The Memory Painter

It wasn’t really a question, but Bryan answered anyway. “No.”

“I think I always knew. I just wanted to convince myself you were better, that you had found peace. Because I couldn’t help you find it. And that’s my job.” Her voice wavered. “I just didn’t want to put you in another hospital, another study. You told the doctors they had stopped.… I wanted to believe you when you said they had stopped. But I knew they hadn’t.” She broke down. “And you had no one to talk to. No one to believe in you. I’m so sorry.”

“Mom, please don’t. I didn’t want to talk about it anymore—I couldn’t.”

“But I still feel it in you. The turmoil.” As she said it her eyes traveled to the painting of the Egyptian goddess.

Bryan examined it with her. The power of the portrait dominated the room. He looked closely at the goddess’s shrouded face. Her gaze seemed to be mocking him, her mouth parted as if to whisper secrets in his ear. He turned away from it and took his mother’s hand. “I can’t explain what happens to me. And no psychological analysis is going to make me better. You have to have faith in me and accept me as I am.”

His words made her cry even harder. “I do love you. So much.”

“I know. I’m sorry I haven’t made it easy for you.”

He embraced his mother for the first time in years. She squeezed him back tightly, and they stood together for a long moment.

She pulled away and clasped his arms. “I’m not going to pry. But I want you to know I am here. Anytime you need me, I will move mountains for you.”

Bryan could feel the immense power in her—the power of a mother who would do anything for her child. He found his voice. “Thank you.”

They both knew there was nothing more to say for now. Bryan walked her to her car and gave her another hug; he didn’t want to let go. Tonight had been a turning point in their relationship. Perhaps on some level she had known her son needed her—and that he needed to know Anssonno had never been lost.

Bryan stood on the curb, long after her car’s taillights had disappeared, and let the tears run freely, purging all that ancient pain. He didn’t want to go inside. Emotionally spent, he sat down on a park bench across the street and stared up at the night sky. The stars tugged at him, and he remembered all of the moments he had ever looked up at their light. His thoughts veered toward Linz. She had turned his world upside down—a world already skewed to begin with. Where did that leave him now? Incapacitated on a park bench, apparently.

He pulled his pan flute from his pocket and started to play. In their life in Petra, she could recognize his flute anywhere. He closed his eyes and let the notes take over, remembering.