by Bradon Nave
“Bish. How are you, dear?”
“Oh…hey, Mom.”
Dressed in a simple sundress, his mother maintained her elegance effectively. At her side was her houseguest, a woman dressed anything but simple. “Bishop, you remember Dr. Monica Holms?”
“Um…I don’t believe so.”
Standing to greet the flashy woman, Bishop set his empty glass aside.
“I remember you when you were just a tot. Absolutely precious.”
“Oh…well, thank you.” As he shook her hand he studied her face—attempting to recollect a memory of her.
“Bishop, Dr. Holms has been a friend for years. I learned just last month she’d be practicing per-diem in the area.”
“Oh…well, I guess that’s good. Can never have too many friendly faces. What’s your specialty, Dr. Holms?”
“Please, call me Monica. I’m a psychiatrist.”
Her gentle smile was anything but alarming or intrusive, yet Bishop understood exactly the nature of this impromptu introduction of his mother’s long-lost colleague.
Diverting eye contact while assuring to maintain his smile, Bishop basked in the sun and awkward silence that fell about the scene for nearly five seconds.
“Your mother is treating me to dinner this evening, Bishop…won’t you join us?”
“Um…yeah, sure. I don’t have any plans.”
“Fantastic. I’m interested to learn of your plans to repatriate South Africa.”
“Oh, well I’m definitely still in the planning phase.”
“Aren’t we all?”
“Guess so.”
“It was excellent re-meeting you, Bishop. I’m afraid I’ll need to head indoors to escape the heat.”
“Nice meeting you too.”
With Monica’s back to him, Bishop attempted diligently to shoot his mom a look of disapproval. The glance fell flat to the pavement as she failed to make eye-contact—perhaps intentionally.
Both ladies safely inside and free of the sun, Bishop was free to continue detoxing. Returning to the poolside, Bishop closed his eyes—squeezed them shut. The backs of either eyelid glowing a dull red as he inhaled deeply through his nose—clenching his teeth as the sun beat down atop his head. Either arm extended to his side, fingertips pointing opposite of each other, he blindly fell forward, the water forcefully slapping his front.
The stinging and numbing was brief. He surfaced to look to the sky—bright, blue and endless. Always there, yet never constant, the sky seemed to have mastered the art of adjustment. A silly thought, but a thought just the same.
This change would be for the best…it had to be for the best.
***
“Bishop, your mother tells me you won’t be ordering the lobster.” Monica Holms was dressed in an extravagant ensemble. Seated across from Bishop and his mother at the pricey restaurant, she smiled and awaited Bishop’s reply.
“Nope. No lobster for me.”
“You have a kind heart.”
“Yeah. Maybe.”
The greenery on his plate was completely disheveled as Bishop moved the salad around with his fork—very little had made it to his mouth.
“Albert?”
“Ha…I take it Mom told you about that.”
“She certainly did. I think it’s priceless.”
Clattering, clinging, and numerous young athletic wait staff boasting brilliant-white aprons and loud voices as they whisked by—made it all for an almost claustrophobic environment.
“I guess. I was only nine.”
“So you think your actions would differ now? Would you have saved Albert now?”
Placing his fork atop his plate, he looked to Monica and shook his head. “I would have smashed his claws off.”
His words halted the conversation momentarily and eased the smile from Monica’s face.
“Albert…the lobster. I should have taken his claws off before I let him go. Maybe then if he got caught again they wouldn’t keep him and just toss him back.”
“Oh. Well, you don’t think he might have needed them?”
“They’d have grown back…eventually.”
“Aw, I see. Well hopefully Albert learned his lesson the first time and doesn’t get captured again.”
Only offering a simple smile, Bishop returned to the mutilation of his salad.
“You’re not eating, Bish.” His mother’s soft words were coupled with her hand on his shoulder.
“Stomach’s bothering me.”
“You should have said something. I have Imodium.” As his mother reached for her purse, Bishop smiled, stretched, and looked to the light fixture hanging in the center of the table.
“I don’t have diar…I don’t need Imodium, Mom.”
“Oh…heartburn?”
“Nah. I drank too much last night. Got pretty hammered. The gut’s not likin’ it today.”
The silence at the table said it all. Both women were taken aback by his passive proclamation. “What? That’s why we’re here, isn’t it?”
“I beg your pardon?” Monica sat her fork down as her tone and expression developed a seriousness they’d previously lacked.
“Mom thinks I’m not dealing…or coping. She thinks I’m drinking too much and asked you for help. Right?”
“Bish…honey, please.”
“Mom…I’m not mad or anything. I get it. I’m just saying let’s cut the bullshit and just…I dunno. Let’s just get to it.”
“Get to it?” Almost instantly, Monica’s stature took on a professional and even clinical demeanor.
“If my mom is worried enough to ask for your help then I’ll do whatever it is you think I need to do. I’ll come see you or go wherever.”
The noise continued around them, but Bishop was left feeling isolated with his mother and Monica—as if the table were in an empty building.
“Bishop, I don’t believe you need to go anywhere. I do however feel it may be beneficial to meet with me one on one at least once. Nothing too intense, and if needed, maybe I can refer you to a colleague after.”
