Fuck. Dread rifles through me. They never call for good news. “Hello?”

“Mr. Play, please.”

“Is my mom okay?” I ask like I don’t know what’s coming next.

“She’s quite agitated. I’ve called your brother but he isn’t answering. We can either give her something to calm her down or—”

“I’m on my way.” I blow out a breath and give Vince a look he knows all to well.

I grab my keys on the run, the familiar burden of responsibility a son should never have weighing heavy on my shoulders. I just wonder how much longer I’ll be able to carry the brunt of it before my back breaks.

Weak is not an option.



Chapter 9


HAWKIN

The beige walls are supposed to be warm and comforting to the residents but in my mind they do nothing but reinforce my mother’s institutionalization here. The dreary color serves as a steady reminder that she’s so far beyond my ability to help that I have to pay other people to do the job that I no longer can.

I can take the number one spot on every chart in the world with the songs I sing, the lyrics I write, the beats I create, but none of it really matters because I can’t take care of my mother. When will the rest of the world realize that I’m a phony? That I’ve sold out as a son, failed to take care of her as I’d promised Dad, and that I’ve left her with strangers to deal with her so that I don’t have to?

Riding shotgun beside my guilt is the relief. Even that thought causes more guilt to spiral within me as the soles of my shoes squeak down the monochromatic hallways. Because without the daily interaction I was so used to, there’s no opportunity for her to unleash her disdain of me, her spite, her disappointment. Yes, I know it’s her disease talking most of the time but that knowledge does nothing to abate the searing ache of the loss of my mother.

Of the mother who once loved me.

And of the only woman I’ve loved. I’ve spent a lifetime building walls to keep everyone at arm’s length and yet with a single phone call, a single word from her, she can bring me to my knees in all senses of the word.

She can make me weak.

I shake off the morose thoughts, force myself to push away the memories from earlier that are still clouding the edges of my mind.

“Hawke!” Hunter’s voice calls from behind me, and as pissed as I am right now over all of his shit from earlier, a part of me is relieved that I don’t have to do this by myself. It’s better not to face her alone since he is the one that somehow calms her.

So I stop walking, letting the reprimands die on my tongue because this isn’t the time or place, and wait for him. “Nice of you to show up. Next time pick up your damn phone.” Those are the nicest words I have for him, so I stop there, before I turn and keep walking the familiar path.

Muted televisions play as we pass by rooms with open doors but for the most part there is a peaceful calm over the unit when we approach the nurse’s station. The nurse, Beth, raises her head as Hunter and I approach.

“Thanks for coming,” she says, repeating the same thing she says on my at least twice-weekly urgent visits here.

“What’s going on?” Hunter asks.

“How is she?” I ask at the same time.

“Dr. Manning had thought the sundowning had peaked,” she says, referring to the syndrome with dementia patients where they become more agitated, revert to a previous time period in their life, and in most cases it occurs from sundown to sunup. I know this is her polite way of saying my mom’s Alzheimer’s has progressed to a more advanced stage. “Tonight, though, she’s been extremely distressed—more so than normal. We’ve been able to placate her by making sure she has all of her handbags with her.”

I nod my head at Beth, grateful they’ve accepted my mom’s need to have her purses with her—for some reason they help to calm her when she becomes agitated. The doctor doesn’t understand why but has heard of it in a few other cases, and instructed the staff to let her have the purses if needed to calm her down and bring her back to the present.

“Okay, thanks,” I tell her as Hunter moves ahead of us and toward our mom’s room.

“It’s almost as if something is really getting to her today,” she says as I start to walk past the desk.

Hunter continues in, and I stop and hang my head for a moment before meeting her eyes. “I’m not sure but we’re approaching the anniversary of my dad’s suicide,” I tell her, voice quiet, memories colliding in my mind. The day our lives changed forever.

The catalyst.

One moment in time when a person’s inherent makeup can determine whether they are going to overcome or succumb to an obstacle … fight or flight … sink or swim. Too bad what most individuals don’t realize is even if you swim, that doesn’t mean everyone else around you will too. Regardless of how strong you are for them all…. You become the life preserver while everyone else holds on, fingers gripping, hands slipping, hope waning, until they drag you down with them.

