Bait (Wake, #1)(93)

Photography. Painting. Sculpture. Design. She was always talking about someone else’s art like she loved it as much as her own.

I was packing a bag to head out the next day when I got a message from Audrey.

Audrey: I was asked not to call you, but he needs you. I know that he does. His mom died last week.

My hand covered my mouth as in shock and sadness squeezed the air from me. I had to go to him.

I’d wasted so much time, waiting for the right time to set my plan in motion. Afraid as usual.

I couldn’t call.

I couldn’t text.

I had to go to him.

But first, I cried.





Friday, October 16, 2009


CRYING ISN'T A WEAKNESS. That's one lesson my mother taught me that I will never forget. Yeah, I was a man and I didn’t enjoy it. I hated it in fact. I prided myself on being able to push my feelings back, when able, and be tough when I had to be. But there are moments that shit sucks. Pain hurts. And men cry.

We buried her on Sunday.

Sunday night I drank myself sick.

Monday felt like I was living in hell.

Monday night I drank myself sick.

My phone battery had died days earlier and I wasn't conscious enough to care. I'd been staying at my mom's house the past few months. We still had a lot of paperwork to sort through, and thank God my dad was being helpful.

He'd been more than supportive to a woman who was his ex-wife over the past few months. Hell, even Carmen helped. Audrey flew back for the funeral, but then had to leave on Monday to get back to class.

Since I was sleeping through my days and drinking through my nights, I hadn't had much contact with anyone. But they brought food by and left me notes on the counter. The food went in the refrigerator, and the notes went nowhere.

It wasn't until the following Friday when I actually got up at a respectable time. I called into work to see how everything was going and I was happy to hear that everyone had pulled together and that even Marc had been coming in to help. It made me feel at peace knowing that everything in my life wasn't going to shit.

I still had my job.

I could still have Aly if I’d wanted her, but I was a beggar now, and I didn’t have the luxury of being choosey.

I didn't have the two women who meant the most to me.

I sat on my mother's back patio and drank a whole pot of coffee black, out of a Styrofoam cup—which before I would have hated—but, I went for easy and it was on the counter.

People bring you shit like that when you're grieving. Paper plates. Casseroles. Dish soap. Trash bags. But it's all shit.

A month ago I wouldn't have even considered drinking coffee out of this shitty disposable cup, but what did it matter right now? I didn't taste it. It wasn't good. It just was.

I watched the garden for a long time that morning. Her plants looked overgrown and their yields were falling off and rotting. It looked depressing. And I couldn’t stand another depressing thing at that moment.

I went into the basement and found my mom's gardening tools and decided to do something about it.

My mom would have shit if she saw the waste happening in her yard. Her body having gone to waste on her, she knew what it felt like. Cancer was like that. It kills your life, not just your body.

Knowing what she would have liked to see, I got my shit together and readied myself for some time in the dirt.

First I picked the ripe fruits and vegetables. There was so much. I'd never be able to eat it all. I'd need to talk to Cory and see if he knew who she gave it to. Maybe she donated it. I made a mental note to look into that.

Then I dug out the undergrowth and weeded around everything that belonged there. It was relaxing and for the first time in the past week, I didn't feel so far away from my mom. Not that I hadn't ever been away from her, because God knows, up until she finally told me, I had been jet-setting. Chasing a girl who didn't want me. Or didn't want me enough.

This distance was different. She was no longer a phone call or text away. And that f*cking sucked.

I'm a man, but in that garden, I finally cried. I cried because a good woman was robbed of her old age. And I'd been robbed, too. I thought of things I'd never even let myself consider. She wouldn’t dance with me at my wedding. She wouldn't be there when my kids were born or teach them how to tell which strawberries were ready to be picked.

She was gone.

All the while, in the garden, I kept looking at that f*cking shed.

“Casey, honey don't you think it would look nice painted red?” she'd say every so often.

I understood the translation of her mother's speak. What she meant was, “Casey, paint the damn shed red for your mom. Wouldn't ya?” I never did.

And she was right.

Kneeling in that garden cursing God and doctors that Friday, I realized a few very important things. Sometimes you know what the answer is before you hear the question and my mom's f*cking shed needed painting red.



I didn't come into the house until it was dark that night. Then, I actually warmed up some of the casserole stuff that had moved into the refrigerator. It turned out, there's a reason people bring food like that. It was good and it would keep.

I took a shower and slept in my old bedroom. It was the first night in many that I dosed off rather than passed out.

I woke up feeling better than I had. Not great, but I'd take any improvement for what it was. It was barely after dark when I went to bed and, consequently, I was up with the sun.