Bait

by M. Mabie

  She stirred and her eyes fluttered open.

  “Hi there, baby boy,” she said. Her eyes looked puffy, probably from sleep, but they also looked a little sad.

  “What's wrong? Mom, you look like you don't feel very well.” I didn’t want to make her feel bad if she wasn’t that sick by saying so, but she didn’t look herself.

  “I don't,” she admitted and leaned up on one arm. She ran her free hand through my hair. “Have I told you how proud I am of you?” It was a somber question, not a happy one.

  “Yeah, you have.” The hair on the back of my neck stood up, my instincts screamed that something was really fucking wrong. “What's going on? You're freaking me out.”

  “There is nothing to freak out about. And there's nothing you can do. I'm sick,” she admitted, but my intuition told me there was more.

  She wasn't sick-sick. My mom was never sick. She grew damn near everything she ate. She was fit. My mom was healthy.

  “What kind of sick?” I felt like I already knew the answer.

  “Well, right now I'm tired more than anything. Spending a few days on the road with a newborn can really drag it out of you. I don't know how I did it with two of you at the same time.” She chuckled and I watched what seemed like happy memories skirt past in her pretty blue eyes.

  “And?” I asked knowing she was stalling.

  Finally, she drew a breath and said, “And I'm dying.” One lonely tear fell out of the corner of her eye.

  “No, you just have the flu or something. Don't be like that. Come on. I'll make you something to eat.” This wasn’t happening. Did I not have control of anything? I wasn’t going to accept it. She couldn’t die. I needed her.

  “Oh, honey. I have cancer. Lots of cancer in fact. You name a place in your old mom and it's there.”

  Cancer.

  “What? No. No. No.” I shook my head while I ran my trembling hands over my face, trying to scrub the words she’d just hit me with away. “No. You’re lying. Don’t say this. No. No.” My voice cracked and my ears rang.

  It didn't make sense at all. My dad who ate trash and smoked cigars should have cancer. I love him, but for fuck's sake, that seemed more believable.

  “Are you sure?”

  She laughed and swiped at the other tears that fell out chasing the first. “I'm sure.”

  “When did you find out?”

  “About a year ago, I've actually made it a lot longer than they thought I would.”

  A fucking year!?

  “Why? Why didn't you tell me? Are you going through treatments? I could have been here. Why didn't you tell me?” I had to make a major effort not to yell at my sick mother. But I was so mad.

  “Because, Casey, all I wanted was for you to be happy. I'm no fool. I know you've been chasing that girl. Micah told me all about it. And don't you get mad at her, either. I wanted you to follow your heart and that meant chasing your dream for the brewery and seeing what was possible with Blake. I knew about her wedding. You didn't have much time, honey. I couldn't get in the way.”

  “Get in the way? You're my mom. I should have been here. And Blake didn't want me. I was being stupid. It was all for nothing. I didn't get her and I missed out on being here for you. Were you alone?”

  “No, sweetheart. Cory and Micah know and your dad. I told them not to tell you,” she said without shame. “I wanted you to at least get a fair shot. I wanted you to find your happiness. And, baby, you were so close.”

  I stood up, panic, fear, anger. Every terrible emotion I'd ever felt hit me.

  “I'm going outside for a minute. I'll be right back.”

  I walked outside and then I kept walking. When I made it to the end of her property that butted up against the woods, I screamed. I swore. I damned everything I could think of.

  Myself. Blake. My mom. Dad. Cory. Micah. Cancer. Lies. That fucking bar. My job. Everything was to blame.

  How could they not fucking tell me? They let me pursue some girl who would never want me, and as a result, stopped me from spending time with my mom who did want me. How the fuck could they have done that to me? Do they think I am that selfish that I wouldn’t care about my own mother?

  But what would I do if my dying mother asked me to mind my own business and keep her secret? I’d have done whatever she’d asked. As the minutes ticked by, I realized it wasn’t their fault.

  I sat out there for probably close to three hours working and re-working everything over in my head. How could I fix this?

  All I knew was that I wouldn't leave my mom. Not now. Not when she'd put herself before me, and what she wanted for me.

  It was settled.

  Saturday, July 4th, 2009

  “IT'S SETTLED. JUST DO it.” I told the tattoo guy.

  “I don’t feel good about this, not shaving your hair back here.” He told me again for the thousandth time.

  I was getting a tattoo at the nape of my neck, slightly under my hair line—although, part of it was actually in some of the hair. That was where we didn’t agree. I didn’t want to shave it. That would look weird. He told me the issues and I thought I could manage.

  Yeah, yeah. Infection.

  Yeah, yeah. It could get in the way.

  He was tattooing one simple character. A symbol really. So I didn’t see the need.

  “I’ve signed all of your waivers, now do it.” I had had enough of his ninny-picking. I’d thought that tattoo artists were supposed to be reckless and wild. This guy sounded more like my mom.

  When it was finished, I went back to my hotel room. I was staying in Las Vegas for a few days working on a restaurant overhaul in the Bellagio. It was going smoothly and I was happy to see this project finally taking shape.

  I began traveling with the ships, for no other reason that they made me feel better. When I would think about all the times and talks I’d had with Casey, I’d take them out.

