Growing Up and Other Tall Tales

Chapter 29

I hear the front door close quietly and somehow it sounded worse than a bang. It would've been better if she had slammed the door off its hinges. Anything was better than the silence.

I look at Mother but she keeps avoiding my eyes. She is still crying, her shoulders heaving the weight of wave after wave of relentless sobs. There are streaks running through her perfect face cutting darker lines through her makeup. And I wait. I stand there and I wait for her.

She will have an explanation, I hope, she always does. But what I do know is that all she has are excuses, all she ever had were excuses.

"Is it true?" I ask softly

She opens her mouth but another wail claws its way out and muffles coherence.

"I'm sorry," she cries

"Is she really—"I take a deep breath and close my eyes, "Did you really?"

She looks up at me. And then I see her for what I refused to see her as before, as what she is: a coward.

"I ran away from home," she brushes her sleeve against her face but it is in vain, "I lived with him for a while but...but when I found out I was pregnant, I—I was so scared. I didn't know anything about being a mother, Capo, I was 20 something. And, and, after giving birth to—to Lyra, I—I ran away," she looks away, her hair falling in front of her face like a veil of shame, "He lied to her. And I kept giving him money, to help raise her up. But after some point, the account was deactivated and I...I thought he was dead,"

She paused and I looked down. There is stillness that was unsteady and somehow everything familiar to me, everything I tried so hard to protect was compromised. Some part of me was panicking trying to piece together a collapsing roof with two hands, and some part of me was tired, so, so tired. I give up. I am done.

"You hoped," I correct her quietly, "You hoped he was dead,"

She looks up at me for the first time and I see what I don't need to see in her eyes: guilt and I know I'm right. I open my mouth.

"How old was I when you found me?"

"Capo..."

"It's Aiden," I cut in and I almost regret it when she winces

"You were two years old," she replies, "Why?"

I sit on her bed and my head just falls into my hands, my neck aching from holding up too high.

"You didn't take me in because you wanted to help me," my voice is muffled, "You took me into help yourself. You took all of us in to help yourself. We are just stand-ins for a child you never had. So you could feel much better about yourself. So you wouldn't look at yourself and see you as the woman who abandoned her child,"

I'm out of breath, my chest is heaving and towards the end, my voice turned hoarse. I didn't want to look up at her. I would've never had to strength to say it if I did. But I heard a sharp intake of breath and a little stumble as though I had slapped her across the face. In a way, I suppose, I had.

"You are a hypocrite,"

She doesn't deny it, and I don't wait for her to.

"I—did you just assume she was dead too?"

"I tried, I tried searching for them, I did," her voice is pleading, calling me out to look at her but I knew I would give in, believe whatever she had to say if I did and what scares me is that, I want to look at her. I want to stop arguing, understand her twisted side of the story and pretend I do. Because at the end of the day, I am the bigger coward.

"Don't lie to me," my voice shakes and even I'm taken aback by what escapes my mouth, "If you wanted something, if you really did—you'd get it." I snort, "Don't be ridiculous. You didn't want to find them."

There was a dumbness that settled with the hush that crushed the large space inside the room.

"It was the perfect chance to run away from what you had done."

"I'm sorry,"

I look at her finally and placed my hands on my knees heaving myself to my feet.

"You know who you have to apologize to, and it's not me," I tell her quietly, "I won't tell the others,"

She looks startled and the crinkles beside her eyes soften a little. Thank you.

"I'm not doing it for you," I glare at the space behind her so I wouldn't have to look at her eyes, "I don't want to hurt them. Because I know you love them—"I inhale deeply to stop my voice from shaking, "I hope to God you do—"

She reaches for my arm, gentle fingertips stretching out for me and it's without thinking when I take a large step back. I hold up a warning hand,

"Don't—don't touch me," I pause, "Please,"

And I hate the way it hurt her, I hate the way my own words punched me in the gut and made me double over.

There is a silence of acceptance that follows my words. The kind of sad awareness that nothing will be the same, ever and there was nothing really neither of us could do about it. Life the way I knew it, the life I found comfort, reassurance and lies in, is now over. We will be strangers, with a distinct idea of what could've been.

"What do I do?" she asks wringing her arms together

"You do whatever," I say moving out of the door and every step feels like I have landed myself miles away from her, "And fucking pray that she is dumb enough to listen to you,"