You're to Blame(63)
In the most recent photo, taken during Christmas my junior year of high school, I’m wearing a navy-blue suit. My mother knew, once I graduated and moved out, I’d never step back through those doors under their terms. She made Christmas hell for me that year.
“What are you doing here?” my father’s strong, domineering tone brings pain to my shoulders.
To anchor myself, my hands grip the edge of the dresser, preparing for the hurricane of anger he delivers. Out of my peripheral, he stands a step inside of the room, adjusting his tie.
“Happy to see you, too, Father.”
Garrett Anderson is never disheveled. To him, disorder is a crime. Dee probably irons the man’s damn underwear. He’d die before he accepted a handout, and he’s happy to remind anyone who challenges him. He’s built his wealth from the ground up without assistance from anyone else.
“Don’t forget whose roof you’re under.” He steps towards the dresser I’m seconds from splintering, and picks up the baseball he gave me for my tenth birthday. It’s signed by the starting line-up for the New York Yankees. It would’ve been a thoughtful gift, had I actually liked the Yankees.
“How could I forget when you always remind me?”
“Why are you here?” He returns the ball to its stand, leans against the dresser, and extends his legs in front of him. His stoic, reserved demeanor is another of his tactics to maintain the upper hand. Where his hatred for me comes from, I’ll never understand.
“I wanted to visit Dee.” He’ll use my honesty against me.
“You two girls gossip in the kitchen?” My father has made it a game to challenge my manhood my entire life.
At the age of eight, he called me a pussy in front of my entire soccer team because someone got me on the breakaway and scored against us. My high school championship game of my senior year, he practically kicked me down on the muddy field when we lost because he didn’t think I had done enough to get the victory.
Just like then, my hands begin to tingle, and a sheen of sweat appears on my brow. This man knows exactly what to say to make my blood boil. If I knew he wouldn’t call the cops, I’d lay his ass out right here in my childhood bedroom. He wouldn’t take the hit like a man, but dammit, it would be worth a night in jail.
“I’ll get out of your hair.” I jerk back as he wraps his hand tight around my bicep.
“What is this I hear? You had a run in with Ari St. James?” He tilts his head, assessing me and my sanity, because he and I both know no one messes with Ari St. James. “He’s a brother, Duke, and not someone you want to overstep.”
“Why do you care? Maybe I’ll end up like Jacob.” A menacing chuckle ripples from my mouth. “After all, that’s what you want, right? Make your life easier, right, if I’m not in it?”
We have a silent standoff. Neither of us is willing to lose by glancing away first.
“Boys,” my mother calls from the hallway. “Duke, where are you? Dee says you’re here.”
I sidestep my father, pulling my arm out of his grasp. “Bye, Dad.” I use the name as a weapon, and his eyes widen. The word is a reminder of what he’s not, and something he’ll never be.
“Yes, mother.” I step into the hallway. Her thin, but sculpted arms engulf me in a hug I don’t quite expect. Awkwardly, I pat her on the back, not knowing what to do. Her gentle touch is practically the Yeti of love, unseen most of the time, but appearing every once in a while.
“What a pleasant surprise.” Her eyes shift over my shoulder and lock on my father as a warning. He huffs past, our gazes following him until he enters his office. “Don’t mind him. He’s stressed.”
The effort to comfort me is commendable but unnecessary. I know I don’t mean jack shit to him.
“He’s been stressed my whole life, then.” I step back and a flash of hurt crosses her eyes.
Something strange is happening. First, she’s polite to Dee, and now she’s embracing me as if I’m the son she’s miraculously grown a heart for.
“I better go,” I state.
My mother’s shoulders hunch in defeat. “I haven’t been the best mother to you.” My eyes cast down to her hand on mine.
Hearing her say this is like a ton of bricks to my heart. I don’t know if I’m more surprised by those words coming from her mouth, or how warming they are to my soul.
“Mom, I don’t have time for this. I have a lot going on.” That may have sounded crueler than I intended.
“If you listen to anything I ever say, this is what I need you to hear.” She takes a deep breath. “When you were born, I knew you were different. You cried at all hours of the night, Duke. You were impossible, and nothing ever made you happy, but it’s not because you were a bad baby. It’s just you needed more room to roam around. You were like a caged animal in this house, and when you were set free, you spread your wings, and you soared.” Her eyes glisten with building tears. Am I hallucinating? Is she about to cry?
“Are you dying or something?” I blurt out. Regret seeps in when I realize it’s always a possibility. People die every day, and some of them take the time to tell the people in their lives how they truly feel. My stomach rises in my throat. I’m not close to my mother, but a comfort is there knowing she’s still on this earth.