Page 112 of Space Balls: Houston, We Have Liftoff
She swallows. “What do you—”
“I heard you cry yourself to sleep at night.” I sit, the feelings I’ve kept tightly bottled inside draining me as they overflow.
“I… I didn’t know.” Mom’s head drops forward. “I had no idea that you remembered any of that.”
“Like you said, how could I forget?” I turn my gaze to the window, watching the swing of the playset I had delivered to my nephews for Christmas six years ago sway in the breeze. “And yet still, all these years later, you still live in a house that is basically a shrine to when he was alive. You never dated, you never moved on. Dad left you and never came back, and you still love him despite it.”
“But he was in the military. It was his duty. He didn’t have a choice.”
“That’s bullshit.”
Mom jerks back at my vehemence.
“He had a choice. It’s not like there was still a draft. He signed up. And he kept making that choice every year he chose not to get out.”
Brit bites her lip.
“How could I take the chance on doing that to someone else? Someone I love.” I swallow. “And I love Rose, Mom. I love her so much.” I wipe angrily at my eyes. “I didn’t want to. Because I didn’t want to put her through what you went through when Dad died. But then, like a selfish jerk, I talked myself into thinking that if Rose still chooses to be with me despite the risks, it would be okay.” My fingers dig into my thigh under the table. “But a baby? A baby doesn’t get to make that choice. They don’t sign up for the gamble of being raised by a grieving, single parent.”
The swings move back and forth a few times before Mom speaks. “I loved your father. So much. And yes, I still love him. I always will.” She takes a deep breath.
Brit, head down, sniffs.
“You were robbed of having a father at an early age. That’s not fair. Death itself isn’t fair after all, military or not. But I also like to think howluckyyou were to have your father in your life, even for the briefest of times, than not have had him at all. He loved you so much. And he showed that love by being the best man he could be.
“It isn’t fair, and maybe it isn’t right, but that’s how it went. And when you handled his death with far more maturity than a boy your age probably should’ve, I failed you when I didn’t say anything. Because even though you never complained, and you never cried at the unfairness of it all like you heard me do at night when I thought you were asleep, I should’ve known better. When you didn’t talk about your father, I thought I was respecting your feelings. I chose instead to keep the house as your father left it, thinking you would find comfort in its familiarity. I didn’t know it felt more like a burden, or a cage I locked you into.”
It seems absurd that such soft-spoken admissions from my mother could have such a profound effect on me, a grown man. That even now, I still needed to hear them.
“I’m so sorry, Vance.” She reaches out and grabs Brit’s hand. “And you too, Brittany.”
“It’s okay, Mom. I understand.” Her voice cracks on the last words, and she stands. “Fuck.” She marches over and grabs a box of tissues and tosses it back on the table before sitting back down. “What happens in the kitchen stays in the kitchen.”
We all grab a tissue.
“And I want to tell you something, Vance, and I want you to look me in the eyes, so you know I’m telling the truth.”
I have to blink a few times, but I do.
“Even knowing what happened. Even knowing that one day your father would fail to come home to me, tous, I’d still marry him all over again.”
I swallow.
“Do you hear me?” She looks back and forth between Brit and me.
We both nod.
“I mean it.” Mom lowers the tissue away from her eyes, her gaze serious and sure. “And I hope that you can feel the same. That even with all the pain you carry, you can both realize what a wonderful father Lonan Bodaway was to you. That you can remember the happiness past the sadness.”
“I do, Mom. I remember.” Brit gets up and bends down to hug her, each of them laughing a little, trying to break the tension.
And when they both look at me with the same question in their eyes, I feel the usual emotions I associate with my father— the anger, regret, and fear—shift inside me. Making room for more. For love. For possibilities.
My eyes sting, and my nostrils flare, but I take a deep breath and forge on. “Remember the time Dad stayed up all night trying to put together our Christmas presents, and we all raced downstairs in the morning to find him sleeping under the tree?”
Brit laughs. “Oh my God, yes. I’d almost forgotten about that.” She blows out a happy but shaky breath.
I ball up the tissue in my hand, tossing it in the trashcan by the wall. “He said he was trying to catch Santa and we got mad that he didn’t include us in his plan.”
