The Patron

by Tess Thompson

  “She reminds me of me.” Mom clasped her hands on her lap. “All closed up, as if that will help the pain.”

  “You’ve fallen for her hard, haven’t you?” Dad asked.

  I nodded. "Head over heels. I’ve never felt this before. I’m not sure I like it."

  "Loving a woman takes courage sometimes,” Dad said. “Especially a complicated one like Crystal.”

  I leaned my head against the back of the couch and looked up at the ceiling. “But I think I may have finally worn her down.”

  My dad’s phone buzzed with a call he had to take. “I’ll be back in a flash,” he said. “A work thing. Won’t take but a few minutes.”

  As if he needed to give my mother a time frame when she’d left us without warning.

  After my dad left, Mom brought me a cup of coffee and a few pieces of toast. While I ate, we watched the game. My mind wandered, only half aware of the score. When the game finished, Mom surprised me by clicking off the television. She went to the bank of windows and looked out to the white fog so thick we could be in a cloud.

  “It’s strange to think how the view changes from one day to the next,” she said.

  “Kind of a metaphor for life, isn’t it?” I used the crutches to get up and stand beside her.

  “Yes, despite wishes to the contrary.” She reached toward the glass but didn’t put her fingers on the window. “Should we talk?” Wearing a bulky black sweater that hid her thinness, she looked better this morning than when she’d arrived yesterday.

  “About what?” I leaned heavily on my crutches, suddenly tired. I vacillated between tension and fatigue around my mother. I could feel her trying. I was trying. All this effort was too much because we were strangers.

  “I’m sorry for the way things have been between us,” she said, breaking the silence.

  I took in a deep breath. For a man who moved to Emerson Pass for a quiet, peaceful life, I seemed to have a lot of women who seemed hell-bent on making it otherwise. “It’s all right. I’m fine.”

  “If it matters to you at this point, I regret leaving both you and your father. I had some kind of mental break. I’m sorry if I hurt you.” Her hands shook as she touched the ends of her hair, a gesture I remembered from my childhood. Whenever she was nervous or frightened, her hands would not stay still. Even before my brother’s death, she’d had trouble fitting into our suburban neighborhood. The other ladies on our block were constantly having parties of one kind or another: baby showers, Tupperware parties, happy hours with wine and cheese. She was always invited but never attended. I’d asked her once why she hadn't gone to a party thrown by my best friend's mother. She’d stared out the kitchen window and shrugged her shoulders. “All I do is try to think of something to say and then it’s over and I’ve still not spoken. I decided to no longer torture myself.”

  Now I glanced over at her. “It’s nice that you came.”

  “Even though we have nothing to say to each other?” Her eyes glittered with unshed tears.

  “We might. Give it a few days,” I said, lightly.

  “I’ve waited too long.” She backed away, brushing her knuckles under both eyes.

  “Too long?”

  “I waited too long to come back to you.”

  I didn’t say anything. My throat ached too much to speak even if I’d had anything to say. The assurance she needed was way down in the bottom of my gut, unable to come to the surface, pushed down by my hurt and anger.

  “I wanted to,” Mom said. “I meant what I said in the note. But then the days rolled by one after the other, and I wasn’t able to muster the energy it took to raise a little boy. I had nothing to give you. I knew you were better off without me.”

  “Not true.” My voice caught. No, I wasn’t doing this. What right did she have to barge in here and make apologies and provide explanations after years of ice? I closed my eyes, seeing the note once more.

  I’d come home from school that day, tired from the sadness that had weighed me down since Christopher left us. I was a little boy with no idea how to process grief; I was in a battle those days just to put one foot in front of the other. I hadn’t known how to interpret the faraway look in my mother's eyes. I didn’t understand that I’d already lost her before she physically left.

  Dearest Garth, I have to go. Just for a little while. Until I can get my head straight. I love you no matter what. Love, Mom.