  The two were similar, certainly a pair, but they weren’t identical. One was a little taller and I thought it was more masculine. So, symbolically, it was Casey’s ship. The other was leaner and looked more feminine.

  I started modifying the Casey ship on my last trip. I painted the belly of the ship red and laughed the whole time remembering those ridiculous pants.

  There was a band that went from the stern to the bow and I painted that white with liquid paper. I wrote The Lou on it with a fine-tip Sharpie.

  That night I decided to work on a new part of my custom Casey ship, it needed some lime green, like the sunglasses he wore to the coffee shop the morning after we’d met.

  A paper clip would do the trick.

  I unwound the metal and reshaped it into a pair of aviators, which by my own admission, looked crooked and wonky, but I had to go with what I had. I saw the lime green nail polish in a shop a while back and picked it up. I pained the metal and hooked it to the mast in the front and the one in the back.

  Then I ordered up a bottle of champagne and toasted to how crazy I’d managed to become in my twenty-five short years.

  I was certifiable.

  Saturday, September 12th, 2009

  I thought about reaching out to him every day, but I didn’t.

  I ran into Audrey, the eldest of Casey’s younger sisters, whom I’d met twice, once at Micah’s shower and then again at the hospital when Foster was born. And we had coffee.

  She’d returned to Seattle already in her sophomore year of art school.

  “You don’t have to tell me anything, but I know you and my brother had something going on,” she admitted, and was sort of warning me where her line of questioned was headed. “What happened?”

  I looked at her, her wild curly hair that reminded me so much of her brother’s, only lighter, and tried to answer with only my expression. I tried to give her a let’s not go there look, but evidently it looked more like maybe you should beg.

  “Please, Blake. I won’t say anything to anyone, I’m just curious. I mean, I’ve never even seen you two together, I only kno
w bits and pieces from overhearing my brothers talk, and from what Morgan has told me. I want your side. No judging. Promise.”

  She was sincere. And Casey had been right. She was a romantic. It was so unfortunate that our story wasn’t a romance instead of a comedic tragedy. I would have enjoyed telling her that story more.

  I drew in a long breath and decided that, maybe talking to someone who knew him—and sort of knew me—might help. It could be cleansing.

  After I married Grant, I never spoke to Micah about it or Casey again. I don’t think either of us knew what to say. It would probably sound something like, “How nice. Your baby’s godparents had a secret affair and now they won’t speak.” Totally normal.

  I warned Audrey right off that it wasn’t really my place to tell her any of what I was about to say, and that it was a little weird to be chatting about Casey, especially with Casey’s younger sister. But she waved me off and said, “Just fucking get on with it already.”

  She was a lot like him. No wonder I felt at ease spilling my guts.

  “You may not like me after you know everything,” I said.

  “Blake, I told you, no judgments. Mistakes are mistakes. I’m sure you only did what you thought was right. Now tell me.”

  I started from the beginning. And I spared no detail. She laughed and so did I. When I thought I might cry, she did, and I fought the tears back.

  We drank about six cups of coffee apiece before it was all said and done. She was holding my hand as I slowly spoke about my wedding and how we’d fought right before it.

  She really didn’t judge me. She listened with more understanding than I would expect from an eighteen-year-old. It was cathartic to release the story from within my heart. I didn’t feel less sad, just a little lighter.

  We’d be friends.

  We didn’t speak every day, but it was probably once a week.

  Her classes started at Cornish and she was very focused on her work. She was talented in all things artistic and interested in learning everything about all of them.

  Photography. Painting. Sculpture. Design. She was always talking about someone else’s art like she loved it as much as her own.

  I was packing a bag to head out the next day when I got a message from Audrey.

  Audrey: I was asked not to call you, but he needs you. I know that he does. His mom died last week.

  My hand covered my mouth as in shock and sadness squeezed the air from me. I had to go to him.

  I’d wasted so much time, waiting for the right time to set my plan in motion. Afraid as usual.

  I couldn’t call.

  I couldn’t text.

  I had to go to him.

  But first, I cried.

  Friday, October 16, 2009

  CRYING ISN'T A WEAKNESS. That's one lesson my mother taught me that I will never forget. Yeah, I was a man and I didn’t enjoy it. I hated it in fact. I prided myself on being able to push my feelings back, when able, and be tough when I had to be. But there are moments that shit sucks. Pain hurts. And men cry.

  We buried her on Sunday.

  Sunday night I drank myself sick.

  Monday felt like I was living in hell.

  Monday night I drank myself sick.

  My phone battery had died days earlier and I wasn't conscious enough to care. I'd been staying at my mom's house the past few months. We still had a lot of paperwork to sort through, and thank God my dad was being helpful.

  He'd been more than supportive to a woman who was his ex-wife over the past few months. Hell, even Carmen helped. Audrey flew back for the funeral, but then had to leave on Monday to get back to class.

  Since I was sleeping through my days and drinking through my nights, I hadn't had much contact with anyone. But they brought food by and left me notes on the counter. The food went in the refrigerator, and the notes went nowhere.

