1997
His feet swing wildly against the chair, and the hand against his knee tightens its grip in order to make him stop. He shifts his gaze from the blank sheet of paper in front of him to the teacher squatting beside him, and he eyes her wearily as she takes in his lack of progress.
"Don't you want to draw a nice picture for your mom?" The teacher questions softly as she taps her fingers against the blank sheet on paper on his desk. "How about you use her favorite color?"
He shrugs his shoulders in response because he doesn't know how to tell her that he doesn't know his mom let alone know her favorite color. But the teacher takes his disinterest in stride rather accustomed to the way he never seems eager to join in the activities that excite the others in her classroom.
"Charles," the teacher says, "remember how we read the story about the bird looking for his mommy that you liked? Can you draw a picture of the bird?"
And the little boy relents, picks the black marker out of the pile on his desk, and begins to draw the little bird that went looking for his mommy because his teacher's suggestion sounds reasonable, because a little lost bird looking for his mommy seems like a good addition to the card he is being asked to make.
He outlines the shape of the bird in black, colors the feathers in with orange, and he signs the space under the bird with five letters. But he does not add the hearts his classmates are using on theirs and when the school day ends, he shoves the card into the bottom of the folder tucked in his backpack and heads out to find his best friend in the courtyard of the school.
"Wanna come over and play?"
"I have to go home," Nate replies with a shrug. "My dad and I are doing something for my mom."
Chuck shrugs in response because he tells himself he doesn't care, and he heads towards the limo waiting out front for him. His backpack is thrust into Arthur's hands as his chauffer inquires about his day, as he climbs into the limo and retrieves his abandoned GameBoy from where he left it earlier that morning.
"No Mister Archibald tonight?" Arthur asks because Chuck had mentioned that his friend was going to spend the night.
Chuck just shrugs his reply rather than face the fact that Nate couldn't come, just concentrates on playing his game alone. The drive back to the Palace is conducted in silence, and he exits just as soon as the limo is double parked in a loading zone, trudges up through the lobby with Arthur on his heels. His backpack is dropped without care and with a thud in the entrance to the suite he shares with his father, and it falls on Arthur to pick up his abandoned backpack.
"Mister Bass, don't you need to do something with this?" Arthur asks as he holds out the backpack to his employer's son.
"That's Elsa's job," Chuck replies saucily as he heads towards his bedroom, knowing full well that Elsa has taken on a different role in the Bass household. The Swedish nanny left with the elder Mister Bass on his business trip two nights ago, and both Arthur and Chuck know she won't be returning with him to empty Chuck's backpack and order him an afterschool snack. This isn't the first time this has happened and it probably won't be the last.
"I'm going to call room service," Chuck informs his chauffer and, at least for the last two nights, his nanny. He doesn't offer to order Arthur anything but he doesn't really need to because their orders are the same – two éclairs and a glass of milk each. And when Chuck disappears into his bedroom to make the call, Arthur unzips the backpack in his hand and pulls out the content.
The folder with Chuck's schoolwork is set aside; the white piece of paper on top blank and waiting for someone to forge Bart Bass' signature saying he saw his son's schoolwork for the week. Arthur pulls out the only other item in the backpack, pulls out a pilfered book Chuck could afford to buy but couldn't stand to leave behind. His fingers trace over the letters on the hardcover of the book, begin flipping through the pages of pictures and simple text, but the sound of the suite door opening causes Arthur to push the book back inside Chuck's backpack.
"Mister Bass," he greets. "We weren't expecting you until tomorrow."
"Finished up my acquisition early," Bart says after instructing the bellhop where to place his bags. "The owner was quick to give in to my demands."
"Very good, sir," Arthur replies. "And I guess you won't need me to watch the younger Mister Bass tonight?"
"Where's the—" Bart begins to ask, and then dismisses his own question as he verbally reminds himself to call the nanny service tonight to hire a new one. He dismisses Arthur for the evening, heads towards the spot where the chauffer had been standing, and begins to pour himself a drink when his gaze lands on the folder with the piece of paper attached for his signature.
