“I already handled the money,” Mum said. Her eyes were cloudy with the drugs and the remnants of pain. “I didn’t think you’d want to see me. You must hate me, Hayden.”
I was silent because there was no way I could refute that. I did hate what she’d done to me, even though my feelings were mixed up with the images, mostly from photographs, of her holding me as a baby, kissing me, snuggling me in close.
“You chose to leave,” I finally pointed out.
“George and I decided I should sever contact,” she said. I glanced at Kelly, whose face was set, eyes pleading me to listen.
“Without ever asking me what I wanted?” The words wrenched from my throat. This was it—if I didn’t ask now I might never know. She needed to explain how she could grab her own child in a viselike grip so tight and shake his teeth near loose. I’d worn the bruises for weeks. She hadn’t explained her screaming and hitting me on the head, shoulders, chest, before shoving me through the window. It took me years to fight off the nightmares of that day.
“I was sick. Very sick. I spent nearly two years in that facility after you and George left before I could manage any kind of life on my own. And then only with a pillbox full of prescriptions. I missed you so much, I kept falling back into the depression.”
“So, it was fine to move me from my friends, from my life, from you?” I stood, not sure why, just knowing I couldn’t sit there and listen to her recounting.
“That was George’s decision. He’d missed Melbourne and I—I wasn’t capable of helping raise you.” The skin around her mouth turned white when she pressed her bloodless lips together. “I’d hurt you enough.”
I glanced up and saw a flash of fabric. It was the blue of Briar’s top. Shit, she must have heard that as she passed my mum’s room.
So many emotions bubbled up, but the strongest was anger. I didn’t want anyone to know my mum’s struggle with mania and depression. Especially not Briar. She was a bloody journo. No matter what she said, I feared she’d turn my mum’s death to her advantage. Except . . . except she understood the unfairness of parents putting their desires—hell, even their wellness—before their child’s. Not fair, that thought, but I wanted Briar to see me, not the musician, not the son of a sick woman. More, I wanted Briar to like what she saw.
“Yes, you did.” Which was why I’d planned to pat my mum’s hand, fix up her bill, leave. Simple. That was more than she deserved after she’d pummeled me in a rage for interrupting her piano practice.
“I couldn’t see you again, Hayden.” Her voice was full of regret. “What if I had another violent episode? That last one sent you to the hospital for a week.” Her lips trembled as a tear splashed over the thin lid.
She’d left me in some noble attempt to protect me? My dad told me to find my mum. To listen to her. Bloody hell. I didn’t know what to believe anymore.
“And better to ignore me for the next two decades than to write something? An apology, maybe?”
“I’m bipolar, Hayden.”
I’d known she struggled with mental illness thanks to some of the papers my father had locked in one of the drawers in his study. But my dad didn’t talk about bipolar disorder or mania or even my mother’s depression much, so old-school in his beliefs, he assumed people needed to want to change to stop their strange, sometimes dangerous behaviors. The word, bipolar, tied a heavy weight around my neck. Mental illness was hereditary, passed down from a parent or close relative.
Bloody fucking hell. Bipolar. From what little I knew about mental health, the disorder was serious, on par with schizophrenia.
My mum exhaled hard, struggling against the forced oxygen that was being pumped regularly into her nose. “For me the depression is aggressive, angry. And it’s much harder to climb out of that than the mania.”
“And I was the easiest target.” I pressed my fists to my forehead.
“Because you were there. That wasn’t my first episode with you. Just the worst. Your father told me I either got help or he would leave me.”
“So you got help and he left you.”
“Not exactly,” she said. She stopped twisting her sheet in her fingers. “I asked him to take you away. You were a temptation I couldn’t resist. I wanted to be with you, not in a treatment center.” She gestured to the room. “They weren’t as nice as this. I found out later, after years of therapy, the intensity of my love for you also brought about more focused negative emotions like rage and depression. They were focused on you because I loved you. So much.”
“You loved me so much you ran away?” I sneered.
