Pushing the Limits (Pushing the Limits #1)(88)

No, Dad didn’t understand me.

“Let me guess,” she continued. “He’s on you all the time. Whatever you’re doing, it’s not good enough. Or not to his standards and he just keeps on you until you feel like you’re going to explode.”

“Yes,” I whispered and felt my head sway to the right. I didn’t remember this about her. Yeah, she’d taken the occasional verbal punch at my father and she’d always wanted me to choose the path she envisioned for my life over Dad’s, but this felt different. This felt personal.

“I can’t say I’m surprised. He was a failure as a husband, and he completed his failure by being a terrible father.”

“Daddy’s not that bad,” I mumbled, feeling suddenly protective of him and wary of the woman sitting across from me. Never did I think this meeting would be easy, but neither did I imagine it would be so strange. “What happened between us that night?”

She dropped the clover strand and once again avoided my question. “I went away for a while. At first not voluntarily, but then once I understood what happened, what I did … I, um … I stayed. The doctors and staff were very nice, nonjudgmental. I’ve been faithfully on my medication ever since.”

A low, dull throb pulsed near my temples. Goody for stinking her. She took her meds and all was right with the world. “I didn’t ask that. Tell me what happened to me.”

My mother rubbed a hand to her forehead. “Your father always checked on me before he let you visit. I depended upon that. Owen was supposed to take care of me, you and Aires and he messed it up for all of us.”

What the hell? “How did he mess it up for Aires?”

Her eyes narrowed. “He allowed Aires to join the military.”

“But that’s what Aires wanted to do with his life. You know it was his dream.”

“That wasn’t your brother’s dream. It was something that witch your father married planted in his mind. She was the one that filled Aires’ head with stories about her father and brothers and their careers. She didn’t care if he died. She didn’t care what happened to him.

“I told Aires not to go. I told him how much his decision would hurt me. I told him …” She paused. “I told him I’d never speak to him again if he went to Afghanistan.” Her voice broke and all of a sudden I wanted to leave, yet I couldn’t move.

A weird sort of edgy calmness took over my brain. “Those were your last words to Aires?”

“It’s your father’s fault,” she said flatly. “He brought her into our lives and now my son is dead.”

This time, I spoke as if she hadn’t said anything. “Not ‘I love you.’ Not ‘I’ll see you when you get home.’ You told him you’d never speak to him again?”

“That witch broke up my home. She stole your father.”

“This isn’t about Ashley or Dad or even Aires. This is about you and me. What the hell did you do to me?”

Wind chimes from a neighboring grave site tinkled in the breeze. My mother and I shared the same eye shape and color. Those dull and lifeless eyes stared at me. I hoped mine looked happier.

“Does he blame me for that night?” she asked. “Did your father even bother telling you how he just dropped you off? How he didn’t answer the phone when you called for help?”

“Mom.” I paused, trying to find the right words to explain. “I just want you to tell me what happened between us.”

“He didn’t tell you, did he? Of course he didn’t. He’s shoving the blame onto me. You don’t understand. I lost Aires and I couldn’t cope. I thought if I could paint, I would feel better.” She tore handfuls of grass from the ground.

“Dad’s not shoving anything onto you. He’s accepted responsibility for his part, but I don’t remember what happened with us. I fell into your stained glass and then you lay next to me while I bled.” My voice rose higher as I continued to speak. “I don’t understand. Did we fight? Did I fall? Did you push me and why didn’t you call for help and why were you telling me bedtime stories when I was bleeding?”

She tore at the grass again. “This is not my fault. He should have known better. But that’s your father for you. He never tried to understand. He wanted a cookie-cutter wife and divorced me the moment he found one.”

“Mom, you came off your meds. Dad had nothing to do with that. Tell me what happened.”

“No.” She lifted her chin and jutted it out in the stubborn style I remembered so well.

I flinched. “No?”

“No. If you don’t remember, I’m not telling you. I heard he’s got some overpriced, fancy Harvard therapist helping you.” A bitter smile curved her lips. “Did your father find something else he couldn’t fix with money and control?”

For a fleeting moment, the cemetery resembled a chessboard and my mother moved her queen. If Aires and I were pawns in our parents’ game, had she noticed that I quit playing?

“Heard?” I repeated as her answer struck me. “There’s a restraining order. How did you hear anything?”

Mom blinked several times and the color seeped from her cheeks. “I wanted to know how you were doing, so I contacted your father.”