by gard, marian
"I get it. I get it. Not going to talk to your old mother about girls. Well, have it your way, but for the record, she's lovely, Collin. I've always thought so."
I nod and smile. She is lovely, but she's certainly not mine, even if my mother thinks she can will it so. There's no mention of Leighton and so I'm guessing Reba reported on that, too. I'm a little surprised Mom isn't more concerned about troubled waters with her. Those two have always gotten along. You wouldn't believe the mileage they got out of conversations about Prada and Gucci.
Mom gazes at me, hoping I'll talk on either subject, I think, but nothing comes. I wish I could share something with her that would make her proud of me, and prove to her I'm not the emotional cripple everyone's worried I am. I weigh telling her about taking care of Rachel when she had the flu, but before I can get any words out she says, "I have something for you. It comes with an apology, I'm afraid."
"Why's that?" I feel my heart accelerate; this isn't like her at all. What in the hell could she be talking about? Part of what has made things work between us these past few years is how little we've talked about issues that matter.
She doesn't answer me, but her smile fades away. She points toward her dresser. "In the top drawer there is a long, white box with a rose printed on top. Bring it to me."
I cross the room silently and retrieve the box from her tall, ancient dresser. I slide the wooden drawer back into place and it creaks ominously. My stomach begins to churn in response. Returning to her bed, I set it down between us.
"Open it up, Collin." She gestures for me to lift the lid.
I carefully remove the top and inside it's nearly filled to the brim with folded papers on yellow legal paper. What is this? "Mom?" Tears form in her eyes and I feel so lost. "What's going on?"
"Collin, these belonged to your father. Some of them are things he wrote down in his journals; others were notes, sort of. He put them all together in this book-like thing. There are also letters addressed to you that he'd been compiling for some time before he died." She runs her finger around the edge of the box. "It was all for you. Listen, I know I should've given these to you years ago. The truth is…I was afraid." She pauses and I'm in agony trying to listen to every word. I feel like I've been sucker-punched. "I didn't want you to get stuck. I wanted you to be able to move on."
I stare at her for a long minute—speechless. I look back down at the box and the bright yellow papers within it. I always wanted more. There was more and she kept it from me! I must've asked her a hundred times for anything Dad left behind, and her answer was always ‘no'.
When Dad died I remember the removal of his things from our home being swift and abrupt. His parent's health had been poor my entire life and their decline after my dad's passing was rapid. Visits with my grandparents on his side were infrequent to begin with, and after his death I maybe saw each of them a handful of times before their respective funerals. On one of those rare visits, I asked my grandma for something of Dad's, and she told me gently but firmly, that it was up to my mommy. As young as I was then, I knew what that meant. Everyone wanted to forget—everyone but me.
"I don't understand, Mom. When did he write all this? Was he sick, then? Is that why you didn't want me to see?" My voice breaks. I'm struggling not to cry but the withholding makes me feel as though I'm being strangled. She reaches for me, but I stand up, backing away from her. "So, he planned it? These papers, or whatever? His death?" Mom doesn't answer me; instead she just looks at the box and then her hands. I'd always thought his suicide had been an impulse. The idea of his leaving me being premeditated…I just…I just can't. All of this—this bomb she's dropped on me, so many years later…I can't handle it. I feel as though everything I've worked so hard to accept and contain is coming unraveled all at once. Honestly, I'm not sure which parent I feel more betrayed by. There's only one left, though, and I feel all of my anger shift to her.
She reaches again for me. "I don't know what he was thinking. You can't go there, honey. He wasn't well. Collin—"
"Mom, you knew I wanted more. I would've done anything for more from him and you lied to me! Over and over again, that's what you've done!"
I think I'm going to be sick. I dry heave and cover my mouth. My mother looks on—horrified. She's can't handle emotional displays of any kind, especially not from me, and as far as we've come together these last few years, I know she'll do anything to stop me from expressing what I'm feeling now.