Kelly stepped forward, laid her hand on my mother’s frail shoulder. The nurse sent me a glare that said “you better calm down” before she refocused on my mother.
I gnashed my teeth. I didn’t want to calm the fuck down. I wanted to yell at the nurse. I wanted to run from my mother’s comments. My fingers were through my hair, trying to ease the confusion and anger cracking open my chest. “Dad said you needed time. But you’d decided I wasn’t worth the effort.”
“No! God, no, Hayden. I just . . . I struggled for years with the depression. Because I missed you. I spent most of that time in and out of facilities.”
“Well, isn’t that convenient,” I scoffed. “For your story.”
“George told me that leaving was best for all of us. That I could start over.” The machines started beeping.
“Miriam, you need to calm down,” Kelly said.
“Why? So I can live longer? I’m dying. Hayden needs to understand—”
“I’ll come by tomorrow,” I said as I strode toward the door.
“Hayden, I was your age.” My mum’s voice was edged with panic. “I didn’t know how to fight for you. We didn’t know then what we know now about the disease.”
I stopped, turned slowly to face her. “That you passed along the chance of me being just as fucked up as you are? That’s all I know about bipolar disorder. It’s genetic. You gave me a life sentence, just like yours.”
“I didn’t understand how to manage the disorder then,” she whispered.
My shoulders hunched inward. “Do you have any idea how hard it was, growing up with a dad old enough to be my grandfather and a mum who ran away?” I asked, my voice vibrating with a fury I’d worked for years to suppress. I searched her face. “Do you have any idea how hard being alone was on Dad? How much I wished for one phone call—just one—where you told me you loved me?” I crossed my arms over my chest, holding in some of my righteous anger. “Of course you don’t. You didn’t see Dad age overnight or hold me when I cried into my pillow for weeks on end. Because you left.”
“No, honey. Your move, my leaving . . . it wasn’t like that, Hayden. I always loved you . . .”
“Not enough to do anything about it.”
I strode down the hall and slammed my hand against the release bar of the front door with more force than necessary. I cursed as I stumbled out the door. The cool air slapped me in the face. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
I wanted to hit something but I wouldn’t. I refused violence of all kinds. I still remembered those moments when my mum had slapped me.
I glanced around, looking for some outlet. Nothing. I needed to calm down enough to drive myself away from this place. I pressed my palms against the side of the building, trying to draw in enough air to loosen the tightness in my chest. I needed a keyboard to pound out my frustrations. No one would get hurt if I played out my emotions.
A hand slid over my wrist. I turned to see Briar, this woman I barely knew, thankful for her steady presence. I buried my nose in her neck, my arms wrapped tight around her, and finally I could breathe. She slid her arms over my shoulders and rocked me like mums do their small children. And just as I’d always assumed, there was comfort in that sway, in those warm arms.
“You listened,” I mumbled into the soft skin of her neck.
She nodded. Her fingers slid into the hair at the nape of my neck. I liked that she didn’t offer plat
itudes. “Enough to know this isn’t our afternoon. I’d just gotten into it with Ken.”
“The wanker stopped by?”
“To pronounce Rosie very sick and me very stupid. Cold and calculating.” She closed her eyes, trying to mentally shake off his words.
“My mum’s always been sick.” My voice cracked. I heaved a breath, pulling her tighter against me. I wanted me in her, buried so deep I couldn’t feel this anymore. “I knew that, but I didn’t know how sick. After my dad died, my anger drove me deeper into music, deeper into myself.” I shut my eyes and tipped my head back, swallowing hard. “Now that she’s dying, she’s trying to take my anger at her leaving me, too.”
“I totally get that.”
“Will you . . . I don’t want to be alone.”
“I’m pretty raw right now, too.”
“Because of the wanker?”
“He called me a cold, heartless bitch.”
“Didn’t know you well, did he?”
“Even when I was with him, I never let him in.”
