Chapter 1: In the Beginning
"Christian." The slurred, muddled voice of my mother ringing in my ears take me out of my happy place. Disgusted, I squeeze and open my eyes over and over before I turn in the direction of her voice. But I make no attempt to acknowledge her presence as she stammers closer to me; sadly, her footsteps are too unsteady to continue further into the cramp, dimly lit, unkempt room. I squeeze my eyes tightly close; in order, to regulate my too harsh breathing before reopening them to my mother's deplorable state. Sadly it's a state I've become all too familiar with over the years. Some of my earliest memories of my mother consist of her either being drunk, high, laid up with some man for money or in many cases a combination of all three. But of late, things have been worse than ever with sloppy drunk being a constant state of being for the woman. Considering the other choices, I choose drunk every time.
From my perch on the rickety chair with my back now facing the window, finally I give her my attention; if only to humor her because I have no intention of engaging her in a conversation. Why bother, it's useless when she's like this. She's incapable of stringing a simple sentence together less more carrying on a conversation; besides, from my experience in less than 30 seconds she'll be on the floor passed out. So in theory I could just sit where I am and wait her out, but I'm thirsty, so I stand to get a drink of water.
Her appearance is dreadful; she looks haggard, her hair is messy and unclean. Her too big shirt is hanging off one shoulder exposing her protruding bones. The shirt is soiled from cheap booze and probably smells of it too. Her body sways from side to side, in an attempt to keep her steady on her feet. Repulsed by the sight of her, I purposely walk around her leaning form as I make my way to the tiny spot we call a kitchen. Cold I know, but when you've had a front row seat to the destruction of your mother's life you become immune. She'll fall, and I'll pick her up, which is more than she can claim.
She's tries to pivot to follow me, but of course she's too drunk to make the maneuver successfully so instead she takes the inevitable tumble to the floor. I pause waiting for the soft thud; the sound her body will make when it comes in contact with the filthy carpeted floor. A sound I've heard way too many times in my young life, and I've often wondered what would happen if I just left her there. Would she wake up on her own? Or would she just drown in her vomit, a fate that would probably be the best for both of us. A way for of both to escape our miserable existence. In the rare moments I've actually seen her vacant eyes, I say living is a fate worse than death for her. I know I can say with certainty, living with her is a fate worse than death for me. That's why I've had to escape into my head as a method of survival.
When I finally hear it, I'm not deterred I continue to the tap for my water before going back to attend to her. I'm not worried about her hurting herself. For one, she isn't that tall, so she doesn't have far to fall. Secondly, we hardly have furniture in the apartment, so there are no sharp edges for her to hit her head. And finally she always ends up in the fetal position with her head resting on her arms. Strange I know; like the potato chip that always end up looking like Jesus or Mother Theresa. It's one of those phenomena that you can't explain.
Taking my last sip of water, I make the few short steps to where my mother's frail body lies passed out on the floor, head resting peacefully on her arms. Bending I snake my arm under her body so I can lift her; even at 13, I find it easy to perform this task because her lithe body offers no resistance for me. With her in my arms, I take deliberate steps to her bedroom, pausing at the doorway. This room holds horrid memories for me, and I avoid it as much as possible.
When I was younger, she would make me hide in the small dark closet while she entertained her Johns. She contended it was to protect me from the pimp from hell, but little help it was - I have the physical and literal scars to prove it. It is also the room where I first found her passed out from what was the first of many of her drug overdoses.
Growing up the son of Ella Morrison has not been a walk in the park. I've had to watch her do things no child should; abuse drugs and alcohol and sell her body. So as despicable as she is right now, I choose a drunken Ella over one with her lips wrapped around some man's lower appendage any day. Because of these less than pleasant occurrences, I developed an overactive imagination at an early age. It was my means of escaping my impossible surrounding filled with substance abuse, physical abuse, prostitution, and starvation. At least now that I'm older I'm able to provide subsistence for myself because when I was younger and depending solely on my mother I would go without food for days.