"You had to move on. We had to move on. I didn't want you to be stuck," she insists, her tiny voice coming out more forcefully. I hear her strain to get the words out and notice she looks paler suddenly. This stress isn't good for her. I'm torn between my worry for her health and the mix of rage and fear sweeping through my body, but my anger wins.
"What the hell does that mean, Mom? What the hell?" As the first word leaves my lips tears pour down my face. I've lost it. "I was a goddamn kid! You can't just move on when a parent dies. It doesn't work that way! Do you have any clue how stuck I've been? Keeping him from me didn't prevent any of that. It just made everything worse." I clutch my hand to my chest in response to the sharp, searing pain I'm feeling.
"Collin, please. I know I have been far from a perfect mother. I wasn't a perfect wife, either, but you have to know that just because I didn't know how to love you and your dad in the right way, doesn't mean I didn't love you. That's why I kept this from you. I was trying to protect you."
Is she fucking kidding? "You were trying to protect me?" She nods. "You can't be serious, Mom." She sits up slightly in her bed, and I can tell doing so causes her more pain, but I can't even begin to focus on her now, I'm so filled with rage. "So, let me get this straight. Your version of protecting me was to rob me of the last bit of anything I had from my father and then force me to put up with whatever shit that maniacal psycho you married did to me?" My voice is low and quiet but thick with menace. I can't help it. "He hated me, Mom! He made my life hell while you did nothing!"
"Collin!" she cries out. I can't decide if her desperation is because she knows I'm right or if it's because I'm acting out—making a scene, as she would say. She reaches for me again. I stand my ground a few feet away. For once I'm not going to let my guilt and worry for her override everything else that I'm feeling. I wipe my face with my shirt and focus on my breathing, trying to regain control.
She gives up reaching for me and says, "You don't understand what it was like for me back then. I was terrified to raise you on my own. I couldn't do it. I know Victor wasn't perfect, but he provided a life for us, a life I never could've afforded for you on my own. You know, living with your father was far from perfect. I think sometimes you were too little to see that. He gave love away freely and easily, but that didn't mean he was always easy to love in return." She pauses, I think maybe waiting for me to say something, but I can't. "His problems, Collin, they had a way of hurting everyone. I didn't want anything in that box to hurt you more than you'd already been."
"But whatever hurt Victor inflicted, that was just fine with you?" I shoot back.
She closes her eyes and recites the mantra from my childhood. "He wanted to push you to be your best, Collin. He could see how brilliant you were, how capable. He wanted to encourage you to succeed." That was always her rose-colored version of his bullshit.
I narrow my eyes at her. Could she really believe that bullshit? I say nothing in return. There's no point. Memories from my childhood, my dad and Victor's abuse, come flooding back like a tidal wave, and it's all too much to handle. I sink to the floor and put my head between my knees and just try to breathe. After a moment, I can feel her eyes on me. She's waiting, but I'm not going to speak.
Her voice interrupts the angry pounding of my heartbeat; and though hushed and raspy, I can discern every word. "I blamed myself for years for what happened to him, and my guilt made it too painful for me to face what he'd left behind."
I place my palms on my temples on either side of my head, press hard, and l
et out a loud groan. "Ugh! Just say what you actually mean, Mom, not what he left behind, but who!" My voice echoes throughout the room bouncing off the wooden floors and furniture. I pound my fists on the floor in frustration. I'm loud as hell, tantruming like a child, but I just don't give a shit. I can count on one hand the number of times I've even so much as raised my voice to my mother. I've never shouted at her, not like this. The hospice nurse, Lucille, comes rushing in. She looks panicked and shocked when she sees me on the floor. I offer no explanation and instead wave her off. She tentatively backs out of the room, but I strongly suspect she's hovering just outside the door. I know if I yell again she'll kick me out. She likes me, but she won't put up with me stressing my mom out like this much longer.
