Damage

Chapter 23

“Don’t lie to me. ” I say flatly, ignoring how that phrase reminds me of Mia now.  

“I’m not lying or hiding anything, Luke.”

“Right, like you haven’t hidden the photographs that we used to have in the foyer.”

“Now, Luke –“

 “It hasn’t even been two fucking months.”

I need a cigarette.

“I’m worried about you.”

I look away and pull my lip ring between my teeth, briefly, before letting go.

 “Ever since -” she stops herself.

Ever since what? Fucking say it.

 “You’re not the same. I’ve read the tabloids, Luke, and you’ll be taking over the company some day, you know. Your father doesn’t want the Hemmings name tarnished.”

“Fuck the ‘Hemmings’ name.” My mother flinches and I almost roll my eyes.  “And it’s not like I’ve ever been a goody two shoes,” I snap, almost laughing at the humor of it all.

“Maybe it would help to meet with someone. Amanda von Hossmere says that she and her husband go every other Thursday to a wonderful therapist in the city. You should go.”

“You first.” I grimace.

 “I don’t need therapy, Luke,” she says. 

 “Oh, yeah. Because I’m the only fucked up one in the family,” I scoff. 

I don’t need or want to sit in a room and bitch to some person about my problems. I can handle them on my own.

“Thank you, mother. But I’m good,” I get up to leave and run my hands through my hair in frustration.

 “Luke, at least stay for dinner. The Callaways are coming over and I’m sure the chef can set another place. You can stay the night and then golf with your father tomorrow afternoon. Maybe even at noon, you could have lunch with Peter Winston’s son, Isaiah, I think.”  

"Mom -” I begin, not wanting to break her heart, but not willing to spend any more fucking time in upstate New York with the rest of our family’s inner circle. 

Anyway, I’m busy this weekend. Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t.

 “It's just that I get so lon –" she trails off, before abruptly stopping herself from continuing. "Well. Never mind, it’s nothing. I’ll see you later.”

I almost feel a shard of sympathy for her, but then I remember every fucked up thing she’s done and continues to do. The photographs that were once in the foyer and that she took down are just the tip of the iceberg. 

Sweep it all under the rug and pretend like the problem isn’t there, like nothing ever happened. Pretend until everyone forgets, until it’s something that we “don’t talk about.” That might as well be my mother’s motto.

 “I have to go.”

“Tell your father I said hello.”

Her hands are clenching the balcony and her warm smile hides a pathetic, false hope and I feel like I have to rush out the house before it suffocates me. It nearly disgusts me and I hate myself for thinking that way but I still give a tight smile before walking back to my car and driving away as quickly as I can.

But even as I’m driving down the road and through the woods that surround our house and down the freeway, the image of my mother’s face keeps flashing in my mind and I know that I need to pull over to collect my thoughts. Once I’ve stopped and can roll down the windows and take a deep breath, I realize how white my knuckles are from clenching the steering wheel so hard.

I pull out a pack of cigarettes and light one quickly, breathing out the window, trying to get my head in the right place.

There’s only one name that’s flashing in my mind, one person who it feels like could fix everything and make everything a little bit better. It’s fucking mental and doesn’t make any sense but I impulsively take out my phone and flip through the few contacts I actually gave a damn enough to save. 

My finger hovers over the name – 3 letters, Two syllables, one person. Mia. 

I bring the cigarette to my lips, inhaling the smoke before blowing it out and nearly tap the screen, not knowing why I feel like calling so bad, only knowing that I need to.

But just as I’m about to press the button, I think better of it and click the phone off, putting it back in the center console and taking my car out of park, getting back onto the freeway and driving off.

It’s better like this. She wouldn’t even have answered anyway.

***

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