Thanks to school, I get a hot meal every day. When it's not open, I use the coins I pick up to get a burger from the dollar menu at Micky D's. Or I help out at the corner store where Mr. Sharif pays me in food. The crackwhore as I sometimes call her use to get food stamps, but she gave them to the pimp, so they were never a benefit to us. Now I doubt that she's even getting them. She rarely leaves the apartment anymore; so she can't sign up for food stamp or any other government assistance that explains why we pretty much live in squalor. The last time, I saw her leave this cramp, dark space was a few months ago, and she's been in a drunken drugged out stupor ever since.
I'm not a religious person by any means. Why should I be, what God would allow a child of his to be born into such horrid conditions? But I can give thanks to him for the mind he has blessed me with because it has allowed me to come up with a way to escape this madness until I'm able to walk away…That is if I survive. I've gotten so good at getting lost in my head, I've been able to create an alternate universe so real that sometimes I don't know where Christian Morrison ends and Christian Grey begins.
Christian Grey is the alter ego I assumed around 4 or 5 after I bonded with Elliott Grey and learning from him about adoption. He was my first and only friend; we met when my mother worked briefly for his parents. Ella would take me to work with her, and I loved it because the house always smelled of cookies and Elliott's mom was so pretty and sweet. I remembered that Elliott had tons of toys, and even though he was a few years older than me he was patient and would willingly share them. One day he surprised me by giving me his favorite green hot wheel car that I still have to this day. It remains one of my most cherished pieces. It was the first time anyone had ever given me anything that didn't come from a garbage can or the streets.
As much fun, as it was spending time with Elliott, being surrounded by his parents, gave me the most joy, especially his mom. I wanted desperately to be part of the Grey family. When he explained to me about being adopted, I became obsessed with the idea of the Greys adopting me like they did him; born in their hearts. At that age, it seemed like the best thing in the world. To have someone love you so much that they chose you. I wanted that more than anything…Food or the air I breathe. Because I never felt loved by my mother, but more like an inconvenience that was thrusted upon her. So whenever we went to the beautiful house that smelled of cookies, I would be on my best behavior. In my child's brain, that's all it took, behave well enough, smile enough and look cute enough and the Greys would choose me. After all, I needed saving too just like Elliott. Alas like everything else in my life I ever wanted it was not to be. We just stopped going, and my mother never gave me an explanation; one minute they were in my life and puff they were gone. I blamed myself for not being perfect enough for the perfect family, and that's why my mommy and I couldn't go back. It affected me so much; in the end my self-loathing took over and I withdrew into myself refusing to talk. Sadly, it didn't concern my mother, to her it was a blessing. Unfortunately, this was a defining moment in my life, it was proof I was not good enough, and I never would be. Feelings I harbor until this day.
To help soothe my heartache and self-loathing, I made myself a de facto member of the Grey family creating an alternate universe where they chose me. Strangely when I escape to this place deep in the recesses of my mind, I'm not my age but older and successful beyond belief; a master of my universe type if you will. Someone every woman wanted and every man wanted to be like. Oddly I always saw a clear path to world domination, but never one that lead to a relationship with any of these adoring women. Ironically I was as socially inept in my alternate universe as I am in the real world.
This doesn't bother me because I'm incapable of having a relationship with a girl. Not because I'm gay, I wish it was that simple, but it's much more complicated. I hate being touched, because of the torture from the pimp. Hearing my mother with her Johns, has ruined sex for me but the biggest issue; the thought of having a girlfriend makes me violently ill. I don't why, but it does.
Regardless of my opinions, my classmates viewed me as odd, which is saying something since the student body is made up of mostly misfits and outcasts if you ask me. We're all from low-income families and is a racially diverse group. The white students were in the minority, but none of that mattered, we all came from so little we're equal despite our ethnic or religious backgrounds. We're all shunned by those who have more and can afford to attend a private school or the public schools in better neighborhoods.
