The smell of hot cocoa permeates the house as I close the back door behind me and move into the kitchen.
“Oh, honey you scared me,” Mom says as she turns and finishes making her drink. I don’t want to speak. I know that the second I do she’ll here the scratchiness in my voice and demand that I tell her what’s wrong.
“I’m making cocoa, would you like…” Her words stick as she looks up and gets a closer look at my tear-stained puffy face.
“Oh, sweetheart, what’s wrong?” she asks, moving the pan from the stove and rushing around the island to envelope me in a warm hug.
“I told him about his mom.”
I don’t need to say anything else; it’s blatantly obvious by my presence that it didn’t go well. Mom strokes my hair and makes soothing shushing noises as I cry into her shoulder. I know I have only myself to blame, but I’m too tired to not indulge in the pity party I’m currently throwing myself.
“Here,” she says leading me to take a seat. “Nothing cheers a person more than chocolate.” She walks over to the counter and pours two mugs of cocoa before reaching into the cupboard and pulling out jars and packets.
“Ah-ha,” she says, retrieving a bottle of Irish Crème Liquor and adding two big slugs to the drinks. She looks up as she pours and fixes me with a stare.
“I better not catch you doing this when I’m not here,” she motions to the alcohol. “You’ll be in trouble, understand?”
I give her a weak smile and nod.
“Good. Now, do we go for oatmeal and raisin?” she asks, pulling a pack of cookies from the cupboard and placing them down on the counter. “Or double chocolate chip?”
“Bring on the double chocolate chip. You just said chocolate makes everything better, right?”
She gives a little huff as she walks over and places a mug in front of me along with the full pack of cookies. “It’s a temporary fix, but let’s worry about that later.”
THE SOFT STRAINS of music fill the small room and begin to settle my anxiety, just like it always does. Sitting at my piano has constantly been an escape for me. From the moment my mom began to teach me at the age of four, I’ve loved it. I don’t need to think about anything other than the music—how long the next note is, what rhythm it requires, and how loud to play it. There’s no space for the monsters that lurk at the back of my mind once my fingers touch the keys of the Steinway. My concentration isn’t focused on not annoying my dad, or worrying that I’m failing at this and that, or not doing well enough in some other area, because I know I can play. It comes naturally, and thankfully, it’s probably the only aspect of my life my dad hasn’t tainted and ruined.
My fingers stretch over the ivories as I play Debussy’s Clair de Lune. Pain shoots through my wrist as my hands travel from key to key, but I don’t care. I’ve sat down to this piano in far worse physical states, but I always play consistently. It’s one of the first songs that showcased how well I could perform. Mom cried the first time I made it through the entire piece without a mistake. She’d told me that I was born to do this. It’s the one memory I have of her that I actually cherish. I bring the piece to its end and rest my head on my arms against the cold wood. It takes seconds for the blanket the music has provided to slip away and leave me feeling cold and exposed. My mom's little secret creeps back into my head, and the vision of Blair breaking it to me makes its way to the forefront of my mind.
How could she? Why didn’t she tell me sooner?
I can’t take any more. I push away from the piano and slam every door I walk through until I’m out in the back yard. I take a deep breath, willing the crisp air to clear the mess and destruction that Mom and Blair have created in my brain. I stare out at the pool house and suddenly I’m overcome with memories of Blair and me in there, watching movies. I’m not sure what triggered them, but they put me on my ass. I don’t know which way is up when I think about her now. I love her so much, but I can't understand how she could know something as important as my mom’s admissions and not tell me. Surely, if she felt even half of what I feel for her, she’d have said something sooner.
I stomp back into the house and go straight to the medicine cabinet. I grab the first pack of painkillers I can find and swallow two without water. The chalkiness sticks to my throat as I try and force them down, leaving a horrible taste in my mouth. There’s a half-full bottle of beer that one of the guys has left open on the island. I reach over and take a long pull to get rid of the artificial taste filling my mouth. I need this pain to stop. I’m not even sure if it’s a headache or heartache anymore. All I know is that I hate it.
More things to chalk up as dipshit things to do:
#1 Take painkillers that aren’t prescribed to you.
#2 Wash them down with alcohol.
#3 Scroll through pictures of your hot girlfriend when mad at her. Then drink more to try and wash away the hurt.