Page 18 of Songbird: Black Kite
Hawk
Present
Irarelyleftmyhouse anymore, but when I did, it was to come here.
The irony of that fact wasn’t lost on me; me not wanting to leave my house after all the years I spent trying to get my mother to leave hers was almost the perfect cosmic joke.
Pulling my truck into the driveway, I sighed as I took in the little house in East Hollywood where I’d grown up. Over the years, I’d made as many improvements to the property as I could—including upgrading to top-of-the-line security—but it wasn’t what I wanted for her.
At all.
My mother, though, had different ideas, and as much as I’d tried over and over to sway her, she persisted.
And I couldn’t do a damn thing about it.
Well, I could, but she wouldn’t like the lengths I’d actually gone to, so I kept them to myself.
Exiting my truck, I clicked the lock and pocketed my keys before opening the gate and heading for the front door. I had a key, but I preferred to knock. It gave Mom the opportunity to try to come to the door, even if it was just for a few minutes.
I could hear her moving around, her footsteps making their way to the front door and then back again, twice before she finally twitched the curtain on the long skinny window beside the door and peeked out, smiling in relief when she saw that it was me.
“There’s my boy,” she said, opening the door just wide enough for me to slip through sideways, and then shutting it again as quickly as she could. “It’s so nice to see you, Hawk.”
“Hey, Mom,” I replied gruffly, looking around.
The house hadn’t changed much in the more than twenty years since I’d moved out, and the feeling of nostalgia that washed over me was immediate. I could see the spot on the wall where she’d measured my height every year on my birthday, even when I was so much taller than her that she’d needed to use a stool to reach the top of my head. The couch was new—I bought her a comfortable reclining piece for Christmas last year—but the knitted blanket that was artfully draped across the back was the same one I’d cuddled under as a kid, watching daytime TV when I’d stay home sick from school. There were things like that everywhere, pieces and moments of my life that felt as though they had been a million years ago, but somehow, just yesterday at the same time.
“I have tea,” Mom called, her voice thin, and I headed into the kitchen, finding her bustling at the stove. She always made tea when I came over. She said it calmed her down, and that was important. So, even though I really didn’t like tea, I drank it.
Every time.
“I ordered that lemon kind again. I know you’re not really singing all that often these days, but it can’t hurt to keep your throat healthy anyway.” Glancing over her shoulder at me, she gave me that same watery smile. “You never know what the future might hold.”
“Lemon is great, Mom,” I said, but her words sank like a stone in my stomach.
Right now, I had no fucking idea what the future held for me, but I couldn’t see anything that would lead me back to singing withBlack Kiteagain.
Not after all the shit we’d been through.
Setting those bleak thoughts aside, I sat at the table, watching as she moved around the familiar space, grabbing mugs and sugar and a plate of my favorite cookies, the ones she always had on hand for my surprise visits. When the kettle had boiled, mom filled both mugs and set them on the table before bringing over our tea bags, lemon for me and chamomile for her.
“So,” she said, staring at her mug as she danced the tea bag up and down slowly in the hot water. “What brings you my way on this beautiful day, kiddo? Don’t you have important rock star things to be doing or something?”
“Nothing more important than my mom,” I said sincerely, but she just snorted.
“Of course not.”
“Mom,” I dragged out, whining like I used to. “I come by when I can. You know that.”
“I do know that,” she said, reaching for a cookie. “Just like I also know that your life is a whole lot bigger than sitting in this dusty old house with your old mom.”
“You’re not old,” I denied immediately.
“Yes, I am, Hawk. I have been for a while now.”
I frowned, looking at her—reallylookingat her—for the first time in a long time and I realized that she was right. Her hair, dark brown like mine, was shot through with streaks of silver. Not just a little, either, but whole sections of long silvery strands woven into the braid she was currently wearing. Her hands were wrapped around her mug, and as I looked, I could see the skin was soft, the blue of her veins showing more prominently than I could ever remember seeing before. And even her face, the face that had been smiling at me with love and acceptance for as long as I could remember, was now permanently creased in the places where those smiles had lived.
She was beautiful, my mom.