The sound that erupted from my throat was somewhere between a sigh and a growl. “I understand. And in this case, you were right to keep him at a distance. He’s a total shithead.” I glanced around. “I need to get out of here. I’ll come back in the morning, talk to the director then. Keep me company, Briar. We’ll do each other some good.”
She hesitated, her shoulders stiff. She wrestled with her thoughts while I waited, just as tense. After drawing and releasing a deep breath, she pulled back just enough to cup my cheeks. She stared into my eyes, forcing me to steady my gaze, to regulate my breathing.
“I’ll make you a deal, Hayden. For as long as you’re in Seattle, you don’t have to do this by yourself. I’ll be here with you, for you.”
I nodded, inhaled deep and leaned my forehead against hers. “I’d like that. I’ll offer the same. Get you through your shit-tastic evening and we’ll come back tomorrow. I’m sorry you saw me . . . ” I waved toward the front door. “I’m not usually so . . . ”
“Look, I don’t know how to deal with my mess of a life. I’m not going to judge how you deal with your problems,” she said with a sigh. “I want to spend time with Rosie. She doesn’t have much left.”
I stared into those beautiful blue eyes. “I’m not saying tomorrow will be better.”
Her lips flipped up in a sardonic smile. “It’s possible tomorrow will be worse. This is hospice after all.”
“I’m expecting worse.” I tilted my head back and groaned. “I don’t want my mum’s death to drag out. Too many people are counting on me.”
“You’ll do the best you can.”
“Doesn’t feel good enough.”
“Welcome to the club. Speaking of, my sister doesn’t believe I met you, Mr. World Famous Rock Star.”
I raised my eyebrow. I cradled her shoulders. I liked holding Briar. Wasn’t a briar some kind of rose? Sweet but with enough defenses to bloom. I liked that—she’d fight for her chances.
“We’ll have to take a selfie. For digital proof.”
“Thought you didn’t like digital proof and journos, as you call them.”
“Reckon I don’t. But . . . I’m making an exception.”
Her lips curved up and her eyes sparkled. The weight from my chest eased a little and I could draw a full breath. “I’d like that. Ready to go?”
“Photo first.”
I grabbed her phone and positioned us together before snapping a few photos. “For posterity or whatever.”
She smiled again. “I know just the place to go.”
She snagged my hand, her cool fingers sliding between mine, our palms fusing softly. Something in me clicked, like I’d just latched into a safety belt. I followed behind her as she pulled me toward her car again. After she unlocked it, I opened her door and waited for her to slide in. Instead, she stepped in closer, her body heat mingling with mine.
“I’ve done a lot of soul-searching these past few months, Hayden. But today, with Ken’s comments, my purpose clicked.” She closed her eyes, reliving something. “I’m tired of closing off, pushing people away,” she whispered. “It’s all I’ve done for years.” She opened her eyes, filled with the fire of new determination. “So I mean it when I say I’ll be here with you. Through this. As your friend.”
I ran my knuckle down her cheek, marveling at the smooth, firm texture of her skin. “I don’t know how I got so lucky in the friend department, but I’m chuffed you’re here. And such a gorgeous lady at that.”
She rolled her eyes, and I winked. Walking around the car, I curled my fingers tight to hold in the fading heat from her skin. I glanced up at the building. Whatever my mum needed to tell me, I needed to hear. I could process her reasons and come to terms with her years of rejection later, but for now, she wanted me to know her side of the story. And I’d listen.
As I eased into the car, Briar’s floral scent wrapped around me, cradling me almost as well as her arms had just moments before.
10
Briar
His eyes were shattered, but the pieces weren’t continuing to break further as they’d been when he first turned toward me. Being more open with others meant I had to feel some of what he was feeling. But helping him made me feel better, too.
The silence built. Maybe I’d handled him wrong. Hayden was so contained, so private. More so, even, than I was. But I could see how worn down he’d become from holding all those emotions in—just like Lia said I did, burying my emotions deep and building walls higher with each heartache I’d faced. I wanted better for him than this slow, grinding sadness. More for me, too.