A long silence expands between us. She doesn't deny my accusation. I've implied as much before in my own passive aggressive way, but this is the first time I've outright said what I've felt for almost my entire life. I look up at her. She's staring at me, and I stare right back, feeling like someone is sitting on my chest. I fight through the pain, and then she closes her eyes, ending our standoff.
Time passes, I don't know how much, and then she whispers, "Collin, come here. Please." It takes everything I have to stand and walk toward her. "I don't know how much you remember, but there were times when he didn't make a lot of sense to the rest of us. I don't know." She sighs. "Maybe you will find more meaning than I did, but I just don't want you to be too let down."
Of course, no real apology, just more excuses—that's my mother. "It's too late for that, Mom."
Chapter 27
Rachel
"Hey Collin, it's Rachel. It's been awhile, I don't know if you've gotten any of my texts or not, but, um…it's no big deal. I just thought maybe we could catch up or something?" I babble into Collin's voicemail very nearly telling him that I miss him, or that I'm really worried, but thank God, somehow I manage to censor myself. "So, give me a call back when you get a chance, if you want. OK…um…talk to you later."
I hit "end" on my phone and stare at the blank screen. I feel so confused. No, wait…I feel more than that. I feel hurt. Collin comes over to my place, takes care of me when I have the worst flu of my lifetime, leaves me a sweet note, makes me think we're friends again, and then just drops off the earth. This voicemail feels like a desperate move, and the sad thing is I do feel desperate. The last text I sent basically asked him to give me a call and that was at least two weeks ago. I'd say that's more than enough time to get back to someone, if you wanted to…So, I guess he doesn't want me back in his life after all.
This all feels eerily reminiscent of years ago. Why does he think it's OK to just disappear? I suppose there's more I could do about it, but how much chasing do I really want to put myself through? I practically drove myself insane when he took off the last time. I don't think I can stomach it again.
The thing of it is, I just can't get him out of my head. He's become all I think about. I kept the note he left for me and I must've read it a thousand times by now, along with the text he sent me the morning after I was sick. I can't seem to reconcile all of that, with what's happening now. I resolve that he gets until the end of the week to call me back. If he doesn't make contact by then, I have to let him go…again.
*** *** ***
By the time Friday rolls around I'm feeling completely wiped out. In a rare move, I spent the morning working from home until I felt like I could stomach being in the office. I'm on my way to throw some things in the community fridge, when I hear snickering coming from the break room.
"I'm sick," she whines in a high-pitched voice. I freeze just outside the doorway and press my body against the wall, ninja style. I can hear a chorus of laughter and then the same voice drops an octave and says, "Did you see her in the meeting this morning? She was pouting like a little girl!" I touch my face. Are they talking about me?
"She always looks like that." A voice I identify as Robin's, replies. I can't tell for sure who the other two are. Maybe Tina and Karen? I really thought we were friends…well, at least friendly.
"She's just taking it to new levels now that she isn't the favorite around here anymore." That's Tina. Definitely.
"The bitch has been dethroned!" One of them pseudo yells in a deep voice. They burst into laughter and I feel my face go hot. I knew I'd been unceremoniously kicked out of the in-crowd here, but I had no idea I'd become fodder for break room mockery! This is clearly not the first conversation about me they've had. I carefully slink back down the hall to my office trying to compose myself. The urge to call Vanessa is strong and I pull my phone out from my purse and silently debate if I should bother her or not. An alert on my phone shows three new text messages. Two are from Beckett: one confirming our plans tonight and the second, some random question about wine. The third message is from my half-sister, Mindy.
Mindy: Would you mind looking at my resume? I heard about a position in Chicago I might be qualified for --we could be neighbors!
I quickly begin typing back to her.
Me: Of course! Email it to me and I'll check it out after work tonight. How are you?
Mindy: Things are good. Ready for a change I think. Esp since I'm unattached at the moment. Speaking of which, how is your bf?
Me: He's good. Let me know more about this job. I'm excited to hear about it! If you come up here to interview you can most definitely stay with me!
Mindy: Awesome! I'll email you soon!
