Page 65 of Black Velvet

"Please," I say in a lower voice. "We don't have a lot of time."

"Right, right," she stutters, finally retreating and hurriedly wiping her tears away with the back of her hand. She's wearing make-up and has styled her brown hair in a simple up-do, maybe in an attempt to impress me, maybe to feel better about herself.

"Let's sit," she says, pointing to the chairs arranged at the tables as if she was inviting me into her living room. "Let's talk."

I smile inwardly at her attempts to be nonchalant, when I know how stirring this is for her. She has been begging me to come see her for so long, and I've been rejecting her every time, until she finally gave up trying.

And now I'm here, just because I didn't know where else to go when I was feeling lost and alone.

I feel pathetic.

"You look horrible," my mother observes, cocking her head to the side as she studies me intently. "Have you been drinking?"

I throw her a sinister look. This is the first time she’s ever posed that type of question to me. She never worried about me using any kind of drug. On the contrary, she and Dad used to try to convince me that cocaine would make my life easier, more productive, more successful.

"If I had, would you ground me?" I ask with a note of cynicism.

Her expression hardens because she knows that there is an accusation, blame hidden in that question. Parenting has never been her strong suit, and never once was I ever grounded growing up. My parents barely knew or cared whether or not I was doing something bad, let alone punish me for it.

"Did you talk to your father, too?" she asks next.

I shake my head. "No, just you."

She nods silently, prohibiting herself from asking any further questions. To say that my relationship with my father was bad would be a massive understatement. We never really had a relationship. Unlike my mother, he never even pretended to be a parent to me. The only advice he ever gave me was to rely on coke when I wanted to be successful.'It's the rich man's aspirin', he used to say.

"So, what's wrong?" my mother asks, her voice as hard as mine.

"Why do you think something is wrong?"

She scoffs. "Well, son, you didn't even call on my birthday, and Mr. Cook told me you weren't exactly excited about the idea of your father and I getting released on parole early — which, by the way, there is a very good chance that may happen. But..."

She lowers her gaze, a shadow of sadness passing over her aging face. "Am I wrong to worry that you might be in trouble or came here to tell me some bad news?"

I shake my head. "It's none of that."

Her face brightens for a split second, and then she furrows her eyebrows. "But why then? Why today? Why now, Damon? After you've rejected me for so long?"

"Does there have to be a reason?"

"There is one," she insists. "I may not have been the greatest mother to you, but I stillamyour mother. I can tell when something is not well with you."

I'm almost impressed at her shrewd observation. Almost. I guess after two days of not shaving and surviving mostly on liquor, any person would look a little rough, even to a stranger.

Before I can say anything, she responds to her own question.

"Is it because of a woman?"

The subtle flinch of my body doesn't go unnoticed by her. A knowing smile spreads across her face as she leans forward.

"It is, isn't it?" she pries. "Only a woman can make a man look like this."

I shake my head, smiling weakly.

"You know what?" I say. "I don't know why I am here. I don't know why now all of a sudden, I thought it would be a good time to come and see you, but for some reason I did. And yes, that reason may be a woman."

The smile on my mother's face widens.

"Would it be heartless to say that I am happy to hear that?" she asks.

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