“Okay.” Looking to his salad plate once more, Bishop found the kiss his mother planted on his cheek comforting rather than intrusive or embarrassing.
“My sweet boy. Would you like some cake? Maybe that will sit well with you.”
“Sure.”
Chapter Ten
Just as the story hinted at a climax, Alex caught the sound of some awkward singing outside her apartment. Nearly ten in the evening, she assumed the serenade to be that of some drunken fool making their way to their bed.
Setting her book on side table, she stood from her recliner and crept cautiously to the front door as the singing got louder.
Within seconds, a boisterous Tyson burst through singing his rendition of Beyoncé’s “Drunken Love.”
Nearly horrified, Alex stepped back, unsure of what to think of her brother’s bizarre behavior.
“Tyson! Are you insane? There are people trying to sleep.”
“Sorry, Sis.” As he made his way past her, she noticed the large grin on his face and cocky swagger about his walk.
“What’s with you? I take it your date went well?”
“Oooohhhh yeah. Amazing.”
Deadbolt locked, she turned to her smug brother. “I hope you’re using protection.”
“Do wha…Alex! I didn’t mean it was…she’s not like that. It wasn’t like that.”
“Damn, Ty. Calm down. And for God’s sake don’t ever sing that song again. I thought something was eating the neighbor’s cat.”
The smirk of disapproval on his face assured her he was less than impressed with the scolding.
“How’d it go?”
“Good.”
“Care to elaborate?”
“Nah.”
“Ty…”
“Pasta, bread, salad, she told me she wanted to see me again.”
“Oh? Goodnight kiss?”
“You know it.”
“Aw. See? You’ll be sa
ying my girlfriend before you know it.”
“Hope so.”
“Don’t rush it. You’ve got time.”
Her words seemed to widen his smile. “Well, right now I need to piss before my bladder ruptures.”
Alex emptied the dishwasher as Tyson emerged from the bathroom a few minutes later.
“So I was going to switch weekends with Jenny. Her mom is flying in from Montana—”
The pounding on the front door cut her off as she and Tyson looked toward each other somewhat shocked.
“Tyson! I told you that you were singing too loud!”
“Shit! Alex…what do we tell them?”
“Let me take care of it. Just chill in here and keep your mouth shut.”
Walking to the door, Alex anticipated the apartment manager on the other side; she was surprised to find an officer of the law instead.
“Alexandra Ayers? Are you Alexandra?”
“Yes.”
“Is your brother, Tyson, with you?”
“Yes…what is this about?”
The young male officer—black and humble in appearance—his hat within his hands, appeared to be having difficulty making eye contact.
“Um…may I come in?”
“Yes. Officer, what is this about?”
Tyson cautiously peered toward the scene. “I’m sorry. I was just messin’ around. I wasn’t even being that loud—”
“Hush, Tyson. The officer isn’t here because of your singing; are you?” Alex’s scolding silenced Tyson.
“No ma’am.”
“It’s my mother…isn’t it?”
“Yes ma’am.”
Welcoming the officer in, the three stood quietly a moment.
“When was the last time you spoke to your mom?”
Her palms sweating in her sweatpants pockets, she looked to her brother, and then back to the officer. “It’s been over a week. I spoke with her about a week and a half ago.”
Regardless the initial lack of details, Alex knew the overarching outcome. She knew what the officer would say. It appeared Tyson, however, was still somewhat lost.
“What’s wrong with my mother? Alex…what’s wrong with Mom?”
Slowly, she moved to Tyson, offering a one-armed embrace as she looked yet again to the officer. “Go on. Please tell us.”
The lump in his throat could have been cement; his forehead glistened with tiny beads of perspiration. “Ma’am…at seventeen hundred, we responded to a call from one of your mother’s neighbors. They um…they noticed something. They could smell something.”
“Oh my God! Is my mom dead?” Tyson’s shrieks filled the apartment.
“I’m afraid so.”
Almost instantly Tyson was fleeing to his room as Alex remained steadfast and upright—stoic.
“How?”
“We don’t know yet, ma’am. The Medical Examiner—”
“Speculate.”
Finally—his gaze met hers. “There was an empty bottle of Klonepin and some scotch in bed with her. She’d…she’d been there a bit.”
“Damn her…God damn her! I knew it was only a matter of time. I knew it.”
“I’m so sorry, ma’am.”
“It’s okay. I’m okay. I’m fine I’m just worried about him. He actually liked her.”
The officer appeared almost taken aback by the comment.
“You look tired, Officer. Coffee?”
“Oh…um…yes. That’d be great, ma’am.”
“Have a seat. And don’t call me ma’am. We’re probably the same age.”
Chapter Eleven
Using his thumb and index finger, Bishop instinctively attempted to enlarge the boyish faces of both he and his brother in the Polaroid picture as if it were a smartphone screen. He laughed at himself the second he realized what he was doing.
Seated atop his sloppy bed, he sat among an array of loose photos and old photo albums. The album of particular interest was the Christmas album from when he was nine years old. The family spent the holiday in South Africa and it seemed the entire retreat was well documented as numerous pictures detailed daily events.