Me: TTYL
Mindy: xoxo
I log into my shared calendar with Beckett. He's booked every weekend for the next two months, with the exception of this weekend, which is oddly blank. I sigh out loud, thinking about the battle it will be to get him to shift things around so Mindy can visit. He claims he's flexible and spontaneous, but he's about as far removed from those two attributes as a human could be.
Motivated by my irritation, I choose a random weekend two weeks from now, and type in: "Visit with Mindy". I take a moment to stare at the visual of our conflicting plans, as the two events are layered on top of one another within the computer application. Beck is going to be ticked. I tap my finger rhythmically on the mouse, and feel a pang of guilt for being so passive aggressive.
Beck's been so sweet and attentive lately. Selfishly, I've found all of his affection to be unnerving because of the mental state I've been in. I've let him think my work stress is to blame, and that's part of it, but I know if I'm really honest with myself, my emotions are all tangled up about Collin. His disappearing act has made it hard for me to focus on anything else. As much as I try to tell myself it doesn't matter, I've been checking my phone constantly, wishing and hoping for a text or call from him. I know it's time to admit he's officially dropped off the radar—but there's this nagging strand of hope forever tugging on my brain and curling around all my thoughts. It's been almost a week since I left him a voicemail, and I've heard nothing. I click out of my chat with Mindy and scroll down to the last text I had with Collin. I stare at my lonely, little, ignored conversation bubble and wonder for the hundredth time why he's blown me off. I take a deep breath and conjure up some new determination. I need to get over this. Perhaps it's for the best. I was the one, after all, who told him we needed separate lives. Maybe he just finally agreed.
*** *** ***
"Beckett?" I call out. Tossing my keys on the table by my front door. He appears in the hallway, already wearing jeans and a dark burgundy shirt.
"Hey, babe," he says, taking my bag from me.
"What are you doing here?" I ask, pulling my boots off. Ugh, if feet could cry out in relief, mine would be doing that right now.
"I told you I was headed to your place after work, remember?" He laughs nervously.
"Oh yeah," I mutter.
I've been so focused on the texts I haven't been getting that I didn't think much about the ones I did get.
"I feel like I haven't seen you in ages." Beck tugs me toward him and encloses me in his embrace. I kiss his cheek gently
and then give his chest a quick pat as I pull away.
"What are these suitcases doing here, Beckett?"
Sitting in my kitchen are our matching carry-on bags his mother gave us for Christmas last year. He grabs my hand and spins me back around to face him.
"Get changed, Rachel. We're getting out of here for the weekend!" He smiles brightly at me, and I pull my hand from his grasp.
"What?"
"Get changed. I'll drive. I booked us an awesome bed and breakfast in Galena. We're going to get away and have some ‘us' time."
"Beck, that is so sweet, but I can't. Things are a complete mess at my job. I'm still at the top of Tim's shit list. I've got saboteurs all around me. I feel like I have been in perpetual damage control mode. You should've heard these bitches in the break room today." I walk past him to my bedroom.
He scoffs. "Tim needs to get over this. You've worked there for years. They know you! You didn't just call in sick you were sick, really sick. Doesn't he get that?"
"No. He's never missed a day of work in his life."
"Well, neither had you until you got that flu. What did he want you to do? Puke in the garbage can between Power Point slides? I'm sure that would've gone over great."
"You're searching for logic where there isn't any, Beck. He called me ‘unreliable', because from his point of view, that's what I am."
"That's ridiculous!" Beckett exclaims, looking like he's ready to punch someone. He follows me into the bathroom where I toss my blouse in the laundry basket. "Well, did you argue with him?"
The thought of arguing with Tim makes me laugh sarcastically. "And say what, Beck? I'm lucky I still have a job, although it feels like I've been demoted. He has given all this new responsibility to Meredith and Donna."
"The scaredy-cat and the office gossip?" Beckett asks. I nod. I have to admit, I'm impressed at his recognition of those names, I guess he listens more than I think he does.