Chapter Thirty-Seven: Where Do We Go From Here?
Reno always made it easy to forget his toxic home life. He pushed any inquiries away by pinning me under him and silenced any potential questions with his lips on mine. And I was too engrossed with him that I didn't bother to push the subject. But even when he refused to speak on his homelife, the hints would rear their head occasionally..
The weekend after Sephiroth's accident, back in January, which feels like decades ago, one such clue appeared. Everyone still on high alert, many parents grounded their children that weekend or enacted curfews. Reno and I seemed like the only two who bypassed the panic. My parents only acknowledgement was asking if I had been at the party- and when I lied and said of course not, they bought it. And why wouldn't they? When they had left that Saturday, Reno and I were "playing video games" in my room. And when they woke up the next day, Reno and I were still "playing video games." They just assumed we spent nearly twenty four hours playing Mortal Kombat. So, when Reno showed up the following Friday afternoon after school, they had no objections. Even took him out to dinner with us to Deninos and let us rent a bunch of horror movies from Blockbuster. Neither one of them bat an eye when they turned in for the night and he was still sitting on my bed with me.
We had a system. My parents could give a shit- his parents, he thought, might throw a fit if they wake up and he's not home. We would stay up till all hours of the night- never an issue, when our lips were tasting every part of exposed skin and we stifled moans of pleasure in pillow cases or our own fists. And once we finished, lay in each other's arms tracing imaginary paths on his milky white skin, while he continued to find reason to stay. And when the darkness outside began to lighten, he would find the motivation to hop back over the fence, climb up a perfectly placed arbor, and tumble through his open window. While I watched shaking my head at his recklessness.
It was a good system.
But this particular night, we ended up falling asleep during Island of the Dead, and we were woken up by the rumble of plows traveling up and down our road. My head on his still clothed chest, legs thrown over his. A winter glow leaking into the window through the crack in the closed curtains and when my eyes adjusted to the new morning light, I watched as flurries cascaded down the glass. Adding to the mysterious magic of waking up still in his arms. And I was so captivated by the scene-the warmth as his hand snuck underneath my shirt to touch my hip, high off his smell- that it took me about ten seconds to register the obvious daylight outside. And I sat up with such force, it jarred him awake.
Shit, I cursed.
I remember him blinking a few times, confused, before following my eyes to the window and jumping up himself. Fuck!
We both scramble off the bed like roaches. And I remember the inward panic that one or both my parents came to check on us and found us in that compromising position. That gave way to straight up terror when I caught sight of the red numbers on the cable box screaming eight am in our faces. His parents woke up at the crack of dawn. If they looked into his room and found him missing, at that hour...I was sure we were found out either way. But we were too stricken with alarm- particularly how we are going to sneak him out of this house- to take a step back. Analyze the situation. And merely look at his phone for missed calls.
We crept downstairs. My dad outside shoveling the blanket for snow that dumped overnight and my mother a mystery, but I swept the downstairs to be sure. Once the first obstacle cleared, we went through the basement side entrance. His idea to climb the fence and try to use the piling snow to his advantage. We broke through the freezing cold, him in just his leather jacket and my hoody, me in just a long sleeve thermal, trying not to freeze to death as we walked through white power up to our calfs.
We heard the sounds of a joyful child and we paused. My whole form just stalled- heart, mind, limbs. I mumbled a tense shit and looked at him- but his face no longer strung with anxiety at getting caught.. His eyes narrowed to two perfect slits. Air hanging in the air from two just slightly parted lips. He stood there, listening to his brother playing in the snow, throwing constructed balls at the fence. A female voice with a thick Russian accent shouted at him from somewhere in his yard.
Then, he nodded like something dawned on him and pulled out his phone.
I called him crazy as he ran over his mother's contact and hit call.
She answered after four rings with an unsure hello?
"Sup birth giver," he sassed, "where y'all at?"
She rattled off something quickly I couldn't catch and he just shook his head. "Cool stuff." I leaned in- which was probably rude but Reno never moved away, instead lifted his phone from his ear so I could hear.
"What are your plans for today?" She asked in a tone that seemed disingenuous, and I could hear the sounds of people in the background.
"Oh, probably just hang out with Rude. You know."
She rushed him off the phone. Hanging up with no other updates. No I'll see you soon. Or I love you. Just an okay and emptiness of a disconnected phone. He flipped his closed, shoving it back in his pocket.
"They're at the Shinra's. Some fundraiser happening today," he told me, not bothering to control the volume of his voice, "They had no idea I was gone all night."
