The Cad and the Co-Ed
Page 64
But thanks to his career as a high court judge, we always had money when I was a kid. It would’ve been better to have had a male presence in my life, someone to show me that throwing parties every night of the week wasn’t the norm. Someone who gave a shit.
I gave my mother a serious look. “And in a few years’ time he’ll probably replace her with a younger model, too. There’s no point upsetting yourself over it.”
She sniffled. “Yes, I know.” A pause as she gestured to herself. “I wasn’t always like this.”
Her statement surprised me, and I felt my eyebrows jump. Normally, this subject was off limits. It was ignored, brushed under the rug.
I knew a little of how her drinking started, but not all the gory details. His first mistress, who was ten years younger than Mam, got pregnant. Dad promptly left Mam to go raise the baby, only it turned out there was no baby.
The woman had made the whole thing up to get what she wanted—and she did. Dad married her, then of course, divorced her several years later. Anyhow, the abandonment and subsequent divorce was what kick-started my mother’s alcoholism. When she got really, really plastered she sometimes liked to talk about the saga of the fake pregnancy. That’s the only reason I knew of it.
And yes, the irony wasn’t lost on me. My dad left one toddler he barely saw to go raise another baby. Maybe he deserved to be conned. Arse.
“No?” I prompted, my heart beating faster with hope. If I could get her to talk more, admit she had a problem, then maybe . . .
“When your dad left me I felt—” She sunk into a chair, her elbows hitting the kitchen table so hard I winced. “I wasn’t enough for him, Bryan. I wasn’t good enough.”
“Mam—”
“But I didn’t feel sorry for myself. No. I didn’t. I was angry.” She sniffed, wiping at her nose even as she adjusted her back, making it straight and stiff. “I decided I’d teach him. I’d show him he was wrong. I was so much more than he could handle. I hate parties; did I ever tell you that? Your father, he loved them. He loved it when I drank, said it made me fun. Made me seem younger, carefree.”
I bit my lip to keep from interrupting as the words tumbled from her lips.
“I saw him last week . . . at a party.” She huffed a bitter laugh, her eyes misting with tears. “And do you know what he said to me? Said he left me all those years ago because I was a drunk. Called me an embarrassment, a waste of a woman.”
I gritted my teeth against the swift slice of pain in my stomach, because I remembered this agony. I remembered the day I hit bottom, when Coach Brian found me face down on the bathroom floor before a game. It was the last straw in a long string of bad behavior. He gave me the ultimatum I needed: get sober or get kicked off the squad.
Though I wanted to protect my mother, I also knew—if she was ever going to change—she needed to come face to face with her worst moment. She needed someone to give her the tough love Coach Brian gave me.
“Mam—”
“You don’t have to lie to me, Bryan. I know what I am.”
“Fine.” I stood, holding my hands out from my sides. “And I used to be the same. I used to be a waste, but I changed. So can you.”
She shook her head. “It’s too late for me. I can barely go two hours sober before I start itching for a drink. You’re so much stronger than I am. You always were.”
I reached out to touch her shoulder. “That’s not true. You’re stronger than you know.”
She let out a breath. “Yes, well, maybe I just don’t want it enough.”
My chest ached hearing the despair in her voice. “Mam, let me help you—”
“Listen, maybe I will go take that shower,” she said, cutting me off as she stood and turned from me.
I frowned, watching her back as she left the room. She always did that. Put an end to things as soon as the conversation got too real. She could talk about the mundane until the cows came home, but never the things that actually mattered. Her. She matters.
A minute later, I heard the water turn on upstairs so I made a start on cleaning up the kitchen. I’d done this before, too many times to count.
How many more times would I do it?
When she returned, her wet hair was parted in the middle and neatly combed. She’d also dressed in a clean top and a pair of lounge pants.
“Hungry?” I asked.
“Starving.”
I dished out the food and we ate in silence for a few minutes. Seeing her condition when I arrived, I’d known telling her about Patrick would have been a disaster. After all, Eilish had been right to wait to tell me until I had my act together.
But thinking on it now, maybe it would be good to tell her. Maybe the idea of having a grandchild would give her a little push to take better care of herself. Give her a goal to work toward, the same way not getting fired had been my goal.
I cleared my throat. “I, um, I actually have some news.”
She glanced up from her food. “Oh?”
“I’m not quite sure how to tell you this, but I had a bit of a shock recently.”
Mam tensed, her features showing concern. “You’re not sick, are you?”
“No, no, nothing like that. I just, well . . .” I hesitated, then decided the best thing was to just drop the bomb and deal with the aftermath as it came. “I have a son.”