In my household, we can't afford to buy food less more clothes. So I wear the same outfit every day; I just have to make sure I wash them at night in the bath tub. My hair is usually a disheveled mess that I cut myself but lucky for me it does nothing to detract from my good looks. The same God that blessed me with my mind blessed me with a face all the girls admired. I often wondered if they would feel the same way, if they knew how damaged I was inside. I'm not bothered by not having a girl in my life, to me they are all awkward looking except for Portia Mitchell.
She takes my breath away, but unlike the other girls on the campus she isn't swayed by my face. I doubt she knows I exist, but every chance I get I watch her. Her skin is the most beautiful shade of brown I've ever seen, with big doe brown eyes to match, and she keeps her hair in long braids. Reminiscent of the photos I've seen in National Geographic of the beautiful African Warrior Princesses. I'm not brave enough to approach her and even if I was brave it would be a waste of my time because Portia is way out of my league. She likes the upperclassmen, and I've only seen her with black boys. She stuck with her people. So a poor white boy like me didn't stand a chance with the regal African Warrior Princess, which is just as well because I would mess it up.
After summoning the courage to walk through the door, I place the small figure on the bed. I leave her in her baggy, dirty clothes, but I wipe her feet before sliding them under the thread worn sheets. I try to look away, but I can't help but push the brown hair that is covering her face behind her ear. The life she has lived has taken a toll on her appearance though she's barely over thirty; my mother looks like a woman much older. Here once, creamy skin is sallow, and the lines on her face are reminders of a troubled life lived. She's a shadow of the woman I remembered as a toddler. And maybe it's because I'm feeling sentimental, when I push the hair away from her face, I swear she smiled a heartwarming smile. For the briefest of moments, I saw the young woman hidden away from me. But as quickly as she appears, she disappears, and I'm left staring at the face of the woman who has been beaten down by her circumstances.
I know very little of my mother's life before me, except for the small tidbit she has shared with me on the rare occasion we've actually had a conversation and she was not high on something. She grew up in a middle-class family somewhere on the Eastern part of the US, for reasons unbeknownst to me she has never divulged where. From her accent, I think it's the Southeast. She was the eldest of two girls so with her mother and father she grew up in a household of four and from the last I've heard they are all still alive. And after 13 years with the woman that's sum of what I know of my grandparents and aunt. Which is fine because I've never yearned for them, that emotion was saved for my de facto family?
"Oh Ella. What happen to you?" I whisper the question that plagues me. How could someone go from living a middle-class existence to one filled with drugs and prostitution? Unfortunately, I doubt I will ever get the answer. My eyes scan the small room falling on the closet that haunts me in my dreams. My gaze is transfixed on it, as memories of my times in there come flooding back. It's dark, I'm scared and I can't stop crying despite the warnings from my mother to stay quiet. I want out because there are monsters in here. My thoughts are so vivid; I can feel my body stiffen as I think back on the options. The pimp and his cigarettes on the other side or the darkness with the monsters, then the sad realization settles in; the monsters are everywhere. So with no place to go I obey my mommy and stop crying like a big boy, instead close my eyes whimpering in silence for the monsters to stay away. The words play out in mind, they are in my small little boy voice and it feels like I've been transported back there again. My body visibly shaking, I end my trip down scary lane. I quickly move to turn off the shadeless lamp on the box masquerading as a bedside table before exiting the room quietly closing the door behind me.
Walking past the couch that is my bed, I make my way back to the shaky chair in front of the dreary Detroit sky; in order, to clear my mind before going to sleep. At night, an entirely different kind of element takes over the streets. As you can imagine we don't live in the best part of the city, so the sounds of cars screeching, trains roaring, bulletins flying and people yelling makes up the soundtrack of my life. So to help dull the sounds around me and the voices in my head, often I plug my found ear plugs into my found small radio that can only get one station. Which happen to be Classical? Until I found the radio, I had never heard of the music but once I heard Bach I knew I found my reason for existing. So when I need to sleep, think or hide, I put in my plugs and get lost in Bach, Beethoven, Mozart, and the rest of the masters. Though I've never played a piano or seen one in real life, I imagine my fingers gliding across the black and white keys as I play one of the tunes to perfection.
