by J. L. Rizzo
Oh. It hits me.
“Hi, Dad.” The butterfly lands on a topiary tree near the glass. It’s wings are bright blue, the color of the pool, the color of my father’s eyes. I smile at it, immediately reading the obvious sign.
For a few moments, I feel like we’re in our own little cocoon. The outside swirls around us, the noises are faint, the air isn’t so harsh. I feel safe, loved, secure.
You’re ok, Summer girl, I hear him say.
“I’m not ok, Dad.”
The best laid plans, he says.
“I never wanted any of this,” I reply out loud.
Surrender, Summer.
“I don’t want to.” I feel like I’m having an out of body experience, propelled by the cold, the alcohol, and the turmoil.
It’s time, he says.
Time.
What the hell does he know about time? It’s been six years since he passed away. He has no clue.
Time is brutal. Time is heartless. Time is ruthless.
Time is exact.
There is no time to worry about time.
Time is elusive. Time is wily. Time cannot be contained.
Time works against us.
Time to control time.
“I hear you, Dad,” I slur out. My lips are freezing, and the whiskey is settling in.
“Bye, sweet Butterfly,” I say, watching it disappear around the corner and out of sight.
Making my way downstairs, the warmth of the elevator swallows me, grounding me into the present. There’s a brief sense of calm where I can find an ounce of strength.
Until I get to the great room, where my mother is sitting on the couch with tears in her eyes and Crew’s letter in her hands, the photos spread out on the coffee table.
Help yourself, I chuckle to myself. Why not? I’m sick of these big little lies.
Sitting down on another couch opposite my mother, I don’t speak as I set down my bottle and put my feet on the coffee table. But I hold on to my tumbler, a few sips left to really dull the pain. I don’t want to face her, but it’s probably necessary. And since I’m nursing a glass of liquid courage, I figure there’s no time like the present to rip my heart out for the second time in twenty-four hours.
“Did you read all of this?” she asks without looking away from the letter.
“Uh huh,” I reply, sipping my drink.
“Even the back?” she asks, looking over the paper.
There’s a back? “No.” I keep the tumbler close in my lap. Right now, it’s my only lifeline.
My mother sets the letter down on her knees and leans forward, an attempt to command my attention. “Summer, I think you need to read the rest of this.”
“Why should I?”
“Because it’s important,” she bites out.
“And why should I listen to you, Mom? You’ve been lying to me, too.” My bitter words make her face grimace. But I feel no remorse. She fucking deserves every ounce of disdain I can deliver.
I sip my whiskey, grateful for simple times when a prominent family shared lavish gifts with the father of the brilliant piano player who graced her presence at their home to play.
“What else don’t I know, Mom?” I draw the word “Mom” out, making it clear that she’s supposed to be the teacher of good morals.
She leans back, offended by my tone. Taking a deep breath, she starts, “I have a life, Summer. Which is more than I can say for you.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” I raise my voice slightly to her for the first time ever.
“I have friends I see often, a job I love, a phone, a man —”
“Stop,” I command.
“No, Summer. You need to hear some things.”
“Why?” I mutter, disgusted by her words. The whiskey helps keep the vomit at bay.
“Because it’s time. Because you’re stuck. You haven’t moved on. It’s been six years, and you’re still the little girl who lost her father —”
“You need to be quiet.” Fighting the urge to get up and leave, I sip the rest of my drink instead. My body is becoming wonderfully numb to everything around it.
My mother takes a deep, exasperated breath, like she’s dealing with an errant child. Doesn’t she remember that I am the responsible one? The dependable one?
“Depression, Summer.”
I look up to my mother under hooded eyes. “What?”
“Depression. You bounce between being in depression and moving to acceptance.”
“Please don’t start again with your psychobabble, Mom.” I sound like an ungrateful brat, but I can’t help it. The whiskey is cutting down any filters I had. The thoughts are flowing like notes on the page. “I don’t have depression.”
“I didn’t say you have it, Summer. I said you’re in it. You don’t see —”
“Just stop. Would you, please?” My annoyance swells with each of her breaths. “You’ve been lying to me for how long now?”
Clearing her throat, she adjusts her body more upright. “Two years.”
“Two years.” I lean forward to make sure I’m heard. “I think it’s been longer than that, Mom. I think it’s been way, way longer.” My murderous look could melt her face.
Remembering when we were in Europe, I can’t help but wonder why some days my mother was happy and on others she was a more subdued. Leaning back, I ask, “What did you and Chance do when you were away, Mother?”
Her hesitation speaks volumes. When she winces, I know she’s feeling the anger I’m stabbing her with through my cold, hard stare.
“He was there, wasn’t he?” I ask. But I don’t need the answer. All she does is close her eyes to the truth I already know.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” I hiss, shaking my head in disbelief.
After a beat, she stands in a huff. Marching to the kitchen, she calls over my shoulder. “Being mad at me won’t bring your father back, Summer. And being mad at Crew won’t bring him back either!” she shouts from the kitchen.
