Page 89 of Whiskey Throttle
Giving up those two things that have been his constant for as long as I can remember? Listening and actually following instructions from a woman? To say my mind is completely blown by this dynamic and whatever is happening is an understatement. I barely get across the threshold, and the door closes behind me, before I turn to her.
“I’m sorry, but are you in a relationship with my son?”
She laughs again, waving me into the living room that surprisingly has a baseball game on the screen. Another sight I thought I’d never see.
“I definitely see how Dominic has told you nothing. He’s so private, but to answer your question, yes. We’re together.”
I would say this is new, but then again, I don’t know if Dominic would have ever told me. He keeps things bottled up. Weaponizing information such as this to use against me years later.
“That’s . . . wonderful.”
My words are sabotaged by seeing the throw pillows on the couch. A soft, lush blanket is strategically placed at one end of his couch. Everywhere in the space are her touches. A plant grows wild and wide near the door to the terrace.
Fresh cut flowers in a crystal vase on his coffee table. The place even smells divine, thanks to a lit candle on the end table. If I hadn’t come today, would I have ever known about her? Her positive influence in her life?
“Please sit.”
She gestures to the couch, swipes the remote, and turns down the volume on the television. The night and day difference is shocking. Everything I rehearsed on the way over here is gone from my mind. Completely erased with the new information about my son bombarding me.
“Since when do you watch college baseball, Dominic?”
“Since when do you care, mother?”
“He knows one of the players. They meet under some unfortunate circumstances.”
An odd expression passes over her otherwise cheerful demeanor, and I know there’s more to that story.
“Marlowe, can I talk to you in the bedroom?”
His question is more of a growl. Irritation brims so close to the surface, I’m waiting for it to blow as it always does.
“Not necessary,” she dismisses him, sitting on the couch opposite mine.
So close that I can see, in the afternoon sun, that her face is makeup-free. Her skin is flawless. She’s older than he is. Obviously, more accomplished. Nothing that I would think he’d go for, being that he thinks he’s always the most intelligent person in the room. Most of the time, he is, but she seems to be able to handle him and his moods.
I’m witnessing a miracle.
“Now, in all fairness to you, and something you should know is?—"
“She’s not fucking staying, Marlowe.”
She looks over at him, smiles sweetly, and then winks. I can’t figure out if she’s taunting or sincere.
“Babe, I know this is not what you want to do on your Sunday, especially given your big project, but it’s time.”
She doesn’t miss a beat in forcing the issue. Pushing him into places he doesn’t want to go, and not scared of the eruption about to take place.
She turns to me, pats my knee, and says, “In all fairness to you, he told me everything that happened last night.”
I’m not sure how to feel about that statement. Her approach is genuine, warm, and full of understanding, but I can’t help being suspicious. My son and I have had many mediators before. Intercepting parties to work through things with us. None have been successful. Our relationship proves it.
“How are you doing? You can’t be okay with things.”
She eases back onto the couch, completely comfortable with asking. I’m speechless. No one asks how I feel. There’s no space in the room for my feelings when dealing with a volatile person. The only valid feelings are his, not mine. Never mind. I decide to answer. Give her a try where everyone else has failed.
“I’m not okay. Far from it.”
I ignore the grumble across the room. She does too. Yet, here comes my son with a board filled with cheeses, crackers, olives, and some nuts. A mini hors d’oeuvres with the presentation style of our chef, with little sprigs tucked into the side for presentation.