Thanks, Dad.

The thought flickers through my mind and I struggle against the hostility toward him that slips through every now and again. It wasn’t Mom’s fault but I swear to God his suicide was the beginning of her undoing. They say Alzheimer’s doesn’t have a trigger, but she shut down after Dad died. Life was too much for her to cope with any longer. I swear she didn’t want to remember so her mind turned against her.

I force myself to shake off the thoughts as I approach her room slowly, a lump of anxiety in my throat since I’m unsure which person she’s going to be when I enter. The room decor offers more muted colors, as a soft glow emanates from the lamps on the walls, mementos of the family she rarely remembers scattered throughout it.

The sound of her humming has cautious optimism rising within me as she comes into view, embracing Hunter, her hand petting over his hair like she used to when we were kids. I strain to hear the song, but already know what it is: “Over the Rainbow.”

My beautiful mother with the pitch-perfect voice. She had so much musical potential but she preferred singing lullabies to her boys over being out late and performing in the jazz clubs that begged for her and my father to take their stage. She feared the moments she’d miss if her sons woke up and needed her. All her life my mother was so full of laughter, love, and compassion. But a single gunshot silenced all of that within her—it killed her too in a sense.

Her brain is allowing her a moment’s reprieve before it swallows her back into dementia’s bitter clutches. I stand still and watch the woman she used to be, afraid to breathe too loudly and upset her and trigger her to turn into the woman I don’t know.

“There now, Hunter. What did your brother do to you this time?” she asks him gently as a mother does a young child. Every time I come here I hope that she remembers me for the child she loved, not the one she blamed for not stopping her husband from killing himself.

Those glimpses of that mom who used to kiss my scrapes and tuck me in are so few and far between these days, her mind so warped that even when she does remember us, she remembers that Hunter was her baby, and I am the son who didn’t stop him.

I know she doesn’t mean the things she says to me, know it deep in my core, and yet it does nothing to lessen the hurt or damage the hope that for one fleeting moment she’ll look at me and tell me it’s not my fault. That she’ll hold me in her arms, tell me she knows I couldn’t have stopped it.

That she’ll tell me something I’ve gone what feels like a lifetime without hearing, that she loves me. So once again I fight off the discord that overtakes me every time I visit her.

I shift my feet and she hears. She looks over and the familiar sneer appears on her face, the words like a reflex at the sight of me. “What are you doing here? I told you I don’t want you here anymore.” She hugs tighter to Hunter as she speaks to me, ice lacing her voice. It’s amazing to me that even though we are twins she can still tell us apart even in her altered mental state.

The stupid fucking hope I get every time I cross into this damn room sinks to the pit of my stomach.

“Hi, Mom.” It’s all I can say really. “How are you today?”

“How am I today?” she shrieks, releasing Hunter to face me. “How am I? I’d be a lot better if you didn’t let my husband kill himself, is what I’d be.” Her voice rises as she stands from the bed. I glance at Hunter and it’s the first time in a long time that I see compassion in his eyes for what he knows is coming next. The pain he can’t stop for me. “You stood there like a pathetic little boy and didn’t scream for help, did you?” Her words begin to slur as she steps into my personal space, and I know that means her mind is starting to pluck her memories away one by one.

I set my jaw, teeth clenched as I prepare myself for the verbal assault to come because as much as I’d love to scream and yell back, tell her she’s full of shit and what in the hell can a little boy do to prevent a man with a gun—the words I’ve repeated in my head for years, the ones I’ve used to try to silence my own conscience—I keep quiet. It’s not going to fix anything and by the time the words are out, she won’t even remember what happened anyway.

And besides, she’s still my mom.

“You stood there,” she says, shoving me in the chest, “and let him take the easy way out. Ruined me.”

I so desperately want to tell her it was in no way the easy way out. That obviously he was sick, and he needed help that he never got. But how do you explain to one sick person about another sick person and have it make sense? Especially when it doesn’t even make sense to you all these years later.