As much as I despise where we live, I'm happy we have a roof over our heads. If the landlord isn't threatening to throw us out, the city is threatening to condemn the building. I vacillate between caring and not caring because I'm old enough to take care of myself which is pretty much my goal.
I have my routine worked out to a science. I leave for school early enough to avoid the rift rafts and for the most part I'm home before the streets get too bad. This schedule doesn't allow time for me to participate in any extra curriculum activities which work for me; I have no friends and no desire to make any. I have my imagination, Bach and the others to keep me company. My dreaming wide awake is starting to turn into just plain dreaming so I decide to give into sleep and make my way to the lumpy, dirty sofa.
_The day started out like any other, but when my named is called over the speaker to come to the office I could feel it would be different. So as soon as the Principal has the words out of his mouth, I'm out the door. Not caring about gangs or any of the troublemakers, I rush to my mother's side. I'm not sure how I made it to hospital, but before I know it, I'm running down the hall to her room.
I've seen her passed out before, but she looks different lying in a hospital bed; at peace almost. I never saw her as part of my future plans and until now I never questioned that hypothesis. I'm ill prepared for this. Faced with the alternatives, I want her around.
"Christian," she says in a whisper, as she runs her fingers through my hair, and I revel in the feeling of the tips of her fingers against my scalp. I don't immediately move to lift my head from where I have it resting at her side because I don't want her to stop. But slowly I do, because I'm eager to meet her gaze for the first time in like forever. I want to confirm that she's okay. Did she suffer an overdose and someone found her on the street are the questions playing around in my head. Without knowing what brought her here, I already feel guilty for not being there for her. I'm always there for her, regardless of how much I resent it.
"You're awake," I state the obvious as I take her small hand in mine. It's taking a moment like this for us to have this intimate contact. For me to realize what I have. It's not much, but it has to be worth something.
"Oh I'm so glad you came," she says as she struggles to sit up in the bed. My mother's voice isn't colored by the booze or drugs so it sounds clear. It's music to my ear more beautiful than 'Transcriptions' by Bach.
"No, mom. You shouldn't be doing that. You're going to hurt yourself," I say horrified as she struggles to sit up in the bed.
"Hush Christian I'm fine, calm down. I have to. I want to be able to talk to you," she whispers and gives me a shy smile that blows me away, but it is also shielding something. How I've lived for that smile, I smirk to myself, and it's taken a hospital stay for me to get it finally. Everything I've wanted from my mother is playing out in front of me. I vow to myself that once I get her home I'm going to embrace this life with her and not live in the one in my head.
"I know I've never said this to you but I'm so proud of you. Hell let's face it I've never been sober long enough to say very much to you. But I am proud. You are my beautiful boy inside and out. That's why it slays me that you were forced to live in such a lowly existence. I've never deserved you," she says sincerely once she's in her desired position. Hearing her talk like this is starting to scare me. Where the hell is this coming from? I may want this, but this is not us.
"Stop. We don't do this kumbaya shit," I say more hostile than I intended. It's the fear and loss of control that's coming through. I don't know what's going on, and I feel lost.
"Maybe it's time that we did. You don't have to talk. But I need you to listen Christian. I haven't been up front with you. But you've probably figured that out because you're so smart. I'm sick," she says, and I can tell she's trying to keep the tears back. "No. I'm more than sick. I'm dying." I put my finger to her lips to silence to keep the words from leaving her mouth, but she wasn't having it. Summoning all her strengths, she pushed my finger away.
