The Me That I Became

by Christopher Harlan

  “So why not just tell her about this whole situation? Just get in front of it so that it doesn’t come out the wrong way from someone who isn’t you?”

  “Maybe you’re right. I’ll reach out. Thanks.” I don’t have any intention of doing that, I just wanted to get off the phone so bad that I said anything. She wasn’t being helpful at all, but I’m used to that when it comes to our mom. She’s good at telling me what she would do, but that’s easier said than done. She’s got a different relationship with the one who birthed us, so I always take her advice with a grain of salt.

  “No problem. See you tomorrow. Don’t be nervous.”

  “I won’t.” Lie. “Goodnight.”

  That was how the conversation ended last night, but now it’s game day. I reconsider calling mom for about a minute, but then I get too wrapped up in a case for one of my kids that I forget to call. I hope that doesn’t come back to bite me in the ass later on. It’s four o’clock, and Brandon is on his way to my place. I want to drive together so I can debrief him on mom without sounding too crazy. No one should meet her unprepared. He knocks on the door at exactly 4:15 p.m., and when I answer his face lights up. I look down to see what he has in his hand. “What’s that?”

  “You said your mom loves rosé wine, right? Did I get the wrong thing?”

  He’s so considerate. It’s things like this that make me question why I’m so nervous. He’s every mom’s dream—handsome, considerate, strong, a good job, he has it all. I think we’ll be fine, but for some reason I can’t kick this thought in the back of my mind that the whole thing is going to be a complete disaster. “No,” I tell him, taking the wine from his hand and kissing him right there in the doorway. “You got exactly the right thing. I’ll put in the fridge to chill, just remind me to grab it when we leave.”

  “You got it. What are you up to?”

  He looks over at the paper I have all over my coffee table. It looks like a scene from one of those detective shows, where a grizzly detective just can’t solve the twenty year old murder case. “One of my kids. I’m trying to decide if they’re in an abusive situation or not. This one’s been haunting me.”

  We walk over to the couch and sit, my papers still all over the table. “You wanna tell me about it?” he asks. “If you’re allowed to, I mean. I know there are privacy issues with things like this, involving minors.”

  “I can tell you about it in general without disclosing any personal information, then we’ll be in the clear.” Disclose. There’s that word again. “It’s an eight-year-old boy. Poor. I suspect he’s being neglected. His case came across my desk and I’m not sure what to do. These things are trickier than they seem. He has a lot of signs of neglect, but signs don’t necessarily mean anything’s happening. I honestly think the family can’t afford to take care of him properly.”

  “That’s terrible,” he says. He sounds genuinely concerned about the little boy. I love that about him. Whenever you tell him something he has this weird type of focus on what you’re saying, even if it’s the first time he’s hearing about it. He could never do this job. It would break his heart into a million pieces. “Assuming that your instincts are right, what do you even do in that situation?”

  “That’s a great question,” I answer. “And I wish that I had a clear-cut answer. That’s what I’ve been trying to figure out for hours now. The cases with little kids are the worst ones. Anything where minors are suffering in some way—those cases stick with me long after the paperwork gets filed.”

  “I think it’s great that you care about them so much. More than their own parents in some cases, I’m sure.” He looks down at the picture of the little boy. I should put it away, but he’s looking at it with such focus that I let him do it. “I could never do what you do, Lia. I’d be like that animal activist at the shelter—I’d want to save them all.”

  “You can’t,” I say. I sound like a hardened veteran, but it’s the truth. “You learn that the hard way when you’re around this stuff for a long time. This job would break your heart.”

  “It would. I can’t be around too much pain or drama.”

  I wish he would have said almost anything but that. It freaks me out, because I’m nothing but pain and drama, and I feel a rush of anxiety course through my body. “Why?” I ask.

  “I’m an empath,” he explains.

  “You’re a what?” I feel stupid asking. It sounds like the kind of thing I should know, but I’m not sure what the word means.

