Page 67 of If It Can't Be Us

“When is she coming home?”

“She’s not coming home, stupid!” I yell, earning a glare from Chloe.

Her eyes well up with tears. “Don’t yell at him, Leo. It’s not his fault she’s gone.” Andrew starts crying as Chloe tries to console him, wrapping her arms around him and rubbing the top of his head. She whispers softly, “Shhh. It’s alright. Leo’s not mad at you, no one is mad at you.”

Yes it is, I think. It’s his fault, it’s all of our fault. She didn’t want us. She hated us. She hated being our mum.

“FUCK HER!” I scream, my first time using the F-word. “I fucking hate her!” The second time using it, my eyes fill with tears, threatening to drown my face. Needing to throw or break something, I pick up the closest thing to me, my Discman, that sits on the counter. I scream as I throw itwith all my might into the nearest wall, as if somehow this control over something will take the pain away, make it make sense.

The cops had left an hour prior. We drove her away… I drove her away.

“Leo… Leo…” Struggling to open my eyes, I see Meredith standing over me holding a glass. “I made you your hangover cure,” she says patiently. She’s blurry; I’m peeking through two tiny slits, trying to gather my whereabouts. “Hello… Leo.” She nudges me. “Did you hear me?”

I clear my throat and rub my eyes. “No, I’m sorry. What? Am I at your house?”

“Sit up, Leo.” I feel her tugging at me, trying to lift me. “Yes, you’re at my house.”

“I’m up…” I say groggily, the effort making my head throb even more. I reluctantly sit and open my eyes, straining to bring them into focus. “Fuuuuuck.” My head is pounding. I feel like absolute shit. I take the glass uneasily from Meredith, unsure if I should be apologizing for something, as I can’t remember a damn thing that happened last night after I left Vivian’s.

Fuck… Vivian.

“Do I owe you an apology?” I ask wearily.

Meredith is tight-lipped. She glares at me like a mother about to scold her child. “No,” she says finally, shaking her head. “No, you don’t owe me an apology.” There is a hint of laughter in her voice.

“What happened?” I pinch the bridge of my nose and squeeze my eyes shut. “Why am I on your couch?”

“Is there anything you want to talk about?” she asks, avoiding my question, and takes a seat next to me. “I know this time of year can bring certain memories back for you… that it can be hard.”

“God, Meredith.” I scowl at her. “No. I’m fine.”

“Are you sure?” She looks at me as if she knows something I don’t know. “There’s nothing going on in there that’s bothering you?” She gestures upward, toward my brain. “About your mom?” she offers.

“Why are you asking about my mum? You know that hasn’t been an issue in years,” I say, feeling paranoid as I vaguely recall the dream I was just having.

“Well, you were on the couch mumbling that you fucking hate her, and I know the only person you’ve ever hated is your mom… and Rachel… well, and maybe Brian for a bit too.” She laughs softly. “So which one were you dreaming about?”

I run a hand through my hair, trying to shake off the lingering remnants of the dream. “I don’t remember,” I lie, not wanting to delve into it.

“Hmm. I don’t believe you,” she says.

“Ugh.” I grip my face in my hand as if I can push the memory away. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

She scoots closer, practically on top of me, and pats my knee. “Too bad,” she says, “because we’re going to talk about it.”

I sigh, the weight of the conversation pressing down on me.Why does she always have to push? Can’t she see I’m barely holding it together?

My mum had left a week before Christmas. What kind of mum leaves her family right before Christmas? A very sick one, I know that now… but at ten years old?

She never wanted to be a mum. Hated the whole thing. We always had an au pair from France who practically raised us. We spent summers in Paris, my mum never wanting to be around us. She didn’t even try to hide her distaste for us or my dad. She was an alcoholic, an addict, and she slept around.

It took years of therapy, and a lot of breaking it down in grad school, to realize it was never about me. It was her, plain and simple. She had all the money, freedom, and distractions in the world, and she was still miserable. She wanted Dad’s attention, but he was barely there. When he was around, he was a good dad but a shitty husband—a workaholic with his own affairs.

I get it now, the dysfunction of it all, but when you’re ten, rejection from your own mum cuts deep. It fucks with you in ways you never fully shake, no matter how much you analyze it.

Reluctantly, I respond, “It was my mum,” I say somberly, my face permanently planted into the palm of my hand.

“What do you think’s drumming up the past?” she asks, but I get the feeling she already has an idea of the answer, which irritates the living hell out of me.

---