Page 70 of When Sky Breaks

While I let her sleep, I grab a trash bag and begin picking up the place. My mother might look peaceful as she rests, but that dark hole will attempt to drag her back once she wakes. Losing my dad created this maelstrom of grief she has yet to rise from.

Although there was a wide rift between my father and me, it’s the possibilities that fill my soul with heavy sand. You sweep it away, but around every corner there’s more and more grains of sand missed, more opportunities we could’ve taken to make things better, make things right.

It’s all gone now. Buried under six feet of dirt in a tiny graveyard.

Most would say it wasn’t on me to repair the relationship with my father, that he inflicted the damage. And maybe they’re right, but not knowing hurts the most.

Being back in Maizeville has given me so much, yet has taken in equal measure as payment for my early sins. My sense of purpose teeters every day between what’s the right thing to do and what’s worth it to do.

After I’ve made the apartment somewhat livable and dried the last dish from the sink, I wander over and crouch down in front of the woman clinging to her sleep.

Time and stress have wrinkled her face, as well as the cigarettes she still smokes despite many promises of quitting. There’s always been a fragility to her promises and today will probably be no different.

I sigh, reaching out to brush away the hair sticking to the corner of her mouth. She twitches, swatting my hand.

I chuckle softly and shake her shoulder. “Mom. Wake up, it’s me.”

She opens her eyes and covers her mouth with a yawn before sitting up. “Oh wow, I didn’t know I passed out. Sorry.” She’s sheepish and crosses her chest with her arms.

I shrug. She’s a grown woman and can do whatever the hell she wants. “It’s all right. Just came by to check on you and that head of yours.”

That’s not the total truth, but as stupid as it is, I’m hoping today is the day she doesn’t forget.

Touching her bandage, she winces. “Oh, it’s okay.” She pats my cheek and stands, stretching some more before moving to the fridge. Grabbing a beer, she pops off the top and tilts her head to let the amber liquid slide down her throat. “Some days, you just want to pretend things never happened. Am I right?”

Confused, I stare. Is she talking about the wandering around town drunk or…?

She raises a brow. “Your father dying. Why are you staring at me like that, Auggy?”

She looks down at her shirt, specifically the big food stain right over her chest. “Shit. Let me go change.” She plunks down the beer, some of the foam spouting from the top, and heads to her room.

Slumping on the couch, I kick one ankle over the other and turn my head to the smudged sliding glass door leading to a tiny balcony.

It’s clear she forgot, and I shouldn’t sit and pout about it, but for once, I wish my birthday wasn’t at the back of someone’s mind. Especially my mom’s. I may be twenty-five and a man, but I’ll never get over the feeling of being forgotten.

The next hour, I listen as she cries about my father and attempts to get me to understand her deep despair.

I…can’t.

There’s the obvious void they created so long ago when they left me to fend for myself. Muddling through it feels cheap with my fake smiles and stilted nods. The moment for reconciliation was lost the day his heart stopped beating. I can’t go back in time and make him see me for who I am or treat me the way I should’ve been treated. I either accept it and move on or always remain in limbo.

Finally, she tells me she’s tired and wants to go to bed. I let her, relief mingling with my misery over spending the rest of my night alone.

Cruising through the streets of Maizeville, I make a detour toward the Oak Barrel Bar, passing the hospital. Might as well drink a celebratory beer. Or two. One for my birthday and one for every moment I spend not wanting to run Dr. Johnny Hawk out of town. That one might be too many.

Detached, I wander into the establishment and take a seat on the nearest stool at the bar. Oak from Benny’s lumberyard makes up the sleek surface, shiny aside from a few water spots. I don’t come here a lot, but when I do, I always order the same thing.

A Blonde Bombshell IPA from the local brewery. If that isn’t pathetically obvious, I don’t know what is.

I nod to the bartender who’s served me before, him holding up that very beer.

Tonight’s football game blares from the TV mounted to the wall above the liquor, and a chorus of boos erupts from a table behind me when the quarterback gets sacked.

A hand on my shoulder has me twisting right as I take a small swig of the cold beverage.

“Hey Teddy, what’s up?” I say to the middle-aged man reaching over the bar top to grab an apron.

Ted and I met when I started volunteering again at the soup kitchen. At one time, he was on the other side of the food line. Now, he helps when Louise is short-handed.

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