Sundays Will Never Be The Same
He'd been sitting in the empty room for almost two hours. It was dim and quiet. His eyes stared forward at the stack of cartons and the framed artwork that he'd removed from the walls earlier, but he wasn't really seeing anything. He was lost in his thoughts and overcome by his feelings. He wondered how he could simultaneously be feeling so much, yet feel numb.
He tried to convince himself that he was all cried out.
I thought my life sucked when I believed I knew who my father was. All these years, and she wasn't even sure. She cheated on my dad. Does that make her just as bad? For some reason, my mind says 'no.' For some reason, I can't stop myself from thinking 'he had it coming.'
So now I have two choices from the gene pool: the serial abusive adulterer/gambler/alcoholic... or the serial rapist and killer. You sure could pick 'em Mom.
He was surprised when he found himself chuckle at the thought.
X X X
When he was finally ready to leave, one of the Center's male orderlies helped Bobby carry the boxes and pictures to his car. He went back to her room to give it one last 'once over' to make sure he hadn't forgotten anything. He felt his eyes well up when he looked at the bed -cold and industrial looking -stripped of its sheets and of the frail and feisty woman who used to occupy it. At least she got her wish. She wanted to be out of the hospital -back here at Carmel Ridge, the place she'd come to know as 'home' to live out her last days.
Bobby stepped to the doorway and flicked the light switch off. What'll I do with myself on Sundays now? he asked himself.
X X X
When he got in his car, he had no pre-set destination. He just wanted to drive and think and adjust to the idea of his mother being gone. He was surprised at how empty he felt -no father, no mother and, now that Frank knew that there was no big inheritance coming his way to gamble or drink away, Bobby was fairly certain he wouldn't be seeing his big brother anytime soon.
His conscience told him he was driving aimlessly, but his sub-conscience or, more accurately, his heart, was leading him to the place he wanted to be: to the woman who had stood by him, taken care of him, loved him and comforted him countless times before.
When he pulled into the driveway and parked, it hadn't even occurred to him to check the time. (It was 2:25 a.m.)
He rang the doorbell and waited.
When the door opened, she greeted him with a sad and sympathetic look.
"Come in, Bobby," she invited softly, then followed him to the living room.
When they sat side by side on the sofa and she began to gently rub his back, it brought forward a flood of emotion. He turned to her and fell into her embrace as another wave of mournful sobbing overtook him.
"It's okay, sweetie. Let it out," she softly encouraged him, while stroking his hair and massaging his back in small circles.
Lewis' mother comforted him for the rest of the night.
THE END