“What do you care?” I mutter to myself. Somehow, she hears it right before she comes racing back in. Going as fast as I’ve ever seen her move, she stops in front of me, towering over me, bending down to lean her face into mine, inches away. I sit back in the couch to gain some space, but she follows me, inches in on me.
“What do you want, Summer?” Her hard eyes send the chill I’ve been feeling deep into my bones, rendering me speechless. “You’re obviously upset, hurting, feeling a little sorry for yourself. You’re drowning yourself in alcohol, even though I’ve never seen you take a drink.”
“You should —”
“And you’re clearly at a loss,” she cuts me off. “I’m here to help you. But you need to let me.”
I lift my chin a fraction, a gesture that shows how I won’t back down. “I didn’t ask for your help.”
“Tough. I’m giving it to you. Because you don’t see what I see.”
“You’re talking bullshit again, Mom.” I move to finish my drink while my mother stares at me. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think she hates me.
“Am I? Because the way I see it is that I’m not the only one with secrets, Summer.”
Rolling my eyes at her nonsense only threatens her more.
“Where did you go last night, Summer?”
To the piano bar.
“Who did you see?”
Marie.
“Who did you think you would see?”
Fuck.
Xaden.
My eyes dart to my mother, who just nods in understanding. “Why did you want to see him?”
How the hell does she —?
“Because I’m your mother.” Her smile is a little wicked.
Well, shit. When did she learn to become a know-it-all?
“Why did you want to see him, Summer?”
Searching her eyes for the answer, I look for my honesty. “I didn’t want to see him. I was with Crew.”
“Bullshit, Summer. You expected him there
for a reason. What was it?” Oooh. Mom’s got bite.
I roll her argument over in my fuzzy mind. Did I want to see Xaden? Not really. But for the past year, he’s been one thing to me.
“Because he’s a distraction.” I give the answer I gave to Crew a long time ago about Goodwin. It’s shameful how I haven’t learned much in the last few years.
Xaden is an easy distraction. He’s not complicated. He doesn’t care enough about me to encourage me to do anything significant. He doesn’t want anything from me. He doesn’t tiptoe around me like other guys do. He’s only ambitious on the stage. He isn’t after my money. He’s a complicated guy, but he’s an easy go-to guy. For most things I need.
“Distraction from what?” she asks.
“My whole life. You. Crew.” Honesty is starting to feel good. Or maybe that’s the whiskey. In either case, I like baring myself.
Tipping her head to the other side, she sits on the coffee table in a less threatening position. Leaning her elbows on her knees, she continues. “Why do you want a distraction, Summer?”
I don’t know. Shaking my head, I respond, “I don’t know.”
“What are you trying to avoid, Summer?”
I can’t —. “I don’t know.”
My mom takes a deep breath, but she doesn’t deviate from her purpose. “When was the last time you were really happy, Summer?”
That’s easy. “Before Dad died.” I shrug my shoulders, a little embarrassed that it’s taken six years for me to admit that.
My mom reaches forward and brushes a hair away from my face, one of the most maternal gestures I’ve ever received from her. I wish she didn’t wait until I was 22 years old to do it. “You’re a brilliant girl, Summer.” She smiles warmly. “But right now, you’re making ignorant choices.”
I frown my eyes at her, not understanding her point.
“Depression isn’t about being sad all the time. It’s not about always living in a dark place. It’s about not being able to find meaning or purpose in your current situation. It’s about being so stuck in a mindset that you’re unable to move on.”
“Mom, I don’t see how —”
“I kept my secrets for years because I knew that telling you the truth would make you uncomfortable enough or angry enough to stay in the same mindset out of spite. I encouraged your choices to help you move on for yourself.”
“What do you mean?”
“I moved to New York so that you could attend Julliard and explore who you were outside of classical piano. I got a job so that you can have some freedom. I supported your decision to go on tour to Europe with the band because I wanted it to be the start of the next phase of your life. I did all these things to make sure you found the strength to move on for yourself. But here you are, drowning your sorrows, wishing that Dad was here to scoop you up and make everything better.”
“Mom —” I shake my head, trying to fight the urge to cry. “Mom —” The words don’t even come to my brain yet.
“You don’t want things to change, Summer. You want me to be dependent on you. You want your father to be in control. You want to be a passive passenger in your own life’s journey. But —” she cups my chin in her hands. “That’s not how life works, Sweetie. It doesn’t always go the way you planned it. But you still have to live it.”
Her words resonate with my father’s words from moments ago on the terrace, the butterfly. The best laid plans…often go awry. Robert Burns’ words singe my memories. I didn’t have any plans. I never had any plans. I only know that I like to play piano, and my father taught me the love of the instrument. Now I feel like it’s all slipping away.
I lean my head to the side and rest it in my mother’s palm. Closing my eyes, I savor this moment for a moment. My mom is caring for me. My mom reaches up and brushes her fingers down the scar behind my eye, something she’s never done before. My eyes spring open.
“I remember when you got this,” she says softly. “Do you remember?”
I shake my head “no” quietly and lift my head.
