I threw my keys on the kitchen counter before reaching into the refrigerator for a beer. I screwed the cap off and tilted my neck back taking the first refreshing gulp, letting the ale work its way through me. The events of the last day and a half were catching up to me, making me exhausted. Aside from getting used to being free again, I was processing that I had bared witness to Adrianna becoming a mother. If someone held a gun to my head, I wouldn’t be able to describe what I was feeling. I was numb from all the emotions running through me.
Not that long ago I’d lay my head down on the cot inside my jail cell and dream of her and moments just like the one we shared last night. They were the dreams that got me through my sentence and the same dreams that made me hate myself and the choices I made. Dreaming of Adrianna, the life we could’ve had, the baby we lost split me in two. I couldn’t decide if they were the sweetest dreams or the most beautiful nightmares.
I glanced around my empty apartment, hating how quiet it was and how alone I felt. It was strange how being home made me feel more isolated than when I was in jail. It was knowing I wasn’t locked away, I was free to be around the people I wanted in my life that fucked with me. Adrianna and her son were just at arm’s length. I could reach out and grab them, force my way back into her life. There wouldn’t be anything or anyone who would hold me back. But I wouldn’t do that. I wouldn’t do that to her or her son despite the pull I felt towards the both of them. That pull brought me back to the hospital and my conscience forced me to turn the fuck around and walk away from them.
The doorbell sounded breaking me away from my thoughts, saving me from picturing that little boy in my arms. I placed my beer on top of the counter, walking through the apartment to pull open the front door. I mentally noted to thank whoever was on the other end of the door for breaking me out of my impossible thoughts. If I let myself go down that road, I’d have a long fucking night ahead of me and no heavy bag to get me through it.
I opened the door, staring into the familiar aging eyes that belonged to my mother. It was going to be a long night no matter what the fuck I did. I hadn’t seen my mother since before I went to jail. She didn’t visited me or write me one damn letter. I tried calling her a few times, but she never accepted my calls so I was baffled as to why the fuck she stood on my doorstep now.
“What’re you doing here?” I asked, bracing my hand on the doorjamb above the door as I kept a steady eye on her.
“Is that anyway to talk to your mother?”
“Excuse me if I don’t remember how to talk to my mother, I haven’t had much contact with her in the last three years,” I declared, my voice sounding bitter.
She glanced down, her shoulders slumping as if she didn’t expect that blow. She raised her head, sighing heavily before staring into my eyes.
“You look different,” she whispered, her eyes travelling the length of me. “Harder.” “Colder.” She continued.
I sighed, dropping my hand from the doorjamb, watching as her eyes zero in on all the ink covering my arms now.
“Why’d you come by, mom?” I asked.
“You’re my son,” she said, her voice breaking by the third word. I studied her for a good moment before taking a step back and opening the door widely welcoming her and the lashing she was surely here to deliver.
My mother and I never saw eye to eye, but that didn’t make her a bad mom. Maria Bianci was far from a bad mother, she did the best she could with the little she had after my old man skipped out on us. To be honest, she was the strongest person I knew. However, our differences eventually caught up to us and wounded our relationship.
She stepped inside and I closed the door behind her before turning around to face her. I watched her eyes travel around my small apartment, taking it all in and then turned around and met my gaze.
“Were you planning on paying me a visit now that you’re home?” She asked curiously, as she placed her pocketbook down on my couch and took a seat.
“Figured you didn’t want to see me,” I clipped, shrugging my shoulders before crossing my arms against my chest. “You haven’t seen me in three years, not a phone call, not a letter, nothing.”
“Hold it,” she said, raising her hand to stop me from speaking. “You’re right I haven’t seen you in three years. I want you to think about that for a second and think why I haven’t had any contact with you since you chose to ruin your life.”