His fingers tapped, restless against his jeans-clad thigh.
Maybe it was the pain meds, maybe the cancer had eaten away at his mother’s ability to cushion her words like it had her organs. Or maybe that’s just the way she was. Whatever her reasons, she’d ripped Hayden’s heart bare in minutes. Much like Ken did to me.
Seeing Hayden lost and angry . . . his response now brought back those horrible days when my dad died, and I was too scared to help Lia as she struggled to keep us fed and moving through our routine.
I hated anything that reminded me of that time in our lives, but somehow, sharing this connection with Hayden helped. We were survivors.
The evening commuter traffic had mostly passed. I pulled into the dark parking lot of the studio. Lia had checked for me, and Bill was in town. When I’d called, he’d been more than happy to let us in to the studio space.
“You didn’t have to meet us,” I said as Bill pulled me into a hug. He was about my height and solid. His hair was shorn shorter than I’d ever seen it, probably in an effort to hide the gray swirling through the flaxen strands. Bill took his appearance seriously. His designer jeans, expensive black leather boots, and trendy Western-style shirt proved it.
Like the rest of Asher’s band, Bill treated me like family—the kid sister they loved to razz. But if I was ever in any trouble, they’d be the first to step in and make things right. Hard to believe my sister and I had only been in their lives such a short time. Everything about Lia and Asher just clicked.
I wanted that for me.
I glanced at Hayden, saw the frown building between his brows. With Hayden, I was opening myself up, helping him as he helped me.
“Pass up a chance to play with the Aussie rocker of the year? Like that was ever going to happen.”
Bill held out his hand and Hayden shook it—after he pulled me into his side. I beamed up at him.
“So this is Bill,” I said.
“Good to see you again, mate.”
“Yeah, you, too. Bri said you wanted some studio time.”
Hayden glanced down at me, his eyes widening a little as he considered the offer.
“You got a piano?”
“Of course. Wait till you see our baby.” Bill chuckled at his joke.
“Excellent,” Hayden said. He squeezed my waist, letting me know how pleased he was with the situa
tion.
“C’mon. I want your opinion on the acoustics.”
I followed behind the guys, glad to see a bit of bounce in Hayden’s step. My jaw dropped when Bill opened the door. The space was big, loft-like. The far wall was a bank of windows with breathtaking views of the sound. While we were miles from the shore, the building was high enough to have unrestricted line of sight to Alki Beach. The Cascades rose, jagged and dark, against the velvet lavender of the night sky. I moved closer to the windows.
“Wow, Bill, this is amazing.”
“Right? Glad we brought in the piano. We can bang out some chords, but none of us have anything close to that”—he tilted his head toward Hayden—“kind of talent.”
The light from the lamp on top of the ebony baby grand glinted off the caramel waves on Hayden’s bent head as he positioned himself on the piano bench. Haunting notes filled the room. His fingers moved with mournful perfection over the keys. I sank into the melody, carried away by his obvious love of the instrument. He didn’t raise his head, just segued into the next song with a seamlessness that seemed easy.
“He’s amazing.”
I jumped, my hand to my heart. I’d forgotten Bill was there; I’d been so focused on Hayden.
“Thanks again for letting us come,” I said, keeping my voice quiet. I didn’t want to distract Hayden. His notes were getting louder, building to the crescendo of emotion he’d otherwise try to bottle back up inside.
“He needed it,” Bill said. “Damn, that’s some fine playing. Think we could steal him from his band?”
I shrugged, unsure how much Hayden wanted to talk about his reasons for being here, in Seattle, instead of on tour.
“How long’s he in town?”
Hayden dropped his hands from the keys and raised his head. “Until my mum dies. She’s got stage four pancreatic cancer.”
Hayden’s eyes met mine, silently thanking me for keeping my mouth shut.
“I’m sorry, man. That’s—wow—no wonder you wanted to play. Helps screw your head on straight, yeah?”
Seattle Sound Series, The Collection: Books One to Five Page 32