He flips it open, flicks through the papers with average grades written on top in red pen before his hands still on the folded piece of construction paper with three words written on top. He reads the words once, twice, flipping open the card to see the crudely drawn picture of a small bird inside.
"Hello, Father," a smaller voice bids from the doorway of his bedroom. Yet rather than turning and greeting his son, he holds the card out and demands to know what exactly the card is and why Chuck has one.
"It's a Mother's Day card," Chuck informs his father, picking his backpack up off the floor where Arthur abandoned it in his departure. "We made them in school."
"I know that you made it in school. But why do you have one?"
"To give to my mom," Chuck replies as though the answer is the most obvious in the world. But Bart shakes his head, rejects Chuck's answer with a malicious reply of his own.
"Charles, I told you. You don't have a mother."
"Everyone has a mother."
"Not you," Bart snaps back, tired of his son's impertinent rejection of what he has told him time and time again. "Your – your mother died."
The lie slips out easily and Bart thinks he might finally be done with this conversation as his son's face falls. But Chuck keeps pushing, emphatically rejects his father's claim as he asserts that his mother can't be dead.
"She is, Chuck," Bart says. "She died giving birth to you. She's not around because of you."
Chuck's mouth forms a small 'o' in surprise, in bewilderment over what his father has told him, and Bart feels just the smallest sliver of guilt as Chuck's eyes fill with tears. But the little boy jerks away when Bart reaches towards him, takes off to his bedroom, and slams the door behind him. And rather than going after his son, Bart pours himself a glass of his chosen alcoholic drink and drops the unnecessary card into the trashcan under the bar.
Behind closed doors and in the sanctuary of his bedroom, Chuck drops his backpack on the floor and prepares to hide amongst the pillows on his large bed. But the hardback book slides out of the unzipped backpack, slides out onto the floor to stare up at him, and his eyes read over the title, look at the little bird trying to talk to the sleeping dog on the front cover.
He angrily kicks the book under his bed because stories about little birds finding their mommies are stupid and pointless and not worth Chuck Bass' time. Because he's never going to be that little bird; because he's never going to have a mom to exclaim over how perfect his drawing of her favorite animal on her Mother's Day card is.
2017
The hand against the nape of his neck tightens its grip, and the fingers that somehow seem to be perpetually sticky pull painfully against the hair there. He shifts his arm, jostles the little boy back into a secure position as holds open the card for his son's perusal. His father prepares to read the words written in cursive aloud to him, but the little boy looks it over and immediately pushes the card away.
"No pictures," he says sadly as he drops his head down to his father's shoulder.
His father sighs, replaces the card into its designated slot, and selects another one off the shelf. He reads over the words quickly, grimaces over how flowery the language is yet holds the card out as an option because this one at least has pictures and he is rapidly burning his way through the offerings at this store.
"What about this one, Henry?"
"Mommy's favorite color is blue," Henry reminds his father solemnly.
The older man jams the card back into its slot in frustration, and his eyes sweep over the selections he and Henry have picked through already. Some have pictures of flowers, most have a poetic line or two, and all have the three words required of them, but there is not a single blue card in the bunch. Chuck gestures to one of the purple cards, but Henry shakes his head and rejects the suggestion.
"Card not for you."
"You have to pick something," his father advises him.
He has tried to make this little shopping excursion, and he had every expectation that a Sunday afternoon outing with his son would be enjoyable. But a meltdown over the selection of peonies at the flower shop and Henry's consternation over the cards is starting to grate on every one of Chuck's incredibly patient nerves. The little boy looks over the selection once more, turns his head to look out over his father's shoulders to the parts of the store they haven't visited yet, and then he wiggles emphatically in his father's arms.
"Down," Henry demands. His father fights him for a moment but gives up after Henry's foot slams forcefully into his knee. He sets Henry down on the ground with a groan and prepares to admonish Henry for his behavior when his son turns away from his father and takes off in a run.