My mom was dying. Ella Morrison, crackwhore, was dying. She says the words calmly like she's telling me she's going to the store instead saying words that are killing me softly. Unsure of how to react, motionless I sit waiting for the words to sink in or to wake up from this nightmare I'm not sure which. Less than 24 hours ago I debated the pros and cons of her death, but now that it's a probability there are no pros to her dying. For the first time in a very long time, I'm speechless and unsure of how I'm supposed to feel.
"I'm not going to be with you much longer and the way I see it it's for the best. You will have a better life without me than you've ever had with me. Not because I didn't want to be a good mother, I didn't know how. So I'm going to do for you now, what I should've done for you when you were born," she says softly, as she cups my cheeks. I feel her wipe away a tear with the pad of her thumb that I didn't realize I had shed. "Don't cry baby," she whispers as she leans in to kiss me over my eyes. When I open them in the reflection, I see the tears streaming down her face now. She is so pretty, why I've never seen it before, boggles my mind. But I don't think I've ever seen her.
"I'm going to let you live with your father," she continues and I lose it.
"My father," I yell out, throwing her hand from my face to the bed. Quickly, the sentimental moment we just shared is forgotten by both us. "I've never heard you mention a father to me in my life. Now you expect me to go live with him. And how is that supposed to be better for me? When I'm sure he's probably worse than you are," I seethe. I regret the last part; as soon as, the words leave my mouth. That might have been my feelings 24 hours ago but not now.
"I guess I deserved that," she says reaching her arms out for me seeing that I've moved to the other side of the room. "But as it turns out the other thing I got right in my life aside from you is the man that is your father. I would like to be able to tell you we had a love story, but we didn't. I mean I had very strong feelings for him but he didn't feel the same way for me, but he's a good man. An exceptional man actually. You already know him." I stare at her and as the trail of pimps and Johns play out in my mind and the thought of one of them being my father is making me sick.
"What I'm going to tell you is going to blow your mind but I need you to hear me out. I have no need to keep it from you any longer, considering the situation," she says but I'm too busy pacing to hear her.
I guess I'm not the man I thought I was, after all because right now I don't want a dad, I want a mom. All I want to do is take her out of that bed back to that dirty, cramped apartment. Be damned a father, we've gotten along this long without one. We don't need anyone we have each other. I'm not a man; I'm a not even a big boy, I'm a little boy, and I want my mom. No, I want my mommy, but instead of telling her that I revert to what comes naturally in our family dynamics. I lash out at her.
"This is what you do. Leave. You always leave. When I need you - you leave. Maybe not physically but you always leave. You escape to the bottom of a bottle, the end of a needle or underneath a man. Either way you've never been available to me. When will it ever be my turn? When will I be your priority? When will you love me? Now when I need you most, you're about to leave me forever," I scream, and I can no longer keep them back. I'm bawling, and the sobs almost bring me to my knees.
"Christian, Christian, Christian," she calls to me and she looks gutted. "Come here." My mother's arms are open wide inviting me in and this time I don't hesitate I run into them.
"Baby. If I could. I would stay. And I'm sorry I couldn't be present for you, but you're my big boy…" I start to push out of her embrace, but she pulls me back in but not before I chastise her.
"Don't say that I hate it when you call me your big boy. I'm not." I sniffle, and she sighs taking in what I've said.
"Fair enough." That's it. Nothing more profound to acknowledge my admission. I sigh and lay my head on her chest to let her continue. "But as I was about to say, I'm going to make it up to you. You're going to live a life beyond your imagination," she says as she rubs circles on my back and kiss the top of my head.
"I doubt it," I whisper against the strands of her hair that I pulled to my nose. It's clean for a change. I guess they washed it when she arrived.
"Look at me," she says nudging me slightly on my shoulders so I can look at her. "I'm not coming home and I'm not leaving you. The one good thing coming out of this mess is this. We're coming to terms with each other. Now back to what I was saying." She drops her hands from my shoulders pausing before resuming to speak.
