your groundskeeper in your home?” Maybe I had his perspective of service people all wrong.
“He’s been with the family for decades. My mother and he are old friends. I just-” He struggles for the right words. I get the feeling that I'm missing something bigger here. Some dark underlying issues I can’t compute. “She just looks so happy, so...you know.”
He holds the bottle in his hands up to me.
I shake my head. Not after what happened last time. I think I’ve sworn off drinking forever. Even though it wasn’t the alcohol and Zach would never do anything like that to me, I don’t want to take any chances. I want to remember being here with him. Every moment I have left with him, for as long as I can.
“First impressions?” he asks, lifting a finger toward the house.
I haven’t even seen the other rooms, but I’m already completely floored. If this were my home, I would never want to leave. “It isn’t what I’d imagined.”
“And what did you imagine?”
“Something bigger,” I tease. “Something more secluded. A dark, Gothic castle somewhere up on a mountaintop.”
An amused grin lifts one corner of his mouth, and he slowly closes the distance between us. “Yes well, a dark, Gothic castle in the middle of California probably wouldn’t be the most inconspicuous place to hide. And I don’t really need a big space for just me. Plus, it’s a secure neighborhood, and they do a good job of keeping out the press.”
His eyes examine my face, peering into my soul for all I can tell.
Can he see the longing there? Does he know how badly I want him to take me in his arms and make all of this nonsense go away?
“How are you holding up?” he asks.
“I don’t know.” Because I don’t. How am I supposed to recover from something like this? I won’t be able to sleep knowing I could wake up to a phone call like the one I received on Saturday. A call that tells me my whole life has changed again. And I’m all alone in the world.
“There’s all this mix of emotions that I can’t seem to get a hold of.”
I take a seat on the nearby couch. “One second, I’m crying my eyes out, and in the next second, I’m angry with my mother for what she’s done and how she’s made me feel. Then I feel guilty for even feeling that.”
Zach takes a seat beside me. The warmth radiating off of his body already gives me comfort, just by him being so close. “That’s normal.”
Is it? Because I’m starting to feel completely insane. “It’s like five people inside me all telling me different things. I did everything I could to try to balance my mom out. I helped her with the bills. I would come by once or twice a week to help her clean and make her meals for the week.”
How was I supposed to know it wasn’t helping? I was treating her like a child. How was she supposed to get any better with me treating her like that? Somewhere along the lines, we switched roles: me becoming the parent, her becoming the child. It was only natural these roles be reversed at some point in life. But my mother’s only in her forties. It couldn’t have been a great boost to her ego to see her twenty-one-year-old daughter fussing over her all the time. Like she’s already got one foot in the grave.
I sigh.
Great, I’ve been enabling my mother all this time. “Recently, she just seemed like she had everything under control. All the dishes were clean when I would come over. She was taking care of herself. There wasn’t any clutter, everything looked organized. So I thought, you know, she’s fine, she doesn’t really need me that much.”
“So what happened?”
Lies. She was trying to hide from me and my enabling ways. She didn’t want me to see how bad things had really gotten. She knew I’d come in and try to fix everything. And that’s the last thing a person trying to keep everything together needs. Someone criticizing how they live their life. I did it out of love, of course. But had I gotten to the point of making her feel like I was judging her?
“I guess she hired a local kid from down the street to come to clean the house once a week,” I explain. “Some high school girl. That was the one who found her. I thought she was getting her life together, but apparently, it was all an act.”
“She probably just didn’t want to worry you.”
Probably.
It doesn’t hurt any less. “I thought that when my father died, that was the worst thing that could ever happen to me. And then, the first time she tried to hurt herself, I just...I realized how little of my happiness was in my own hands.”
“Aly…”
Zach’s fingers stroke my cheeks. It’s the first time I realize I’m crying. I dab at my lids. Not a full-blown sob, just a small drizzle. For now. Panic emerges alongside my need to expel these feelings of sadness. I can’t hold back the tears for much longer, but I can’t pretend like this isn’t ripping me apart.
“I know I can’t control what she does,” I say, withholding another teardrop. “I know I can’t control what happens to anyone I care about, but I am terrified of losing her. I’m terrified of being alone.”
“You’re not going to be alone. Lyndsey is here for you. Even Marianne has taken to you. She keeps going on about all the things you guys are going to do together. All the families you’re going to help.”
Zach’s hand cups my chin, moving my face to meet his. “And I’m here for you. Whenever you need me. I’m not going anywhere.”
I laugh wryly, the sound coming out in a harsh scoff. “Until your fiancée snaps her fingers, right? How do you think this relationship is going to work once you’re married?”
How easily he’s forgotten.
I’m jealous. Fine. I can admit it. But I’m not in danger of falling in love with this man. Because I already am.
“Aly,” Zach whispers. “I broke it off with Chloe. There never was anything between us. I just couldn’t go through with it, knowing I would never see you again.”
“But your mother…”
Zach lifts one hand upward. “I offered her a way out. If she doesn’t take it, then I can’t be responsible for what she deems important or not.”
I guess I’m not the only one coming to terms with the fact that I can’t control what my parents do. “I’m so sorry, Zach.”
“For what?”
His brow dips low at the center of his forehead. The pale green in his gaze softens like mint green marshmallows. His concern for me melts the remaining barriers encircling my icy heart. “Aly, you have to stop blaming yourself for things that are not your responsibility. It’s okay to want things for yourself. It’s okay to want to do things because they make you happy, not just because you need to do them to take care of your responsibilities.”
I’ve never done that before. The words sound almost crazy.
His or yours?
I’m not sure. Wanting to do something for me seems like a luxury only people with money have. I haven’t made it to that level of the pyramid, yet, the one that says my dreams are as important as my food and shelter. And yet, a small part of me knows that isn’t fair either. What kind of life am I living if I never enjoy it?
“What do you want to do?” Zach asks.
A dangerous question.
“What do you want more than anything else?”
The thunder of thoughts in my head is matched by the roaring flood of blood surging upward. Right now, all I can think of is one thing. Something I never should have let go of once I had it.