Page 83 of Mangled Memory
“Tell me about Ci and Dad.” I lift the mug to my lips wrapping both my palms around it as if it can infuse the caffeine straight through the porcelain.
Her sigh comes from her toes. “Those two. They’re oil and water as it is. Always have been. But in business, if one says black, the other says white. I swear they don’t even look at the same bid package or project and see the same job.”
I nod but don’t contribute.
“Your father wants everything done his way, but he also wants a business he can hand off. His legacy, if you will. But what he’s building isn’t something Ci wants and what Ci would build, your father won’t consider.”
“None of this is new.” My voice is quiet butunderstanding.
“But lately, Ci is actively rejecting it. No, that’s not true. Cian is simply letting his actions say what his words always have. He’s uninterested. Distracted. Where he used to work twelve hours a day, he’s now at eight. Dad thinks he’s slacking and getting angrier and angrier.”
“He doesn’t like not being able to control us.” My confession is a whisper, but it’s a whisper with spine.
Mom nods and takes a sip of her own coffee from the chair next to me. Where I use a thick large mug, she uses dainty porcelain cups. It’s so Mom.
“He never could control Liam.” I add. “Not that I could tell.”
Mom’s face goes soft and looks off into the past for a moment before coming back to me. “Your father and Liam weren’t oil and water. They were gasoline and a spark. Liam was gone the day he turned eighteen only because he couldn’t afford emancipation before that.”
“So Dad is zero for three and taking it out on Cian?”
“He’s zero for three and taking it out on everyone. Mostly at the expense of his health. He’s drinking more and working later. Hell, last night he was talking in his sleep for God’s sake. I’d say he’s waking up early but his sleep is so fitful, I don’t think he’s resting at all.”
“You mentioned ‘my situation.’” I lift my brows as I lift my mug to my lips. “It’s been months and there’s been no change. What gives now?” It’s bait. I should be ashamed I’m baiting my own mother, but I need answers.
“As far as your father’s concerned, it’s been longer than that.” She pauses, looking away. “I know we’re not supposed to feed your mind with our memories.”
I extend a hand. “You’re not, Mom. I’m asking your perspective, nothing more.”
“Your father lost control of you long before you met Christian.”
I smile at this becausethatI remember. “True.”
“But when you met him… Well, he lost the hope that he ever could again. Ayla, he’s convinced that your husband will use you against us. That we’ll lose you forever and that our family will be splintered irrevocably.”
“If that’s the case, Mom—and I say this gently—it will be his doing. You have Liam. But Dad never will again. He used up what patience Liam had for him.”
She looks away again, back into a history I’ll never know, as I continue, “You have me. I haven’t written him off yet, but he’s pushing hard for it. He can meet me where I am, and I’ll try. I’ll make that promise to you—for you, not for him. But if he keeps up his relentless… I don’t know, bullheadedness, maybe? I’ll be out too.”
Her eyes snap to mine. “Don’t say that. I can’t lose you too.”
“You won’t, Mom. You won’t. But he will. He’s over the line. And if it’s happening with Cian, too, then he’ll lose us all. His desire to control us doesn’t condemn us to a life under his thumb.”
“Then I get it for all three of you.” Her hand trembles and coffee splashes over the side of her cup, a single drop hitting her perfectly crisp cream slacks.
Whoa. Whoa. Whoa.
“Mom?”
She looks away, stands, and rubs her hands down her pants, flicking at the coffee stain. “Excuse me.”
As she wanders down the hall, I sit slack jawed. Have I considered he might be controlling her too? It’s who he is. Years and years and, wait?—
Slamming my coffee mug down, seeing the rivulets run down the sides and onto her end table, I stand and storm down the hall after her.
“Mom? Mom!” I push into her bedroom to see her sitting on her bed, back to me, facing out the windows into their garden. “Mom, do you need to get out of here? To leave him? Are you safe?”
Her shoulders roll in on themselves and she exhales a breath that must originate from her toes. “I’m safe, Ayla. And, no, I don’t need to leave him. I just?—”