  “I’m an empath—like the word ‘empathy’. Some people—I’m one of them—have a fine-tuned ability to put themselves in the place of almost anyone, emotionally. I’m like that.”

  “Isn’t that a good thing? I mean, most people I know can’t empathize at all.”

  “It can be, sure, but mostly it causes me pain. Empaths have to be really careful who they surround themselves with, and what kind of people they have in their lives.”

  “Why’s that?” I ask, horrified by where this is going.

  “Imagine it for a second. Imagine being able to basically mirror the emotional state of almost anyone you meet, good or bad. Not just sympathizing with them or being nice to them, but actually being able to feel what they feel. That can be dangerous. I learned really early in life to be careful.” Awesome, Brandon. Good thing you’re with me now. I never cause drama and I’m never troubled.

  “I can’t imagine that.” I really can’t. Here’s the harsh truth about being depressed. It’s like the opposite of being an empath—it can make you the most self-centered person in the world, because all you feel or know is your own pain and sadness. You feel some guilt about how you’re treating other people and what they have to deal with when they’re around you, but mostly we become the centers of our own fucked up little universes.

  “I’m glad you don’t have to,” he says, sounding sad again. He stares back down at the photo, and I put my finger under his chin and pull his face up to mine.

  “Don’t look. It’s okay, this is my trouble to deal with.” I pull my hand away and he smiles. I decide to put some feelers out again to see just how he’d feel if I told him the truth about me. “So, going through what you went through with your sister must have been really hard, then.”

  His whole face changes when I say that. It’s like I drained the life out of him for a second. I guess he didn’t expect me to go there. He looks at me with sad eyes again. “It was the worst time of my entire life.” Then he looks away. I have my answer. He can’t know about me, at least not yet. I’d lose him. That must have been a terrible time for him. Every time I bring it up he looks like that; his whole demeanor just changes into something I’d look like if he saw the real me.

  “But we don’t have to talk about that.” I change the subject fast. I want his happy face back. “But if you want to worry about something, worry about this meal we’re about to eat in a few hours. That’ll be the real tragedy.”

  “Oh, come on,” he jokes. “She can’t be that bad.”

  My eyebrow shoots up. I don’t even need words. “Okay, maybe she is, but she’s not my mom, I doubt it’ll be weird for me. I’ll be good, don’t worry. I’ll say all the right things.”

  “It’s not you that I’m worried about, trust me.”

  He scoots over to me so that we’re touching. “Now, what could I do to make you relax, so you’re not so tense at this dinner?”

  “Hmmm,” I say, staring back into his sexy eyes. “I can think of one thing.”

  Maybe this night won’t be such a tragedy after all.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Okay, so I finally figured out the solution to my anxiety whenever I need to relax before meeting with my mom—I just have to have amazing sex with Brandon before I leave. I can totally pull that off. And that was amazing sex we just had. It was a little while ago but I’m still reeling. Mind-blowing, life-changing stuff. I still smell him all over me as we drive over to my parent’s house. He asked to drive, and even though I’m a bit of
a control freak I’d give him anything he wanted after what just happened. My heart is steady, and my nerves are mostly calm, even though I start feeling them a little more with every minute that passes.

  When we get there, though, it all hits me at once, and Brandon sees the change in my face and in my energy level. After he parks my car in the driveway he puts his hand on my thigh to calm me. “It’ll be okay, I promise.”

  “Don’t promise something you can’t make happen.”

  “Alright then, how about this? I promise that everything will be alright on my end, for whatever that’s worth”

  “It’s worth a lot,” I tell him. I guess that’ll have to be enough.

  Brandon takes the bottle of wine from me and carries it to the house. He wants the first eyes they lay on him to be when he’s holding a gift. Good boy. Smart boy. I hold his other hand, and we walk slowly to the front door. I see Carla and Peter’s car on the street, and the fact that my buffers are here makes me feel a little better about the situation. Brandon rings the doorbell. My heart starts going about a mile a minute, but he leans over to me and whispers, “If, at any point, it gets weird tonight, just imagine what I was doing to you before and it’ll all fade away.”