  In her neat, symmetrical handwriting, she’d made a promise that she hadn't kept. She hadn't come back, not really, anyway. There were our awkward dinners, Christmas and birthday gifts. But she wasn’t there when I needed her most. The first time I’d had my heart broken. The months leading up to and after my divorce, I’d needed her. I’d craved the love one can only get from a mother. My dad tried. God bless him, he’d done as well as he could raising a little boy on his own. Regardless, he was a man. We’re not made like women, able to fix a skinned knee and a bruised heart with a kiss and assurance that everything would be better tomorrow.

  That broken promise had defined and dictated so much of my life. I was the boy whose mother had left him. The son who lived only to be abandoned. She hadn’t loved me enough to stay. As a child who missed his mother, how else could I interpret it? From my adult eyes, however, I could understand depression and hopelessness. I saw her from the eyes of a man who witnessed his mother as a person, not his parent. She’d been a woman who could not see a way out of her darkness.

  Maybe none of it mattered now. Perhaps to forgive meant also to forget. We were humans, fallible and broken. Not made for grief or loss but for love. What good would it do either of us for me to hold on to resentment and anger?

  Still, there was a hard knot in my stomach. One that wouldn’t allow me to soften. Since the trauma of my parents’ divorce, I’d spent my time trying to be a man women wouldn’t leave. Yet wasn’t that what I was doing with Crystal? Falling for a woman I couldn’t have? Was this a pathological behavior that could be traced back to the abandonment I’d felt as a child? If I could get her to stay, would that prove my worth? Prove that I was indeed lovable? That it wasn’t just Christopher who was worthy of love?

  Mom had wandered to the couch, where she sat. “Come sit with me. Tell me about Crystal.”

  I hobbled over and lowered myself down on the other end. “Do you really want to know?”

  “Only if you want to tell me. I know I haven’t earned that right, but I’d like to hear about your life if you want to share.”

  I let that sink in before deciding how to answer. She’d opened herself up to rejection and anger by coming here. I could meet her in the middle. Offer up part of myself. “I’ve fallen in love with her, but she’s not ready.” I explained how her husband had died and the circumstances surrounding the accident. “After he died, she found out she was pregnant. Then she lost the baby. There’s so much hurt in her, Mom. I can see she has feelings for me, but there’s this part of her that refuses to shed her shell and let me in. It’s stupid, really. I know I’m going to get hurt.” I hadn’t expected to tell her so much, but it felt good to do so. “Then I got in an accident, which scared her."

  “Brought up all those feelings of helplessness,” Mom said. “I can understand.”

  “Right.”

  “Crystal sounds a lot like me." She moved her gaze to the windows. “Trapped in her grief. Unable to forgive herself for living when her husband died. Add a miscarriage and you have a woman afraid to love again.”

  “Is that how it was for you? You couldn't forgive yourself?"

  She nodded, so subtly that had I not watched her so carefully, I would've missed it.

  “What couldn’t you forgive yourself for? Did you think Christopher’s death was your fault?" I asked.

  She looked down at her lap and said quietly, “It was my fault."

  "He died of cancer. How is that on you?”

  Her bottom lip trembled as she took in a deep breath, then let it out slowly. “Because he complained about th
e pain for months before I took him in to the pediatrician. I thought it was just growing pains. I always took you boys in for checkups and I thought we could ask the doctor about them then and she’d reassure us that aches and pains was just part of growing up. Instead, we found out he had cancer and that it had spread. If I’d taken him in early, we might have caught it in time. What kind of mother doesn't listen to her little boy when he tells her he’s hurting?” Her voice wobbled. She clutched the delicate silver cross she wore around her neck.

  “Mom, you couldn’t have known.”

  “Motherly instincts should have clued me in to what was happening. I’m not fit to be a mother. I could see that clearly after we lost him.”

  The dawning of what this meant came to me in one of those moments of clarity. “Is that why you left me? You were punishing yourself?”

  “I knew you'd be better off without me."