Her fork fell to her plate with a clatter as she gaped at me. “A son?”
I gave my mother a serious look. “And in a few years’ time he’ll probably replace her with a younger model, too. There’s no point upsetting yourself over it.”
She sniffled. “Yes, I know.” A pause as she gestured to herself. “I wasn’t always like this.”
Her statement surprised me, and I felt my eyebrows jump. Normally, this subject was off limits. It was ignored, brushed under the rug.
I knew a little of how her drinking started, but not all the gory details. His first mistress, who was ten years younger than Mam, got pregnant. Dad promptly left Mam to go raise the baby, only it turned out there was no baby.
The woman had made the whole thing up to get what she wanted—and she did. Dad married her, then of course, divorced her several years later. Anyhow, the abandonment and subsequent divorce was what kick-started my mother’s alcoholism. When she got really, really plastered she sometimes liked to talk about the saga of the fake pregnancy. That’s the only reason I knew of it.
And yes, the irony wasn’t lost on me. My dad left one toddler he barely saw to go raise another baby. Maybe he deserved to be conned. Arse.
“No?” I prompted, my heart beating faster with hope. If I could get her to talk more, admit she had a problem, then maybe . . .
“When your dad left me I felt—” She sunk into a chair, her elbows hitting the kitchen table so hard I winced. “I wasn’t enough for him, Bryan. I wasn’t good enough.”
“Mam—”
“But I didn’t feel sorry for myself. No. I didn’t. I was angry.” She sniffed, wiping at her nose even as she adjusted her back, making it straight and stiff. “I decided I’d teach him. I’d show him he was wrong. I was so much more than he could handle. I hate parties; did I ever tell you that? Your father, he loved them. He loved it when I drank, said it made me fun. Made me seem younger, carefree.”
I bit my lip to keep from interrupting as the words tumbled from her lips.
“I saw him last week . . . at a party.” She huffed a bitter laugh, her eyes misting with tears. “And do you know what he said to me? Said he left me all those years ago because I was a drunk. Called me an embarrassment, a waste of a woman.”
I gritted my teeth against the swift slice of pain in my stomach, because I remembered this agony. I remembered the day I hit bottom, when Coach Brian found me face down on the bathroom floor before a game. It was the last straw in a long string of bad behavior. He gave me the ultimatum I needed: get sober or get kicked off the squad.
Though I wanted to protect my mother, I also knew—if she was ever going to change—she needed to come face to face with her worst moment. She needed someone to give her the tough love Coach Brian gave me.
“Mam—”
“You don’t have to lie to me, Bryan. I know what I am.”
“Fine.” I stood, holding my hands out from my sides. “And I used to be the same. I used to be a waste, but I changed. So can you.”
She shook her head. “It’s too late for me. I can barely go two hours sober before I start itching for a drink. You’re so much stronger than I am. You always were.”
I reached out to touch her shoulder. “That’s not true. You’re stronger than you know.”
She let out a breath. “Yes, well, maybe I just don’t want it enough.”
My chest ached hearing the despair in her voice. “Mam, let me help you—”
“Listen, maybe I will go take that shower,” she said, cutting me off as she stood and turned from me.
I frowned, watching her back as she left the room. She always did that. Put an end to things as soon as the conversation got too real. She could talk about the mundane until the cows came home, but never the things that actually mattered. Her. She matters.
A minute later, I heard the water turn on upstairs so I made a start on cleaning up the kitchen. I’d done this before, too many times to count.
How many more times would I do it?
When she returned, her wet hair was parted in the middle and neatly combed. She’d also dressed in a clean top and a pair of lounge pants.
“Hungry?” I asked.
“Starving.”
I dished out the food and we ate in silence for a few minutes. Seeing her condition when I arrived, I’d known telling her about Patrick would have been a disaster. After all, Eilish had been right to wait to tell me until I had my act together.
But thinking on it now, maybe it would be good to tell her. Maybe the idea of having a grandchild would give her a little push to take better care of herself. Give her a goal to work toward, the same way not getting fired had been my goal.
I cleared my throat. “I, um, I actually have some news.”
She glanced up from her food. “Oh?”
“I’m not quite sure how to tell you this, but I had a bit of a shock recently.”
Mam tensed, her features showing concern. “You’re not sick, are you?”
“No, no, nothing like that. I just, well . . .” I hesitated, then decided the best thing was to just drop the bomb and deal with the aftermath as it came. “I have a son.”
Her fork fell to her plate with a clatter as she gaped at me. “A son?”