Reno turned to face me, hands shoved in his pocket, but he struggled to look me in the eye. His expression blank. Yet, agitated. Gentle shakes of his head as he replayed the conversation. Finally settling on a dejected sigh that blows in the wind. We realized there had been no reason to panic and rush out of bed in the early hours. My parent's continued to be willfully ignorant to the happenings of their only child while his...I guess couldn't really care less about him unless it directly affected them.
He was a prop.
And that realization smacked him in the face.
Before he could really stew in that knowledge, I presented the idea-since no one really cared what we did- to go to the deli and grab some sandwiches. And come back home to continue watching terrible horror movies, and play the Call of Duty we rented, and not worry about our parents for the rest of the day-
And he agreed without hesitation.
And when we walked back towards my house, he said simply
You gonna get sick of me eventually...
And this time I shook my head.
I could never be sick of you.
And I meant it then, and I mean it now. His place should be with people who care about where he wakes up in the morning…
Who want him. All the time.
My eyes flutter open. And I'm met with the ceiling above me painted with oranges, pinks and light blue, moving like the waves of a calm ocean. My head weighs a ton, limbs vibe with evaporating numbness, as I start to get my bearings. I'm sitting up on my bed, leg dangling off the side, and Reno against my chest. His head nuzzled into my neck. His breathing even. My arms still coiled around his body, keeping him in this position. I'm reminded of the first time we woke up like this, in Kyrie's basement, when he stayed with me all night after a drunken break down. How natural it felt, even then, to lay intertwined. A comfort I've never experienced with anyone.
The open curtains bellow in the wind and the glowing sun sets over the horizon of houses. The serene scene outside drives the chaotic noises forming in the back of my waking head away. Some things are too perfect to not enjoy. But I know I have to leave this space and find out what my mother has been plotting while Reno and I slept on our worries. I try to move without waking him. But as soon as I start sliding my body off the bed, his eyes snap open.
"I'm going to go talk to my mom," I tell him. He responds by moving himself off me without a word and a listless shrug. He runs his fingers down my arm, stopping at my hand which he takes.
"What time is it?"
I squint at the T.V. "Six thirty."
He grunts and rolls over after releasing me. "Wake me when it's tomorrow."
My lips fall to a frown; the feeling he's experiencing all too familiar to me. Consciousness too painful to deal with, so we force ourselves into a hole we can't dig ourselves out of- covered in blackness. A welcomed numb. One I need to pull him from, but his wounds- both physical and mental- are fresh and throbbing. And maybe he just needs to recharge to face whatever mystery of tomorrow.
I leave him in the darkening room, inform him I'll be back soon but he waves me off. I jog down the stairs, expecting to hear my mother's vengeful voice shouting into her cell phone. Or the presence of another body in the house; the elusive benefactor meant solve this ever growing problem. I'm met with the empty house. My uneasiness grows, but I try to rationalize her disappearance. She's probably somewhere talking privately. Maybe her room…
And I know I have to find out what the next step of her plan, but fuck I could really use a cigarette right about now. And with no prying mother eyes in sight, I sneak outside to the backyard. The waning light offers no warmth, but the cool air just comfortable enough to be bearable in my current outfit. I take a seat on one of the destroyed lounge chairs which sends a creak cutting through the silent backyard. As soon as I spark the stick, and take an inhale of all those carcinogens, I feel my lungs open. A calming haze falls over me. And I know addiction to something killing me is destructive, but it's the only thing- right now- with any power to repair my fractured thoughts.
I dart my eyes to the house poking over the fence. How diabolical that dark gray stone mansion looks now that I've been inside. Bore witness to the actual hate that exists behind plastic smiles. What are they thinking about now? What actions of self-preservation are they taking? They can't be calling the police, they would have been knocking on our door by now. Are they gathering a mob...the rest of the family to force him out? My stomach twists into knots. Reno's words find their way back to me- I can't go back. What lengths would he go to protect himself?
"So you're the one stealing my cigarettes, huh?" My mother's voice shatters my thoughts. She appears next to me, hands on her hips and an amused smirk dancing along her face. I make a veiled attempt to get rid of the damning evidence to another one of my sins, but she laughs. "No no, it's fine. The Strifes don't waste anyway." She takes a seat next to me, "Besides, I think we're at the 'pick your battles' level in parenting."
She pulls out her own pack and I swear this has to be some kind of trap. But she doesn't seem phased at all, and lights her cigarette.
"So...you're not mad?" I ask as I tentatively bring my smoke to my lips.
"Well I'm not happy," she smiles, "but...I think we have bigger issues than you smoking. Just don't tell your father. He'll lose his mind."