  "I wasn't. I needed you."

  "I'm sorry." Tears fell from her eyes. She wiped at them with the back of her hand. “I didn’t know what I was doing. I didn’t for such a long time. Your dad was such a good father. I knew you’d thrive under his care without me like a dark shadow in the house. I drove him to the bar with my depression. I was awful to him, directing my anger at myself toward him. Without me there, I knew he’d show up for you. He was always the type who stepped up whenever anyone truly needed him.”

  “He did well, but I missed you.”

  “I missed you. I still do. It’s my fault we don’t have a close relationship, and I’d do anything to make things better.”

  “You did the best you could. We all did.”

  “Thank you for that.” She dipped her chin and her hair fell forward, covering her face. Her narrow, thin shoulders shuddered.

  I got up and went to sit beside her. “Mom, you’re here now. So am I.”

  She looked up at me and covered one of my hands with hers. “Yes, we are.”

  I’d forgotten how small she was. How hard it must have been for her to get in her car and come here, unsure of my reaction and wanting only to show up for me. “You were brave to come here.”

  “Thank you for not sending me away.” She plucked a piece of lint from her pants. “There aren’t an endless number of years left.

  “I had breast cancer last year.”

  “What?” A dart of alarm pierced my chest.

  “I had a full mastectomy and chemo. They got it all. I’m in remission. However, it made me realize I might not have a chance to make things right between us.”

  “Mom, why didn’t you tell me?”

  “What good would that have done? You have your own life.”

  “I could have come to help. Or at least sent you a card.”

  “It wasn’t necessary,” she said.

  “Did you have anyone to help you?”

  “I have a friend from work who helped. And my boss’s wife. They were all I needed.”

  “I’m glad you’re all right now.” The familiar hurt had taken hold. Why wouldn’t she want her son with her during such a horrendous ordeal? “I could have helped,” I said again. “I’d have wanted to.”

  “It’s never been about you or how much I love you.”

  “How did you know that’s what I was thinking?” I asked.

  “You’re my son. I can read your face.” A faint smile lifted her mouth, but her eyes were sad. “I was like a wounded dog. Licking my wounds and not wanting anyone to see me.”

  That’s the way she was, I thought. Always running away.

  Would this time be different?

  14

  Crystal

  My mom had asked me to come up to her room before breakfast instead of meeting in the restaurant. I knocked on the door and waited for her to answer. Seconds later, she yanked it open, grunting as if it were heavy. “Come on in.”

  I followed her inside. “Mom, aren’t we going downstairs?” She wore black leggings and an oversize sweatshirt. Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail. She obviously hadn’t showered or put on makeup. In fact, she looked as if she hadn’t slept.

  “I’m not hungry.” She plopped in the armchair. The shades were drawn. An empty wine bottle was on the mantel above the fireplace. I pulled up the shade and turned on a lamp. With better lighting, I could see that her eyes were red and her skin blotchy. She’d been crying.

  “Did you have that whole bottle of wine yourself?” I asked.

  “Maybe,” she mumbled.

  “Mom, what’s going on?” My mother never had more than a glass.

  "I had lunch with Jack yesterday.”

  “What did he do? Did he make you cry?” How dare he. I knew exactly where I was going after this. He’d get a piece of my mind.

  "There's something I need to tell you."

  I shivered. Why was it so cold in here? I flipped the switch on the gas fireplace before sitting next to my mother. “What happened?”

  “It’s about Jack and me in high school. There's more to it. Something I didn't tell you. Something I should have told you.” Her entire body shook. I’d never seen her this upset.

  “Mom, you’re scaring me.”

  “So much time went by—the years just roll on one by one until it's too late."

  "Too late for what?" I had the sensation of falling into an endless black hole.

  She tightened her grip on the arms of the chair as if she were on a scary ride at an amusement park. “Jack Vargas is your father."

  I laughed. "Very funny, Mom."

