Page 18 of Only the Small Bones
“If you were my patient,” she muttered under her breath, “we’d be bound by this pesky little thing called doctor-patient confidentiality. As it stands, I’m just a mother who’ll use every opportunity to brag about her son.” She patted my cheeks and headed back into the kitchen, starting up a one-way conversation with Ryan, who had already created three piles.
“So, I hear you love chicken,” she said to him as I made my way to the library.
Settling onto my desk chair, I booted up my computer, deciding to kill time by tackling my emails. I’d been avoiding my inbox. There were numerous messages, most of them marked urgent and leaving me unsure where to start. I took a deep breath, fighting the anxiety churning in my gut.
I filtered by sender, choosing to go through the correspondence from my agent first. I knew Mihaela’s emails would be work related, which at this point in time equated to stress. I didn’t want anything taking me away from home.Away from Ryan. He needed me, and I needed that more than my next “big deal.”
All things related to Freedom Fighters would lift my spirits, so I’d save those emails for last. I called them my stress relievers. Stress first, relief later.
Mihaela’s enthusiasm bled through her message. Every sentence ended with an exclamation mark, and she used phrases like “once in a lifetime opportunity,” and “more money than you could count.” All of which she knew typically motivated me, but not for the reasons she believed.
Once in a lifetime opportunities led to more exposure, which ultimately led to me making more money. But it was all done to grow my foundation. It enabled me to do more, to bring higher awareness to the cause, which aided in the recovery of the missing and the taken. Finally, it allowed us to provide the resources they needed to thrive in spite of what happened to them.
According to the email, Foxhound Studios had received the green light and funding needed to move forward with what would no doubt be the next box-office record breaker. They’dsigned Dillan Malben—the latest Hollywood heartthrob—to play the starring role.
“The studio heads and director would like to fly you out to L.A. ASAP for a meeting! Can you believe this?!”
Falling back in my seat, I rubbed at my temples. They wanted me to drop everything and hop on a plane? I couldn’t do it, the idea threatened to send me into a spiral. What would I do with Ryan? I couldn’t kick him out, and he wouldn’t stay here alone.
I bypassed taking a look at the attached premise for the story. It wouldn’t have changed my mind. I hit reply, fingers flying over the keys as I extended my gratitude for having been considered for the opportunity. I cited a conflict with a similar project I was set to start with a competing studio as my reason for graciously declining.
I hit send, realizing too late that I’d replied to all. Xavier had been copied on the email.
“Fuck,” I bit out. I hadn’t even thought about him. I’d made the decision without consulting him first. This wouldn’t go over well. And I’d lied. There was nothing keeping me from accepting the job offer, or at least from taking the meeting.
Mihaela would see right through it too. After all, she’d have been the first to know about a conflict, because she would’ve been the one who’d brokered that deal.
“Get your head on straight, William,” I snapped at myself, then decided to worry about the blowback later.
I skipped past the other work related emails—having reached my stress limit—and opened the one from my foundation’s Chief Financial Officer. The subject read “Freedom Fighters - updates.”
We’d received another sizable donation. Our third one that week. My budding headache began to recede.
The next email contained Safe Haven specific news. Construction on the rooming expansion would be completedearlier than expected. We’d be able to house more people now, and for longer periods of time. The second phase of construction would start on the other end of the property soon after.
The following email came from the head of the foundation’s public relations department, reminding me of the upcoming charity gala. We had one every year. I pulled up the calendar. We were seven weeks out.
Before I knew it, an hour had passed, and the library was filled with the hearty scent of roasted chicken with herbs and spices. My mouth watered and my stomach rumbled, the delicious smell pulling me away from my computer.
My mother’s soft voice stopped me before I turned the corner leading out to the living room and kitchen area. I crossed my arms and leaned against the wall, my heart warming as I listened to her talk to Ryan as she worked.
“I worry about him sometimes,” she said, then amended, “make thatallthe time—but don’t tell him I said so. Me worrying about him too much makes him pull away. I hardly see him enough as it is.”
I straightened.Didher worrying cause me to pull away? I’d never looked at it that way. In my mind staying away equated to putting a shield around her. It meant she’d be protected from my darkness. I’d never viewed it from her perspective. Did she feel left out of my life? I rounded the corner, able to see them now, even though they couldn’t see me.
“The worrying starts the moment you become a parent,” she continued, then paused to show Ryan how to cut the potatoes correctly. “Your turn. There you go,” she praised. “The smaller they are, the quicker they’ll boil. So, what was I saying? Oh yeah,” she said after a few seconds with no response from him. She asked him questions knowing she wouldn’t get a reply. Instead of accepting he wouldn’t speak, she kept the opportunity open for him to do so if he decided to.
“Parental angst is what I call it. Now that I think about it, it actually started for me the moment the drug store pregnancy test came back positive.” Her wry chuckle ended with a sigh, as though the conversation had taken her back to those hard times.
“Do you think your parents worry about you, Ryan? About where you are?” She gazed at him the way she did when seeing me in someone else’s child. The kitchen went silent. No more knives striking cutting boards, no more drawers opening and closing.
He wasn’t going to answer her. I knew that, but I still tightened my arms around myself in vain hope, even if his answer was no. I feared the pounding of my heart would give away my presence.
My mother moved over to the sink, rinsing her hands, blocking my view of Ryan. “Well,” she began, “how about I worry about you then? Would that be okay?”
My heart lurched in my chest. Had he answered her? Had it been a whisper? Something so low my straining ears hadn’t heard it? Had he mouthed it? Shaken his head—something I’d never seen him do. Or had she come to her own conclusion? I craned my head to try and see him, but she still stood near the sink.
“Good,” she said, an evident smile in her voice. He must have nodded, because I definitely hadn’t heard anything that time, unless his whisper hadn’t made it past the drumroll of anticipation in my head. “Now you have two people worrying about you. Two people who care.” She let that sink in before lowering her tone. “You know, when Malcolm was a boy—”