“You were walking toward the piano where I was sitting with open arms ready to give you a big hug. You laughed and started to run to me. But with those tiny little legs, you tripped and bumped your head on the side of the bench.” She brushes the scar with her thumb. “We took you to the emergency room, got you stitched up, and brought you home with plenty of time to bang happily on the piano keys with Grandpa while Grandma cooked Sunday dinner.” She smiles at me. “I remember you wouldn’t leave my side. Wanted me to carry you or cuddle with you the rest of the day. I felt so bad for you, but I loved every second of that day.”
I blink my eyes trying to remember any other moments where I preferred my mother’s comfort over my father’s. But I come up empty.
“You stayed that way until you were about two years old, when you started to really express the urge to play. And Dad started to teach you. It was so special, watching you two together.”
I lift my head off my mother’s hand. “I always thought he and I were closer than you and I were. Because of the piano.” I shrug my shoulders.
Mom’s smile is full of love and gratitude, the squint of her eyes telling me that there’s so much I don’t know. “Not during the first two years. The first two it was just you and me wrapped up in our own little bubble. We were each other’s whole world.” Leaning back, she continues, “I’m forever grateful that your father was such an incredible influence on you. Maybe too big an influence.” She winks at me, and it makes me chuckle.
The quiet between us is familiar. We didn’t always have a lot to say to one another. But it also reminds me of how blind I can be.
“I don’t like secrets, Mom,” I confess.
She’s quiet for a moment, leaving my words hanging in the air. It feels good to say those words to her. “Everyone has secrets, Summer,” she replies. “They’re founded on perspective. It’s up to you to decide how to interpret them.”
Thinking of Crew and his secrets, I can’t help but squeeze the building resentment.
“Crew’s been carrying that envelope around with him for years.” I sniffle back the tears. “He said he’s been wanting to show it to me since we met four years ago.”
“He’s always wanted to tell you,” she says.
Yeah, before he got me into bed.
“No,” she says. “Before he earned your trust enough to hear him out.”
Crap. “Did I say that out loud?” I ask her.
She nods yes with a smirk on her face.
Oh, hell. Guess I’m telling all my secrets now. Thank you, whiskey.
Mom tilts her head to show her curiosity. “Do you believe him?”
Knowing that she has more information than I do makes me hesitate to answer the question. I ask myself, Right now, do I believe him? “I want to.”
“That’s not a bad start,” she says softly.
I’m starting to think she also got a degree in psychology behind my back.
“But is it enough?” I ask, surprising myself that I’m reaching to my mother for advice. “Is it enough that I merely want to believe him, but I don’t think I actually do believe him?”
“Maybe,” she smiles. “Everyone has secrets, Summer. Shadows that will always follow them around, no matter where they go or who they become. His are written there. You need to open your eyes to his shadows, you blind little girl.” Her warm, maternal smile calms my nerves a bit. I can’t help but laugh at her thinly veiled insult.
“This feels weird,” I say.
“What does, Summer?”
I take one last sip, emptying my tumbler. “Talking with you like this.”
“Now that’s weird,” she says.
“What?”
“Watching you drink.” She takes my tumbler out of my hands and sets it beside her on the coffee table.
“Why?”
“Because I’ve never seen you do it before.”
“I think there’s a lot of things you’ve never seen
me do before,” I chuckle once to myself. Like cleaning my father’s tombstone. “Why don’t you ever go to see him?” I ask her.
“See who?”
“Dad.”
Another knowing smile from her, and I realize that I know very little about her. “Because I see him every day.”
What?
Her eyes compel mine to follow hers as she looks to the mantle over the fireplace. Sitting atop are pictures of the three of us together, as a family — at the beach, at the steps to Carnegie Hall, near the Eiffel Tower, near the pyramids of Egypt, in front of our Christmas Tree.
“And I talk to him every day,” she adds with an empathetic smile.
I nod my head. “So do I.”
“I know you do, Summer.”
But doesn’t —?
“What is it, Summer?”
“How did you know that I was wondering something?”
She leans forward with her hands on her knees. “Because I’m your mother.”
Christ. That will get old fast.
“What about your boyfriend? Mace? Catch?”
She chuckles quietly. “Chance. What about him, sweetheart?”
I shake my head. Chance. Is that a noun or a verb?
“It’s a name,” she chuckles again. Then she leans forward and holds my chin with her hand, smiling. “Whiskey makes you say things.”
Shit. “I guess it does.”
“What do you want to know about Chance?” she asks, leaning back.
What do I want to know? Everything. “Do you love him?”
My mother’s eyes light up at the question. “Yes, I do.”
Damn. “Do you love him like you loved Dad?”
She tilts her head to one side, as if she’s sympathizing with my anxiety. “No, I don’t.”
Good.
“I was young when I met your father, and we had been through so much together, even before you came along. He was my everything — my love, my rock, my inspiration, my whole world. I can never replace him, not even in my heart. And I don’t want to.” She leans forward again. “But —” she smiles. “We can make new connections, new meaningful relationships, new investments into ourselves. We can change, we can grow, we can evolve.” Brushing the hair away from my scar again, she continues, “We can begin to live again once we have given grief its proper time.”