  "It's the truth. I didn't know I was pregnant until it was almost time for him to come home. I got a letter from him. He told me he’d gotten a girl pregnant and had to marry her. I didn’t tell him about you. Instead, I ran away to Seattle and never told a soul who your father was. After a while, it was as if I’d made him up. You were mine and mine alone.”

  I stared at her as the room tipped. This was impossible. Jack Vargas was my father? “How could you lie to me?”

  “I had to.”

  “Did Nana and Pop know?”

  “They knew I was pregnant but not that it was Jack's baby. I lied to them too."

  "Why would you lie? I don’t understand.”

  "Because he was very clear about one thing. He was going to marry Malinda. He said it was the right thing to do."

  My mind was reeling so quickly I was dizzy. On trembling legs, I got up from the chair and went to stand by the fireplace. "But that would mean Brandi is my sister."

  "Your half sister."

  "Why now? Why tell me now?"

  "Because Jack asked me directly. He asked me if you were his."

  “What? Suddenly you had to tell the truth? After lying to everyone all these years? I can't believe this." My voice cracked. I wrung my sweaty hands. Air. I needed air. “If he suspected this, why didn’t he ask you before now?”

  "He said it hadn't occurred to him until recently. One day a few months ago you made a certain expression or gesture—I can’t remember now what he said it was—and he saw his mother in you. He dismissed the idea but it kept nagging at him. When he heard I was in town, he decided to ask me for the truth. He thought I would say no—that it was only a coincidence.”

  I fell deeper into the black hole as I tried to hold on to a sense of reality. My cheeks were wet with tears. Why had she allowed him to marry Malinda? He’d belonged to my mom. “Why would you let him marry her? He didn't even love her."

  "Because I was young and stupid and hurt. I’d thought that he and I were soul mates. When I found out he cheated—it wrecked me. I had to get away, honey. I'm so sorry. You deserved better, but I didn’t know what to do.”

  “You deserved better.”

  "I know that now. But I was eighteen years old then. And really scared."

  "What did he say? When you told him."

  "He was stunned, of course. Like I said, he’d suspected it but didn't really think it could be true."

  "Does he want to…” I trailed off, unable to ask all the questions tumbl
ing around in my mind. Would he want anything to do with me? Or was his anger at my mother too strong to want a relationship with me? Did I want a relationship with him? What did this do to Brandi and me? My dearest friend in the world had also been lied to by the woman who was like a second mother to her.

  "You have made a mess of things,” I said. “For all of us."

  "I know I have. But Jack wants a chance to know you better. In spite of his shock and anger, he was happy to learn the truth. He saw it as a good thing…you, that is. Not the lies."

  “You took all that time away from us. We’ll never get that back."

  The sadness in her eyes changed to fury. “Don't you think I know that? I did what I thought was best. For all of us. I let her win. For that I’m regretful. But I knew how strong I was. I could take care of you by myself. If I told him, what would he have done? A man like that? Two women? Two babies? I couldn't make him make an impossible choice. I loved him more than that."

  I sank onto the end of the bed. What was I to do now? Another wave of anger consumed me. “Were you going to keep this a secret from me forever? What would you have done if he never asked you?”

  "I didn't expect him to ask me. I thought we'd have a quick lunch and that would be the end of it. But he had an agenda. When he said that about his mother, I knew it was too late to lie anymore. You do look like her. I’ve always seen it and was surprised no one else ever did. When I first started letting you come here I worried about that, but then no one ever noticed.”

  “Is he going to tell Brandi? You’ve lied to her all this time. She’s fragile right now. The baby. God, Mom.”

  "He's going to tell her."

  "Well, isn't that convenient for you? You're off the hook, once more. With no repercussions for your lies."

  “You think I'm off the hook? He broke my heart and I had to raise a baby by myself. So you be really careful about who you're accusing of what. He's the one who cheated on me and got another girl pregnant. Don't forget that part of the story.”