Page 37 of What You Own
“You know your mom’s dream was to perform on Broadway?”
“Sure, she told me that. It’s why Broadway shows were our thing. We went every year. She taught me to sing.” I’d never been happier than when I was with her, singing in the car or the kitchen, listening to her tell stories about performing in high school and college.
“And then I took on the role of a lifetime,” she’d said, many times. “I became a wife and mother, and I wouldn’t want it any other way.”
She gave me a love of music. She made me want to play Mark Cohen.
She’d seemed happy.
“We shouldn’t be speaking ill of the dead,” Annette said, clearly upset by the conversation. “None of this matters.”
“None of what?” I felt sick. I didn’t want to know, but I had to know too. This was too important. This was my mom. My hero.
“The last few years she was alive? Jenny drank. A lot. She resented your father, and she resented giving up a career on the stage. She gave up a dream for him.”
My gut ached like I’d been punched. “And for me.”
Annette’s face crumpled. “No, not for you, Adam. Your mother loved you so much. She loved being a mother. I think she just wanted to escape a stifling marriage. She wanted the freedom she felt while performing.”
I wanted that too, so much. On stage, singing, I felt free and unburdened by the troubles in my life. The world felt open to possibilities. “She told you all this?”
“Yes, she confided in me sometimes. Not as often as I wished. And then she was gone, and I couldn’t do anything to help her.”
“But what does that have to do with her drowning? She slipped and hit her head.”
Annette’s sympathetic smile made my insides watery. “Oh, honey. No one told you this, did they?”
For fuck’s sake. “Obviously not.”
“When they did the autopsy, her blood alcohol content was point-two-three. She fell because she couldn’t stand up.”
Blood roared in my ears. Red-hot rage burst inside my chest. Rage at my mom for doing that to herself. Rage at Annette for telling me all this, even though I’d asked. Rage at my dad for making her miserable enough to drink so much that she fell into a pool and drowned. My vision blurred. I dropped my punch in the bushes and bolted.
I didn’t know where I was going until I slammed my bedroom door shut and fell face-first into my comforter. Air conditioning quickly cooled the sweat on my bare skin, but did nothing for my anger. Anger with no real outlet. I didn’t want to know this about my mom, and I couldn’t undo asking. I couldn’t pretend Annette’s words weren’t sinking in like acid, changing everything I believed true about my mother.
Tiny incidents jumped out from my memories, little things that had never added up to anything significant before. The first time we ate out and instead of a glass of wine each for her and Dad, she ordered the bottle. Stumbling on the stairs in the middle of the day. Monthly wine deliveries becoming every two weeks. Sleeping in later in the mornings, until I was getting myself up and ready for school without her.
Had I known all along and chose not to see? Had I blocked it all out so I could remember the best things about her?
I didn’t know. All I really knew was that she gave up something she loved—her dream of performing—for her husband, and fourteen years later she died unhappy and alone in chlorinated water. If I gave up Ryan, would I be her in fourteen years? Sooner? An alcoholic in a loveless marriage, conforming to what the family name said I should be?
No fucking way.
I was in my car, heading across town, before I remembered Ryan wasn’t at his apartment. He was at his parents’ house. I knew it well. I’d spent a lot of time there as a kid, and the idea of knocking on the front door made my insides squirrely. More than those nerves, though, I needed Ryan. Needed to tell him what I’d learned, to hear him say it would all be okay. Because if Ryan said it, I’d believe it.
Ryan
MYPARENTSinvited some of the neighbors and some folks they worked with, so a lot more people were at the house than I expected. I had fun, though, talking up the fundraiser and eating Mom’s fantastic food. Daddy barbecued, and she did all the salads and fixings. The Jenners next door brought over a big lemonade cake for dessert, and the Patterson kids had stuff for s’mores once the grill was done being cooked on.
We ate in the backyard, at folding tables we’d dug out of the basement. I smacked a few mosquitoes the citronella stakes hadn’t kept out. The little fuckers always found me. We’d left the patio doors open, screen pulled shut, so everyone heard the doorbell chime.
“I’ll get it,” Mom said.
I shoveled more chicken and pasta salad into my mouth, forgetting about the doorbell for a few minutes until Mom yelled, “Ryan,” from the patio doors. I put my fork down when she beckoned me.
Curious, I gulped down some sweet tea, then followed her inside. Away from the open doors to the living room. She was frowning, her eyebrows doing that deep V thing she did when she was worried. “What’s wrong, Momma?” I asked.
“Adam’s in your room.”