  He knows just what to say.

  It’s my dad who answers the door, his social smile already fixed on his face. If you didn’t know my dad you’d think it was a real smile, but it’s actually a professional forgery of an expression—it takes a well-trained expert to spot the difference. You don’t just learn how to fake it through your life, you have to be taught, and I was instructed by the best. “Baby, how are you? I’m not used to seeing you every week.” This is a special meeting of Congress, called by my mom. Normally our dinners are a monthly thing, which is plenty, but this change in the schedule was an aberration brought on by the surprise I dropped that I had a new man in my life. She must really want to meet Brandon, and this is her strange way of showing some kind of interest in my life.

  “Hi dad.”

  He leans over and hugs me right there in the doorway. “And this must be. . .”

  “Brandon, sir, a pleasure to meet you.” Good boy. Very good boy.

  “Peter, please,” my dad corrects. “Always Peter.” That was a secret test, and Brandon just passed it with flying colors. Dad was telling the truth—he doesn’t want to be called ‘sir’, but he does want to be called sir first, and then have the power to reject the title. Well played, Brandon.

  “Peter it is, then. Thank you for having me to your home.”

  “Oh, don’t be silly, we’re happy to have you both. Please, come in.”

  We step inside, and I see everyone’s sitting around the living room, which is a strange sight. My family actually looks like a family right now, rather than a bunch of uncomfortable relatives standing around all different parts of the house like we usually do. Mom is already drinking wine, but Brandon walks right up to her and offers her a gift. Mom stands to greet him, and he already has his hand extended, the bottle of wine in the other.

  “Oh, please,” mom says. “No need for such formality.” And what she does next shocks me a little. She hugs him. She hugs him. Her arms are around him and I can see her squeezing. It’s such a strange sight that my only reaction is to look at Carla, who also has the same dumbfounded expression I have.

  “See,” dad says playfully. “He’s so formal, isn’t he dear?”

  “Hardly a bad thing, is it?” mom answers. “But not entirely necessary. And what’s this, you didn’t have to bring anything. Lia, did you tell this man to bring gifts?”

  Brandon jumps in before I have a chance to answer. “It wasn’t Talia, to be honest.” He looks over at me and smiles. “She did tell me about your preference in wines, that much is true, but I was raised to never accept an invitation to someone’s home without bringing a gift. I hope you like it.” Holy shit, he’s good. I look at Carla again, and this time we don’t exchange what the fuck looks, we exchange subtle grins of cheer at how well he’s navigating mom.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet someone so well raised,” mom says. “And thank you, Brandon, I love it. Peter, would you mind putting this in the fridge to chill for a few minutes before dinner?” My dad goes to stand up, but mom waves him back down. “I meant Little Peter,” she says, motioning to my brother in law. “You’re not doing anything important over there, are you? Would you mind?” There she is—there’s the real mom, poking her head out here and there.

  Little Peter jumps up and grabs the bottle. As he scurries off to the kitchen I look at Carla one more time, and this time she looks annoyed that mom spoke to her husband in that tone, right in front of everyone. I shrug at her, not knowing what to say. But, if I can be a little selfish for a second, I’m happy that, at the very least, mom’s treating my guy so well. “Lia,” she says, coming over to hug me. Now I know she’s full of shit because she’s never this warm. This is all a show for Brandon. He’s the only one who doesn’t really know her yet, and the only reason she’d change her behavior.

  “Hey mom, thanks for having us.”

  “Of course. Dinner’s just about ready. Why don’t we all go sit down?”

  No matter how much I shit on my parents, one thing I could never criticize is their ability to host a dinner. My mom is actually a great cook. In a previous life, she dreamed of being a chef until she realized that there’s not enough prestige or money in it. But, in terms of skill, she’s excellent, one of the best home cooks I know, even growing up, and my parents have always thrown great parties. She puts a spread of several dishes out on the table, with my dad and Peter helping. She’d never ask Brandon to help, but him taking the initiative to grab some dishes and put them on the table is tantamount to him getting an ‘A’ on yet another one of their invisible tests.