"Do you remember Elliott?" She asks taking me by surprise. What does Elliott have to do with this I wonder?
"Yes of course I do."
"Carrick Grey is your father." She blurts out like it's nothing.
How can she be so nonchalant about everything? I jump from my seat on the side of her bed. Speechless I stare her down. Is this her idea of a joke? Is this a game to her? Is she privy to my dreams? That's impossible because it's all in my head, I don't keep a diary and never have I shared any of it with her. I'm dumbfounded.
My mother's impending death is hitting me harder than I ever imagine it would and ironically the knowledge that Carrick Grey is my father is doing nothing to soothe the ache. The mother that I've prayed would just die already may actually die and the man I dreamed of one day being my dad may actually be my dad. I don't know what parallel universe this is, apparently the joke's on me. My whole life has been a lie, not just the one I lived in my head, but the one I lived out loud too.
"Say something," she pleads.
"Fuck you," I scream at her and she lets out an audible gasp as I storm out the door. I hear her calling to me, but I don't let it stop me this time. I've used some foul language in front of my mother, but I've never been so cruel. But I needed her to feel what I was feeling, and lashing out is the only way I know how to deal with any extreme feelings.
Outside I let the snow hit my face as I try to take in the bombshell my mom has just leveled on me. As if dying wasn't enough, she had to top it by naming Carrick Grey of all people, as my father. So my dreams could come true, I could be Christian Grey instead of Christian Morrison. Then why I am not celebrating in the streets? It's what I've always wanted. But not like this. It wasn't supposed to happen like this. She always destroying everything for me. They were supposed to choose me not have me forced upon them. I wanted to be born in their hearts, now this situation mirrors what happened to my mother. I was forced on her; that's why she could never love me. They will never love me.
My jacket isn't thick enough to keep the cold at bay, so I walk to the coffee house next to the hospital. I pull out the saved coins and buy a muffin. It's not enough for a coffee too, so I settle for a paper cup to use for the free water at the end of the counter. Since we rarely have food at home, I can get by on little.
I look outside and notice that the daylight has turned into darkness, so I decide to suck it up and go back to my mom's room. I didn't realize I had been gone for so long, but the time away from her has done me good. I've had time to let her words marinate so now I'm ready to hear what she has to say. Though I can't imagine what she's going to say that would make sense to me. Carrick Grey is married to Dr. Grey a woman as close to Godliness as you can get on earth, so I don't see him straying to have an affair with the likes of my mother. And if he did she's has trampled on my idea of the perfect father figure, thus tainting the notion of the Greys being the perfect family. However, this time I will give her a chance to explain before blowing up.
I filled the cup with water one last time, before stepping into the cold brisk air. There's an ominous feeling when I'm back in the hospital. I think nothing of it, I chalk it up to the hospital setting and press the button for the elevator. Nonchalantly I step off the cold box and start to lazily make my way down the hall towards my mother's room, but the scene unfolding in front of me catches me off guard. Drs and Nurses are walking out of her room one by one with their heads down looking solemn and furiously removing gloves from their hands.
"Mommy," I scream out as I pick up my pace bolting toward the room. The paper cup I'm holding slips out of my hand crashing to the floor leaving a small poodle of water in my wake. But I could care less, I need to get to my mom. One of the nurses spots me and waits for me at her doorway. The wait isn't long because I'm there in less than two seconds
"Are you her son?" She asks but I'm too busy breathing hard, screaming and fighting as I try desperately to make my way past her to answer. "Answer me," she demands as a male nurse comes over to help her control me.
"Yes," I finally get out breathing harder.
