The Friends We Keep(79)

“With cream and jam,” he added as Joan waved the waiter away. “Are you okay, Mother?”

“My memory isn’t what it was,” she said, attempting to laugh it off.

He was slightly disturbed by her words, but too focused on what he had to say to really think about them. “Mother, did you actually read my book?”

“Of course, darling. It’s wonderful.”

“Do you remember the chapter in which I talk about the tennis coach?”

“Tennis coach?” She frowned. “I’m not sure I remember that bit.”

“Did you read it or did you skim it to find the bits about yourself?”

His mother chuckled. “I did start it, darling, and I really enjoyed it, but my book club insisted I read another book, so I had to put it aside and I haven’t had a chance to pick it up again. I will soon though.”

Well, that explained why he hadn’t heard from her, thought Topher, regretting his recent anger, his presumption that she hadn’t cared, or didn’t believe him, thought he was being overdramatic.

“Do you remember I used to have tennis lessons with Coach Patrick?” Given her admission that her memory was terrible, he had no idea if she would remember, but she lit up.

“Of course! Twice a week. You were very good, darling. You should never have given it up.”

“Do you remember that I became very quiet and I didn’t want to go?”

“Oh, I do! You made such a fuss. You kept saying that you hated it, but I knew you’d thank me later. Tennis is such a wonderfully social sport. Everyone should learn to play, and aren’t you happy now that you had those lessons?”

“Mother, the reason I wanted to stop the lessons was because Coach Patrick was abusing me.”

There. He said it. The words were out. He watched his mother’s face as she took in what he said, but she didn’t understand.

“What do you mean, Topher?”

“I mean he was sexually abusing me. That’s why I didn’t want to see him anymore. I have been seeing a wonderful therapist because it’s clear that I have had PTSD for years, and I couldn’t get better until I dealt with it. And part of dealing with it is talking to you about it. I’ve never been able to tell you. I tried when I was young, but I always felt that you steamrolled me into continuing the lessons. I felt completely powerless, and I felt abandoned when you didn’t listen to me.”

His mother said nothing, just looked at him blinking.

“So I’ve harbored a lot of suppressed emotions. I’ve been pretty angry because I felt that you enabled it. I tried to have a voice and I wasn’t allowed to have a voice and I’d love to know what . . .” He stopped as a tear trickled down his mother’s cheek.

“I had no idea,” she whispered, stricken. “Oh my God, Topher. I had no idea. I feel sick.”

Her shock was genuine, and Topher reached out a hand, the vestiges of his resentment disappearing. “It’s okay, Mama,” he said, realizing that it was. “Look at me. I’m fifty and I’m fine. I’m better than fine. I have a wonderful life despite pushing all of that stuff down. I’ve spent the last little while dealing with it in therapy, and I needed to talk to you about it.”

“Oh my God, Topher. Your father never liked him. He said he didn’t trust him, and I ignored both of you. I’m so sorry. I will never forgive myself.”

His mother was in tears now, which was the last thing he expected. Several people were looking at them, the handsome middle-aged man and the elderly woman now in tears. “Please don’t say that. It’s fine. I just needed to . . .” Needed to what? he wondered. Punish her? Make her aware of her culpability? Guilt her? He didn’t know, but he did know that this was, just as his therapist suggested, closure. Her tears, her distress were all the proof he needed that she truly didn’t know, that she was doing the best she could, and he put his arms around her and gave her a hug.

“Can I get you a brandy or something?” he said when they disengaged, but she shook her head and pulled out a bottle of pills from her bag.

“These are better for me. Xanax. This will calm me down.”

He remembered all the pills over the years, the uppers, the downers, the sleeping pills, the antianxiety medication, and he shook his head with a smile. “You haven’t changed. Still pill popping.”

“Still pill popping.” She handed him the bottle to help with the lid, washing down a pill with lukewarm tea. “Darling boy.” She took his hand, staring at him with pure love in her eyes. “What is it we were just talking about?”





thirty-six


- 2019 -



Back in New York, tired suddenly of the hustle and bustle, dreaming of a golden manor house in the country, Topher sat with his back against the wall in Sant Ambroeus, busy checking out all the young, beautiful people crowded in there for coffee, pastries, brunch.

“I do love it here,” he said to Benedict, who leaned forward to try to hear him above the din of excited conversation. “Even though I can’t wait to be lord of the manor, it makes me feel young again, being around all these gorgeous things.” He gestured to the table next to them, five teenagers, each more beautiful than the next, the girls with long, shiny swinging hair, perfect pouts, in the kind of distressed sneakers and fur-collared bomber jackets that screamed wealth. Their Celine and Hermès bags were flung on the floor, their privilege, and comfort in that privilege, oozing from every pore. They sat, each of them on their phones as they stared at their individual screens and tapped quickly with their thumbs, occasionally reaching out an arm to pick at french fries in the middle of the table.