"Henry," Chuck snaps, chasing after the quick little boy as he darts from one aisle to the next. His heart pounds loudly in his ears as he frantically searches down each aisle for his son. "Henry, come back here!"
He finds Henry standing in the middle of the aisle closest to the front door, and his heart is beating so wildly that he can barely hear himself uttering his little boy's name in anger and frustration and happiness as he reaches him. Henry turns to his father and offers him a smile with small hands clutching the key to his idea.
"I make card for Mommy," the little boy says as he holds out a piece of blue paper to his father. "Then it will be perfect."
"Henry, you can't run away like that," Chuck replies as he crouches down to Henry's level. Brown eyes level with brown eyes, and the smaller set fall and fill with sadness at the tone of his father's voice. "Remember what I said about when we go shopping? You have to hold mine or Mommy's hand at all times."
"But I knew where the paper was," Henry protests. "Mommy and I came here and I saw it."
"And you should have told me that's what you wanted to look at. We could have held hands and come over here together to look at the paper together."
His little boy contemplates his father's reply, and he looks sadly at the paper in his hands. Chuck reaches out and tips Henry's chin so he has no choice but to look his father directly in the eyes once more as Chuck makes sure his son understands the rules.
"I'm sorry, Daddy," Henry says as he falls into his father's arms. "I was a bad boy."
Chuck accepts his apology, returns it with a tender hug and a reminder that Henry was not a bad boy but made a bad choice in order to mollify Henry's tears. The little boy steps out of his father's embrace after a moment, and Chuck's large hands clasp around Henry's little shoulders in order to hold the little boy still.
"Now show me this paper," Chuck instructs. Henry holds up the piece of light blue stationary for his father's admiration, and he gives the little boy a smile at his selection because the paper is the perfect shade of blue for Henry's mother. "And you want to make Mommy a card?"
"Yeah. I can draw pictures on it. Mommy likes my pictures," Henry reminds his father with an eager nod of his head. Original works of art by Henry are hung throughout the Bass home, at the atelier, and in Chuck's office at Bass Industries, and Chuck cannot help but protest Henry's assertion that only Mommy likes his pictures.
"Silly Daddy," Henry says with a giggle. "This card is for Mommy."
"Okay, fine," Chuck says with a pretend huff of acceptance. "And what else would you put on there?"
"I can write my name," the little boy replies excitedly. "And you can help me write the other words, okay?"
"I'll help you write the other words," Chuck promises. He looks at the piece of paper in Henry's hand, looks at the shelves filled with markers and paints beside them. "Do you need anything else to make this card?"
Henry considers his father's offer, ponders over his arts and crafts supply at home as he taps his fingers against his chin in quiet contemplation. And then he shakes his head no and verbally replies that he just needs the blue paper. Chuck smiles, stands up from bended knees, and offers Henry his hand. The little boy takes it happily and starts to pull his father towards the cashier when Chuck pauses and his eyes dart towards the single set of blue paper in Henry's hand. He snags a couple more sheets off the shelf and holds them tightly in his free hand before escorting his little boy towards the counter.
"Just in case," Chuck says when his son asks him why the need the extras. The little boy takes after his mother in some regards, and pictures that are not perfectly drawn or perfectly colored in the lines often times end up in a crinkled ball on the floor despite his parents' assurance to the contrary that the works of art are lovely. And Henry just nods his head at his father's decision before dragging Chuck to the cashier to complete the purchase.
The transaction is completed quickly, and the two Bass men begin to make their way back to the Bass family townhouse. The walk is not a particularly long one but little legs tire out quickly when attempting to match the strides of their father's, and Chuck enters the townhouse holding Henry in his arms. Dorota meets them at the top of the stairs on the second floor, exclaims over Henry's selection at the stationary store as the little boy eagerly explains what he plans to do.
"I'm sure Mommy will love your card, Mister Henry," Dorota promises. The maid smiles at her youngest charge and then looks at the amused face of her employer who had been watching this exchange. "And I'm sure Daddy is happy to have Mommy home tonight."