"I'm sorry young man but she…your mother has passed away." The nurse hesitates, but the words leave her mouth and despite the two hands at either side of my shoulders the words cause my knees to buckle and I collapse to the floor. The tears are streaming hot and heavy down my face as my cries get caught in my throat so when I open my mouth nothing comes out. The anguish is deep in my gut and when the sounds do finally reach the surface it's a howling so intense it hurts my ears. Lying limply in the arms of the female nurse on the floor with me I bury my head in the crook of her arms as she cradles me. No matter how hard she tries, my body won't stop shaking, nor will the sounds coming from my body. I don't recognize the young man on the floor, I've never felt such intense emotions.
When she said dying, I never dreamed she meant now…Today. How could've I've anticipated that she would deteriorate so fast? I thought I had time with her. If I'm truly honest with myself, I never thought it would actually happen. She's escape death so often. I had seen her in worse shape, and she always woke up. This time she was wide awake, so how could've I've foreseen today was the day. Overlooking the obvious, if I had stayed I would've have known. How did I let her die alone, I was so close yet it might as well have been a life-time away.
"All I want is to go home. Let me take her home. She's okay. She's asleep. I know how to take care of her. She'll wake up. My Mommy always wakes up," I plead. My voice so hoarse I'm not sure she heard me. My throat is raw, I can't talk any louder. She continues rocking me in her arm like a baby and I make no move to get up.
"Not this time. I'm sorry," she says trying to fight back her own tears. "Is there someone I can call for you?" She asks. This time her voice is steadier and firmer.
"No. She's all I have," I sniffle, I as I begin to pull myself together. "Can I see her? I just want to see her one last time?" The tears are still falling and voice still hoarse, but I'm in more control of my emotions.
"Are you sure you're okay to see her?" I nod my head and she starts to lift taking me with her.
"Okay then. Let me help you up. I'll go in with you," she says as we rise together. I look up, and I see her signal to the male nurse and he steps back to the desk.
We walk through the door of the cold, sterile room together, but nurse stays back giving me my privacy. Slowly I make my way to the bed holding the woman lying there so peacefully. It is then that I realize this time is different. She isn't passed out because she ended up at the losing end of a bottle. Her expression isn't tortured, it's peaceful she has a death afterglow if that makes sense. In an ironic twist of fate, she looks for more alive in death than she ever did living. A youthfulness has return to her face, her skin looks flawless, and the stress of 30 years of hard living is gone.
Silently I stand over the bed taking her in. The only coherent thought running through my mind is that she's lied to me again and she left me. Irrational I know. When in a cruel twist of fate, I'm the one, who left her when she needed me most.
"Christian?" The nurse calls to me and I avert my gaze from my mother's body.
"This is for you. Another nurse handed it to me. She said your mother asked her to give it to you in case of her death." She steps in further to hand it to me, and I meet her half way. I take the note from her before walking to a chair in the corner. Feeling the need to be alone when I read it, I let the nurse watching over me know it was okay for her to leave. Reluctantly she exits. Finally alone, I open the letter, and the script is in my mother's shaky handwriting. She must have been pretty weak when she wrote it.
Christian,
If you're reading this letter, it means that I've gone to a better place at least I hope. But considering my life on earth hell is a better place which is good because that is where I will end up for sure. Enough about me. You wanted my attention well now you have it. You're my beautiful, smart and wise son. I could never live or die enough lifetimes to make up for the shitty life I gave you. Selfishly I thought it was going to be me, and you against the world and it would be an adventure. I was too young to realize the consequences of my decision when I decided to keep you instead of letting you go with your father. I was too young and naïve to understand the cold reality of life. I don't have enough time or energy to tell you how I fell into such a miserable life of abuse but please know I was not on drugs or selling my body when I got pregnant with you. I was a typical teenager living an ordinary life.
