Blame
You could not believe your eyes when you saw him in the Operations Room that day. There he was, standing in front of you after all these years with a big, cheeky smile on his face. He had his father's brown eyes, they were gleaming. You remember walking over to him; you remember thinking what a fine looking young man he had become; and, you remember wondering what the hell to do, whether it was motherly appropriate to hug him or not. You eventually did hug him, and suddenly everything seemed to be just right with the world.
Yet that world came crashing back down with a loud thud when you found out that he was using heroin. Out of all the problems he could have come back with, it just had to be frigging drugs, you thought. It was the one problem you could not get your head around. The one problem you wanted to ignore and avoid at all costs, until it went away. But, it only got worse as you pushed it away; pushed him away.
You are the reason he is like this; you are the only one to blame, a voice inside your head keeps saying. It is all your fault. He is your flesh and blood, and you should never have let him go to New York. If he had stayed in Melbourne, maybe, just maybe, he would not be a… junkie. You hate that word – 'junkie' – it always reminds you of when you were a young constable walking along the rough streets of Springvale in the early '90s. Every second or third person you came across was a drug addict, but you did not know them personally, so to you, they were 'junkies'. Your son though, is a drug addict, not a junkie.
There was an angry feeling hiding within that continued to haunt you with every breath and step you took, but you know you can't let it out. You can't because no one would understand, it's your weakness. What would they know anyway? This struggle was no one's but your own. Only you could deal with this. What would your own mother do, you thought, before swearing at yourself for even thinking about it. Some bloody mother she was. You though, you wanted to be different. You wanted to be a better mother to James.
'The jury is still out on that one,' you told yourself, immersed in constant, nagging thoughts.
Work was a relief, a big relief. It was the one thing you were good at, you knew how to be a police officer. Yet every instinct you had about the job, about the whole world, went out the window when he finally admitted to doing drugs. He finally told you after he was bashed by his dealer. Bashed, beaten, bruised. Did he not trust you?
Out of everyone at work, the person who caught you buying drugs for James just had to be bloody Lawson. It was your luck, or lack of rather. He was so ridiculously righteous, something you liked to think you were, but knew, secretly, that sometimes it was just not always possible. He however, was at your door in a flash, asking what was going on. You wanted him to leave, keeping quiet, but he was persistent that you finally told him about your drug-addicted son.
When he left, taking one last look at a sleeping James, you relaxed tense muscles. It actually felt okay to tell someone, even if it was Mr I'm-so-right-all-the-time: Lawson Blake. You meant every word of it too, you were going to get help for James, no matter how hard. No matter what cost.
But the blame was still under the surface.
It was always going to be there.