The faces of his mother and father boasted a youthful glow to them. Although Bishop was under the impression that his father was quite handsome for his age, he couldn’t help but take note at how much the man had aged. Perhaps the rigorous work schedule he’d maintained had hung additional years on his face.
Recalling such times was beyond bittersweet. It left Bishop smiling one second, and nauseated the next.
Pictures collected and albums returned to the tattered box from which they came; Bishop made his way down the stairs in gyms shorts and a tank top.
“I’m out, Mom.”
“Out of what, Bish?”
“No, silly head. I’m leaving to meet Monica.”
Seemingly put off by her son’s clothing, his mother evaluated him. “You’re meeting her in this attire?”
“That’s not nice, Mom. Yes. I’m meeting her in this attire. It’s after hours.”
“Oh…okay, sweet boy. I didn’t mean…you look fine. But this ensemble gives the impression that you’re on your way to the ball court, not to—”
“Get my head checked? Screws tightened?” His smiled assured his sarcasm.
“Your mind is beautiful, Bishop.”
“Maybe. I’m going to go run around the lake when I get done.”
“Which side?”
“No, like the entire lake.”
“Bishop, it’s twenty miles around the lake.”
“Yes ma’am. Needless to say I’ll be hungry when I get home. We should go eat or something.”
***
“But just then, the moments before you heard what you heard, what words were exchanged exactly, Bishop?”
Monica’s office was located on the fifth floor of a tall building. It was clear she was only there temporarily as there were no endearing articles decorating her walls or desk.
“It’s just really hard to actually talk about I guess. Actually saying it out loud is harder than I thought.”
“That’s understandable, Bishop. Can you try?”
“I’m really not trying to be difficult, promise. I just don’t understand why that piece is so important.”
“I need to get a solid understanding of the details. Please, Bishop, continue.”
Literally forcing the saliva in his throat downward, Bishop looked toward the wall. “Um…it kinda went all fuzzy. I threw on some jeans and was down the stairs when he just really stopped talking. He was there, but just…just not saying anything.”
“What did you say to him then, Bishop?”
“I could hear him crying a little. And I could hear some wind. I told him I was on my way to him and he told me no. He told me…”
Biting the inside of his cheek, Bishop found himself squirming in the chair across from Monica—regretting the idea of agreeing to meet with her.
“Yes?”
“He told me to be still…to stay there and be still.”
“What do you think he meant by that, Bishop?”
“At the time I didn’t know. I just thought he meant he wanted me to stay on the phone but it was so damn cold outside my primary concern was to get his dumbass back in doors.”
“What did you say next?”
“Just that I was on my way out the door…and that’s when he told me he had it.”
“The gun?”
“Yep.”
“Bishop, what did you say to him when he told you he had the gun?”
“I just…I started yelling into the phone. I yelled his name and told him to put it down and wait for me.”
“What did Nathan say to that?”
The palms of Bishop’s hands pressed mercilessly together as he nervously glanced about the bare walls. “He said…he was all calm…I was like, yelling, but he was calm. He just said to be still.”
“You’re doing well, Bishop. What did you say to Nathan after he said to be still?”
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“I started crying. I started crying pretty hard. I begged him to just stay there until I got there. I told him how much I loved him and that…that I couldn’t be here without him.”
His gaze now to the floor, Bishop found that recalling the memory of that night produced an actual pain in him—not a metaphorical pain—an actual pain.
“What did Nathan say then?”
“He said…um…he said, I love you too, Bishop…now…now take your ear away from the phone.”
Bishop looked to Monica to see her studying him.
“Is that when you heard the gunshot, Bishop?”
“Yeah.”
“What did you do then?”
“Um…I just remember I was outside in nothing but my jeans. I didn’t have any shoes or a shirt on. I was yelling. I might have been cold but I don’t remember.”
“That’s when the Castleburry’s came to assist you?”
“Yeah, our neighbors got me back inside and called the police. I just…I feel like I want to fast forward at least a little bit if that’s okay.”
“So, Bishop, now that you’ve had time to distance yourself from this awful event, can you describe your feelings toward Nathan now?”
Gentle in her approach and demeanor, Bishop was uneasy, yet far from put off or angered with Monica’s questioning. Her methods were mild and, though they left Bishop longing for the interaction to be over, they didn’t leave him harboring hostility for his mother’s friend.
“I’m just…I’m just pissed. I’m mad. And the weird thing is that I’m not mad that he did it, I’m mad that I didn’t know he was capable of doing that. I’m mad at him for not telling me he was that sad. But…but I’m not mad at him for leaving. If he needed to go…if he was hurting that bad…I’m not mad I guess.”
“Bishop, that’s an interesting and mature outlook. You don’t hold a grudge toward Nathan for his suicide?”
The word suicide hurt. Bishop had grown to hate it. Before it was just a word with a sad meaning—now it was a scour-pad, looking for open wounds.
“No. I can’t. I can’t be mad at him for something I don’t understand. I don’t understand why he was that sad. Or at least I didn’t.”