"Very happy," Chuck replies because as much as he loves spending time with Henry, ten days without Blair is tantamount to torture. He had nearly given into his desire to pack up Henry and fly to Guangzhou four days ago, but Henry's schedule and the quarterly Bass Industries board meeting kept him grounded in Manhattan. "Less than one hour to go."
"We have to hurry, Daddy," Henry exclaims as he clamors to be let down. He takes the bag from the stationary store out of his father's hands when he set down on the ground, and Henry immediately begins to head towards the living room.
"Mister Henry, why not color on kitchen table?"
"I wanna use my easel," he explains, pointing towards the gift from his Grandpa Harold and Roman currently assembled in the living room.
"You can't use paint in the living room," Chuck reminds him sternly. But Henry just shrugs as he pulls one sheet of paper out of the bag and props it up on the easel. He pulls one of the markers out the tray of the easel, pulls off the cap with an exaggerated show of force. "What are you going to draw on the card, Henry?"
"A butterfly," the little boy calmly explains before adding, "That's Mommy's favorite animal. She said so."
His father cannot help but smile at his response, and Dorota tries and fails to mask her laughter because they both know what butterflies mean to Blair and her winged obsession isn't as innocent as Henry makes it sound to be. But the little boy ignores them as he concentrates on his drawing, on creating another masterpiece his mother will certainly love, and Chuck and Dorota return to discussing their plans for Blair's return from China tonight.
"Oh, no," Henry exclaims as he rips the paper off the easel and throws it to the floor. His butterfly lies forlorn on the carpet and lopsided on the paper, and he angrily pulls another sheet of paper out of the bag. He props it against the easel and begins to draw his picture once more as his father steps away from the maid and comes to stand beside him.
"It's okay to make mistakes, Henry," Chuck reminds him as he ruffles his little boy's hair. "Mommy will love the card no matter what."
"I just wanna do a good job," Henry replies as his tongue darts out between his lips, as his eyes narrow in concentration. He completes the outline of another wing, caps the black marker, and uncaps the orange marker to fill in the coloring of the butterfly's wing.
"You will," his father promises him as he takes a seat in the couch beside his son's easel. Chuck watches as antennas are added to the butterfly's body and spots are added to the butterfly's wing, as the butterfly begins to take shape on the page. And then five letters are written below the butterfly, written with a meticulously drawn heart in front of them.
"Can you help me?" Henry asks, gesturing to the space he has saved on the front of the card. Chuck nods, reaches for the marker in Henry's hand, but the little boy pulls it away, exclaiming that he wants to write the words himself.
"I know," Chuck replies. "I'm just going to write it out so you can copy it."
The little boy relents, hands over the market so his father can write out the three words he wants to add to the paper Henry discarded to the floor. The letters are written bold and large, and the paper is propped against the easel for Henry to stare at as he copies them onto the front of the card.
His copying is meticulous and Henry as nearly finished when the sound of the front door opening, the sound of bags being dropped onto the marble floors rise up to the second floor. And then a feminine voice instructs Arthur on what to do with the bags and high heels clack on the stairs and the little boy drops his uncapped marker onto the floor as he takes off running.
"Mommy!" Henry screams and shouts in delight as his mother drops down and gathers him in her arms. Kisses are placed all over his face, and the little boy giggles at the unrelenting attention his mother showers upon him.
"Oh, Henry," Blair muses in his ear. "I missed you."
"I missed you, too," Henry replies as he squirms out of his mother's embrace. She stands and her husband brushes the softest of kisses against her cheek as he muses in her ear about how he missed her most of all. And Henry uses the moment of playful banter between his parents to escape back to his easel, to collect his piece of artwork only to thrust it towards his mother in an unceremonious gesture.
"What's this?" Blair asks. Her eyes dart over the words written on the front of the card, and she smiles as she reads them, as she opens the card and sees the butterfly drawn on the page. She sinks down to hug her little boy once more, to offer him all the love and affection she hasn't been physically around to pass along. "Thank you, Henry. This is beautiful."
"Happy Mother's Day, Mommy."