Page 16 of Man On

I say nothing, in case my pain is too obvious. I’m dizzy and want to sit down, but I don’t want to draw attention to my discomfort.

"I told her you'd already answered their questions, and if you were interested in answering any more, you'd call her. I have her card just in case, but you know you don't have to talk to them."

I nod, thankful. I don't want to talk to them. I don't want to talk to anyone.

It’s getting hard to breathe. Sweat prickles on my forehead.

"But I wish you'd talk to me," she whispers. "If anything, I'm one of the few that will really understand."

My vision darkens, and I feel faint. I have to sink down to the floor when my knees buckle, unable to hold myself up. My hand clutches my chest.

I think I'm having a heart attack.

"Lane—"

"I'm fine," I choke out.

"You're not fine, Lane. You haven't been fine since the day I picked you up. I suspect you haven't been fine a day in your life." Her voice is sharper than her normal soft tone.

"Mom." Please, I beg her with my eyes.

I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t want to think about it anymore. I was getting better at not thinking about it, and then the stupid raid had to happen. The stupid detective had to track us down and bring it all up again.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

Mom whimpers as tears stream down her face. I'm used to her looking at me with sadness, but she always manages to hold back her tears. I try not to stiffen when she wraps her arms around my shoulders and hugs me to her. She tried that four years ago, the day we got back from that disastrous first summer at the soccer camp, and it didn't go well for her. I'd wanted to go back to the compound, to have my soul cleansed and my sins wiped clean. I couldn't bear to tell her what I'd done, what caused the fight between me and Noah.

"I don't belong here," I told her.

She looked anguished that I didn’t want to stay, but there"I know it's different. It's a lot to get used to, I know?—"

"What do you know?!" I cried out, feeling helpless and confused.

"I was older than you when I left," she reminded me.

"When you left me, you mean?"

The pain in her eyes made me irrationally angry. I hated how normal she was.

I'd had such a skewed perception of what she'd be like. For some reason, I'd imagined her wearing an ill-fitted, too-short dress and gaudy boots. I thought she’d have deep bruises around her eyes like the pictures of strung-out drug addicts they’d showed us, with stringy, greasy hair and a cigarette hanging out of her thin, too-red lips. Probably holding a bottle of booze, because of course she’d be drunk or high.

Not that I knew anything. I’d never seen someone smoke, or seen a prostitute, or a person with tattoos in real life. I'd never even seen a woman with short hair, or a man with long hair. The church was clear about how they felt about all that, and we lived by a strict set of guidelines on Grandfather's compound.

"I loved?—"

But I wasn't ready to hear it. I jumped up and ran to the small table beside the second bed in Noah's room and grabbed my grandfather's bible. I wanted to rage and scream and cry, but I wouldn't do any of that. I was raised better than that. I sat and read the Bible until she returned with a shoebox full of cards and letters, all stamped "undeliverable/return to sender". Seeing them was unreal. My name—my birth name—written on the front of the envelopes in her loopy handwriting. It undermined everything I'd been told about her. It messed with the perception I'd had of her my entire life, of the irresponsible young woman who wanted freedom more than living with the evidence of her mistakes. Of a woman gone astray because the devil tempted her too far. All the things my grandfather told me about her, which was almost nothing. She was his daughter, and he acted like she didn't exist. No one in the compound was allowed to talk about her. A whore of the devil was no daughter of his.

"I've always loved you," she said through her tears. "And I know this is all a lot. So when you're ready to hear why I left, I'll be here to talk."

I didn't say a word, only stared at the box of letters and contemplated burning it so I could pretend none of this ever happened and that I was just a normal fourteen-year-old boy.

But I wasn't, and she seemed to understand that. Just like she understood why I wanted to change my name. It was one of two things I'd told her on our eight-hour drive from the compound to my new home: I like playing soccer, and have a new name. She didn’t even ask questions about it.

Before she left my room, she slipped me a manilla envelope that had paperwork to legally change my name to Lane Blakely instead of Isaiah Warren.

I never talked to her about any of it, or ask her why she abandoned me. But I didn't hate her anymore after that day. And I started calling her mom, instead of avoiding calling her anything or calling her Hannah.

She's been careful of my feelings and respectful of my space since the moment I was in her care. That's why I let her hug me now. It's why I comfort her as she cries. She's not looking at me, so I let some of my own tears fall, too. I don't think she'll mind.

---