Carrick Grey is your father and no he was never my John, in case the thought is still in that head of yours. He was a business associate of my father and I seduced him when he came into town for a business trip. I convinced him I was of age, so please don't think poorly of him. We only had sex once, but he did visit with me whenever he came into town. Like the naïve girl I was, I thought he loved me and would leave his wife for me? That is why I left home and traveled to Detroit. That's when I found out he disappeared because he was afraid of being accused of sleeping with a minor. So, needless to say, when I told him I was pregnant he was not happy. He threatened to take you from me and raise you with his wife never letting her know the truth. That sent me into a tailspin, so I backed down because with his money I knew I would lose and I didn't want to lose my baby.
Despite his initial anger, for a while he did feel sorry for me and convinced his wife to let me work for them. But then he saw that I was getting too close to him, so he had me fired and took his family away from Detroit. Though I later heard it was because his wife got a job in Seattle. The reason doesn't matter, it sent me further into my downward spiral.
When I found out I was sick, I took what little money I had and tracked him down online and explained to him the situation. Through some miracle, he and his wife have agreed to take you in. Baby I know you're mad at me but please don't squander this opportunity. Please let me do for you what I couldn't do when I was alive. You have a chance to have a real home, with a real mom and dad and real siblings. Don't mess it up,
Mommy
When I'm done, I crumble the paper up and let it fall to the floor as I stand to my feet. Even in the face of death she can't say it. She wrote a long note, with a lot of words but never mentioned the three words that mattered to me…I love you. Sure she loved him, but not me. If she had put it down on paper, maybe I could make sense out of this. Her death would have meant something, now it's in vain. She lost her last remaining chance to make up to me what she never gave me.
The only love I ever felt was what I created in my head, but it wasn't tangible. In the dark recesses of my mind, it was a perfect escapism, but it was my imagination. And now it's ruined. She destroyed the foundation. It was supposed to stay in my head where I could protect it; there was no way the two worlds were supposed to collide. Yet this is exactly what is about to happen. I feel like I'm in the Twilight Zone. Regardless of her intentions, she has wrecked it for me. I wasn't supposed to be forced upon them like I was with her. They were supposed to choose me. Otherwise, I'm in the same predicament…Unwanted and unloved.
Solemnly I walk out the room prepared to make my way back to my prison cell now my apartment but I am not ready to leave her just yet. So I turn on my heels to go back into the room where I shove the chair choosing to kneel where I can rest my head on my folded arms at her side. Small sobs escape me as I try to feel the closeness of my mother for the last time. In the short time, her body has begun to go cold, any signs of warmth gone. I'm still finding it hard to process, but the rigor mortis that's starting to set in confirms what I don't want to believe…She's dead. It's all starting to make sense. Her drunkenness, the rapid weight loss and I missed it because I was too busy seeing the worse of her.
"Why couldn't you love me? All I wanted was your love. That would've been enough. You were enough. I'm alone. I'm scared." My voice is small; once again I'm that little boy in that dark closet. This time I'm surrounded by the monsters. The thought is troubling. Considering my mother's pension for everything that was bad for her, the thought of being without her was never far from my mind. So I told myself I was indifferent about the prospect. In reality, I am not I loved this woman flaws and all, but I will never forgive her and I will work to my dying days to forget her. I bury my head at her side while the tears come to a trickle, and I hear a man's voice behind me. I haven't heard it in ages, but I know who it belongs too without looking.
"Christian," he calls again and I hold my head up before rising slowly to my feet. Standing I turn and soon I come face to face with Carrick Grey, my father. Even in the distance, he looks the same and so does his wife Mrs. Grey, who is standing next him dabbing her eyes with a white napkin.
He's looking at me awkwardly, as his wife makes the first move towards me. She steps in front of him, and it is then that I realize the napkin is actually a handkerchief. The closer she gets, the more her face comes into focus and I can see her red-rimmed eyes. A sign that she's been crying for a while, and I know her motherly instincts are kicking in because she reaches for me, but I have to stop her. Taken aback she freezes, and her face is crestfallen as Mr. Grey comes to her side.
"Sorry lady welcome to my world," I chuckle to myself. It's a nervous laughter that does nothing to cut through the pain that's filling my chest.