A Lover's Lament(80)

What I really want is Katie, but all I can think of right now is that she needs space … that as much as I want to talk to her, as much as I want to see her, she does have unsettled business and I can’t get in the way of that—no matter how much I may need her. She tells me that she’s over Wyatt, that what they had is in the past, but how can it be when it just ended? I want to believe her, but a tiny voice in the back of my head is holding me back, keeping me from believing that I ever had a chance. So I spend the next thirty minutes running our phone conversation through my head, and when my plane finally arrives, I breathe a sigh of relief.

The C-130 flight to Germany went by in a flash, and as I shuffle onto my second-to-last flight of the day, a nine-hour trip across the Atlantic, I’m actually grateful for the ridiculously early chopper—and even Navas for his hours of concerned interrogation—because my sleep on the C-130 flight was better than any I’ve gotten in a very long time. I think, more than anything, it’s the knowledge that—at least for now—I’m out of harm’s way.

In usual cruel fashion, thoughts of my guys come into focus. Seeing the snug, pleather Lufthansa seats in rows before me, I can’t help but feel guilty that I’m not back there with them. If something happens to one of my men while I’m gone, I don’t know what the f*ck I’ll do.

I pour myself into my seat and slip the window shade open.

Light comes in waves through the little oval window, first blinding me, then exposing the busy airport tarmac and gorgeous city of Frankfurt. I’m taken aback by just how different this place is compared to where I’ve just come from—how oblivious these people are to what others are going through at this very moment.

I’m startled as an older woman slides in beside me, and I can’t help but stare. She looks like my mother, only with dirty blond hair instead of dark, which stretches the length of her back. And just like Josephine, her skin is weathered and tan. It’s as if my mom is sitting right next to me.

Since she appears noticeably disturbed by my gawking, I pull my eyes away from her and force them to look out the window. I don’t want to think about my mom, but the woman beside me brings the memories in waves. The worst ones dominate any positive thoughts I could ever have of her. I hate her for the years I lost with her. I hate her for not letting me say goodbye. I hate her for choosing the drugs over me.

The house is unusually dark, and with the shades drawn, it’s hard for me to see much of anything. I slip my backpack off and set it on the couch, making note of the geometry homework that I know is inside and still needs to be finished. A house this dark when I get home from school usually means Mom is out for the night, but her car is in the driveway and I can hear rustling sounds and muffled conversation coming from her room in the back of the house.

I flip the light on and I’m stopped dead in my tracks, eyes wide, as I take in my surroundings. The glass coffee table is shattered to pieces, her favorite sculpture—a stone representation of St. Francis, the patron saint of animals—sits just inside the metal frame of the table with bits of glass sprayed out around it in every direction. The bookshelf is toppled over with books scattered all across the hardwood floor.

If I hadn’t seen this a time or two before, I’d be three blocks away by now and yelling for the neighbors to call the cops … but this is no home invasion. It hasn’t happened in a long time, but my mom has been known to destroy shit when she either couldn’t get any blow or prescription pills, or when she’s had entirely too much. As I creep down the hall, I’m debating which of those scenarios I’d rather deal with.

Just feet from her bedroom door, her rail-thin body bolts from the room, but she stops immediately when she sees me. Her hair is matted and drenched in sweat. Her eyes are wide with dark circles settled beneath them, and the size of her pupils tells me she’s clearly high as a kite.

I can’t move. In this moment, I am terribly afraid and my brain tells me to run as fast as I possibly can, but my legs won’t cooperate. When she first stepped into the hall, she looked confused and full of despair, but now, as she inches toward me, the evil in her eyes sends chills down my back. Her jaw is clenched and she grinds her teeth so hard I can hear it. She lifts a thin finger and jabs it in my direction.

“You!” Her voice is ragged, her breathing heavy, and the veins in her neck are thick and pulsing. At this point, she likely doesn’t even know who I am, though the way she scowls at me right now makes everything seem uncomfortably personal.

“You little f*ck…” she growls, taking two more steps toward me, so close I can smell the bourbon on her breath. I back up a few steps, knowing full well when she mixes alcohol with pills or coke, she becomes someone else entirely. Not a human, but an animal, desperate for prey, that wants nothing more than to cause harm. She wants someone else to hurt as much as she does. And unfortunately, that someone is probably going to be me.

“Mom, wha-what’s wrong?” I stammer, reaching for the knob to my bedroom door as I back up. My hand comes in contact with the cool metal and I cling to it, ready to yank myself inside if need be.

“What’s wrong?” She stops moving and stands up straight. The angry, evil look on her face looks almost comical, like she’s remembering a joke she heard a few hours earlier. “What’s wrong?” She laughs as though that same joke was the funniest thing she’d ever heard. “What’s wrong is you … what’s wrong is that I had a perfect marriage until you. What’s wrong is I f*cking hate you,” she hisses, and though I’ve heard these words before, this is the first time I actually believe them. “You’re a f*cking tumor.”