  It wasn't until the following Friday when I actually got up at a respectable time. I called into work to see how everything was going and I was happy to hear that everyone had pulled together and that even Marc had been coming in to help. It made me feel at peace knowing that everything in my life wasn't going to shit.

  I still had my job.

  I could still have Aly if I’d wanted her, but I was a beggar now, and I didn’t have the luxury of being choosey.

  I didn't have the two women who meant the most to me.

  I sat on my mother's back patio and drank a whole pot of coffee black, out of a Styrofoam cup—which before I would have hated—but, I went for easy and it was on the counter.

  People bring you shit like that when you're grieving. Paper plates. Casseroles. Dish soap. Trash bags. But it's all shit.

  A month ago I wouldn't have even considered drinking coffee out of this shitty disposable cup, but what did it matter right now? I didn't taste it. It wasn't good. It just was.

  I watched the garden for a long time that morning. Her plants looked overgrown and their yields were falling off and rotting. It looked depressing. And I couldn’t stand another depressing thing at that moment.

  I went into the basement and found my mom's gardening tools and decided to do something about it.

  My mom would have shit if she saw the waste happening in her yard. Her body having gone to waste on her, she knew what it felt like. Cancer was like that. It kills your life, not just your body.

  Knowing what she would have liked to see, I got my shit together and readied myself for some time in the dirt.

  First I picked the ripe fruits and vegetables. There was so much. I'd never be able to eat it all. I'd need to talk to Cory and see if he knew who she gave it to. Maybe she donated it. I made a mental note to look into that.

  Then I dug out the undergrowth and weeded around everything that belonged there. It was relaxing and for the first time in the past week, I didn't feel so far away from my mom. Not that I hadn't ever been away from her, because God knows, up until she finally told me, I had been jet-setting. Chasing a girl who didn't want me. Or didn't want me enough.

  This distance was different. She was no longer a phone call or text away. And that fucking sucked.

  I'm a man, but in that garden, I finally cried. I cried because a good woman was robbed of her old age. And I'd been robbed, too. I thought of things I'd never even let myself consider. She wouldn’t dance with me at my wedding. She wouldn't be there when my kids were born or teach them how to tell which strawberries were ready to be picked.

  She was gone.

  All the while, in the garden, I kept looking at that fucking shed.

  “Casey, honey don't you think it would look nice painted red?” she'd say every so often.

  I understood the translation of her mother's speak. What she meant was, “Casey, paint the damn shed red for your mom. Wouldn't ya?” I never did.

  And she was right.

  Kneeling in that garden cursing God and doctors that Friday, I realized a few very important things. Sometimes you know what the answer is before you hear the question and my mom's fucking shed needed painting red.

  I didn't come into the house until it was dark that night. Then, I actually warmed up some of the casserole stuff that had moved into the refrigerator. It turned out, there's a reason people bring food like that. It was good and it would keep.

  I took a shower and slept in my old bedroom. It was the first night in many that I dosed off rather than passed out.

  I woke up feeling better than I had. Not great, but I'd take any improvement for what it was. It was barely after dark when I went to bed and, consequently, I was up with the sun.

  I drove to the hardware store and bought red paint and other supplies that I thought I might need to get the job done.

  I dragged out the old stereo from the basement to the shed and set it up. I'd need some tunes for my job. I turned on a modern-rock station and let it set my pace.

  The wood was bare, but it was in pretty decent shape. I probably should have done more in terms of preparation, but I was focused sol
ely on making the damn thing red.

  The shed wasn't too far from the house, only a hundred feet or so, and I began on the side that faced it. The back side met up to the tree line, so who would care if by the time I got to the back, my handiwork was less than stellar? I relented that if I could singularly paint an entire fifteen by thirty foot shed, I didn't really care how perfect it looked.

  I trimmed around the big door and decided I would get white paint the next day and do the trim, if I finished the entire structure that day.

  The morning was hot, but I didn't stop. I pulled my shirt over my head and ran it across my almost bare scalp to remove some of the sweat. I tucked it into the back of my tattered cargo shorts and continued.

  At about two, I went inside and grabbed some water and a handful of strawberries.

  I continued to paint. My mind went where it usually did on standby.

  Blake.

  I hadn't spoken to her since our fight before her wedding. Before I watched her stroll down the aisle and begged God that she'd stop and leave.

  Chalk that up to another unanswered prayer.

  I was too far away to see her face or hear her voice as she said her half of the vows, but I couldn't tempt myself by going that close. It would have been too difficult to not make a scene or object, like in the movies.

  I surrendered and let it happen. As if I’d had any control over it at all.

  The thought still made me a little sick.

  Then, like my wandering memory liked to do, it tortured me with flashbacks of her and me together. Random glimpses of happiness and pleasure which only felt like anguish and pain in hindsight.

  The way her hair would stick to her face when we were both covered in sweat.

  Her laugh and the way she hummed before she fell asleep.

  Her pink nose. Her smell. Her taste. Her.

  “Looks like you've been busy.”

  I really was losing my mind, because I started hearing her voice. It was like she was speaking to me. My arm burned as I rolled the paint high on the last of the exterior shed walls. I'd just started the final side and the blisters I'd given my hands were raw.