  Mom and dad sit at the opposite heads of the table, with Carla and I sitting on either side across from each other. We eat for about ten minutes with no incident, but I’m still holding my breath like something bad is going to happen. I’m just praying that mom doesn’t talk about me. We can talk about anything else, just not me. The more controversial the better—religion, politics, literally anything, I don’t care. So far, it’s just your inane dinner chit-chat, which is fine with me. Brandon leans over and whispers in my ear, “See?”

  Never declare victory too soon. Rookie mistake.

  Another five minutes pass and I actually start to relax. And then, right on cue, mom shifts to us. “Brandon, what do you do, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  “Not at all,” he says. “I’m a professor of English at the university.”

  My mom’s eyes light up. “A professor? Tenured?”

  “No, currently I’m a very hard-working adjunct, but only because, as I’m sure you know, tenure track positions are like Supreme Court vacancies—they don’t come around very often, and it usually takes a retirement or death for one to open up. But I have been there a while, so I should be next in line if an opportunity arises. Fingers crossed.”

  Take that. It’s not that Brandon’s being fake right now—I wouldn’t call it that, but he’s putting on. . . something. It’s this really polished version of himself, almost the kind of thing you see on a job interview when someone goes on Google and memorizes the answers to all the most common questions they might be asked. I can see Brandon doing that—anticipating the basic getting-to-know-you questions the mom of a girlfriend might ask, and having his answers tailor-made to impress.

  Everyone keeps talking, and around the middle of the meal mom reaches her hand out for the side dishes that are sitting in front of us. “Would you mind passing the potatoes, Joel.” The whole table stops. We all pick up on it. Silence fills the room and mom quickly fake corrects herself. “Oh, Jeez, I’m so sorry. Brandon! Would you mind passing me the potatoes, Brandon. Where is my head?”

  That was beyond intentional. I’m about to open my mouth and freak out when Brandon jumps in. “It’s quite alright,” he says. “Honest mistake.” He pu
ts his utensils down and looks right at my mom. “Look, I understand that Talia just got out of a long relationship, with someone I’m sure you all grew very close to. He probably sat at this table many times, maybe in this very seat. I’m the new guy, I get it. Feel free to address me any way you like, but you’d better get used to me, because you’ll be seeing me here in this seat for a very long time.”

  Oh. My. God.

  I’ve never seen someone handle her this way. He’s Bobby Fischer to her Boris Spassky. Brandon’s being a perfect gentleman, but he’s really asserting himself and sending a message that he’s not going to take any of her shit. This is beautiful. All of a sudden, I’m happy we came to dinner. My mom just smiles. She’s down but never out. But that round goes to my guy.

  “One more question, Brandon?” she asks.

  “Of course. You can ask me anything.”

  “I noticed that you keep calling her Talia. Why is that?”

  I was waiting for her to pick up on that and say something, but without missing a step Brandon says, “Because that’s her name, ma’am. I believe you and your husband gave it to her. Only makes good sense to call her by it, don’t you think?”

  Game, set, and match. Mom smiles again, and it’s another one of those faces that looks happy, if you don’t know what you’re looking at. It’s not happy because she’s not a happy person. It’s a, nice shot, just wait until I hit you back, face. A sign of respect between combatants. Nothing more. I think Brandon understands that perfectly at this point. After that, dinner finishes up nicely. My dad plays his role and pivots to the next topic, and soon enough dinner is finished.

  This time it was Carla’s job to bring the post dinner goodies, but we always do the obligatory twenty-minute break in between dinner and dessert, and that’s dishes time. Our family is a little different. With us the women stay behind, and the men clean up, and right now Brandon jumps up, along with Peter and Dad, to help carry all the dirty plates and serving utensils into the kitchen. After a few minutes of chit chat mom gets up and and joins the men. A minutes later she comes out with Brandon on her arm.