I offer a strained chuckle and quietly inhale. The strangeness of the scene not lost on me: mother and son, addicts, enjoying one of their vices. If any of the militant stay-at-home mom's witnessed this, CPS would be called, or rumors would spread like a virus throughout the neighborhood that Claudia Strife gives her child drugs. But the houses around us are sparse. And watchful eyes should be engrossed in dinner.
We smoke in silence.
I enjoy the quiet moments for they are few and far.
"How's he doing?" she asks after a few pensive minutes.
"Terrible," I respond flatly, "He told me to wake him up when it's tomorrow."
She nods, "Yeah, not a great day for him…"
I expected her to continue the conversation, but when I look over she's staring at the ground. Her eyes drift away. And my worry grows from within. "Who did you call?"
"An old friend of mine," she takes a drag, "Someone who helped me when I needed to get out of a bad situation."
"And what did you tell him?" I press, her vagueness wearing on my patience, "And what can he do?"
A loud sigh. She finishes her cigarette without answering me and I grind my teeth trying to hold back the interrogation I want to spring on her. We told her very little about what happened on the short car ride home. Just that Reno's dad hit him when they got home- nothing about the reason or the conversation we had inside the house. But she still sprung into action without hesitation. Or contemplation.
"Who's your friend, mom," I continue, "You gotta tell me something…"
She crushes her cigarette with her heels. "Elias Shinra." And my eyes go wide.
"The borough president?" I recoil. "How do you know him?"
She looks at me. And I see in the softening lines of how she used to be-a little girl with so much uncertainty in her gray eyes. There's a slight quiver in her lips; an internal battle to unload some of her past onto me. And I'm not surprised she knows Elias Shinra. Staten Island, the fourteen mile island no one ever leaves, surrounded by straight jackets for bridges. Everyone knows everyone. Too involved in everyone's business. And I recall bitter words tumbled from those same lips when he went from Councilman Shinra to Borough President Shinra, and wonder now how she could now call him friend.
"I probably shouldn't tell you all of this but…" she huffs, but then softens her voice to almost a whisper as she offers up a piece of her past. "Opa...has never been a good person. And he hated having girls and took it out on us everyday. Cecelia was like his little assistant, when she wasn't kissing his ass she was getting me in trouble. And Cynthia just put up with it until she developed her own addiction to vicodin. But me, I fought back. I wasn't gonna take his shit; and he punished me for it.
"I ran away so many times. Just looking for a way out- anything. And I...met Elias at a Christmas party. I had just turned seventeen and he was...thirty." She groans, "I knew it was wrong but I thought it was my only out; being a mistress to a lawyer from a powerful family. He treated me fine…" She trails off for several seconds- as if finding new definitions for fine.
And maybe fine doesn't mean good.
"He...never raised a hand to me. Bought me clothes and school books. I didn't realize how...wrong the whole thing was until I was older but...when you are told you're trash for your entire life you begin to believe that's all you deserve." She reaches over to me, gently brushing her fingers through my hair. A sad smile on her face. She used to do this when I was younger and the kids who tormented rendered me on the verge of tears- that would hold up in my chest because of that common phrase I've heard for my entire life. Her comforting touch was the only time I felt safe…
"He helped me get away from my father. Not by any legal means of course...but...they had a long talk and whatever Elias said was convincing. My parents signed away their rights to him."
We both cringe. "Fuck, ma...that's…"
"Sick? Yeah, but...it was better than getting back handed or called a slut everyday after school. Elias got me my own place, a car, bought me food. He was even going to pay for my college but…" her voice trails off and her hand falls to her side. Her beautiful eyes crash to the empty space between us. "I got pregnant." My heart stops. "And I made a choice...a difficult choice but the right one. Elias...supported it but I think it was more because the scandal that would have followed.
"We broke it off sometime later. He was married but he told me the marriage was terrible and he 'wanted out'," she does air quotes with a roll of her eyes, "She got pregnant right after my procedure. So I guess shit wasn't that bad."
When she brings her eyes back to me, she looks like my mother again. Small signs of aging. A woman who has been through much in her privileged life that she's drowned with alcohol and pills. She plays with my hair again, and I start getting embarrassed at the affection even if it offers me needed comfort. "I worked two jobs to put myself through college and couch hopped. I wanted nothing to do with Elias or my father ever again. But it was incredibly hard to maintain that strength. I fell in with a bad crowd. Did some things I'm not proud of- but it was all better, I assure you, than living with opa and oma. Elias occasionally would try to get me back. He would find me at clubs, get a driver to bring me back to wherever I was staying. I fooled myself into believing he was the embodiment of romance. It took me too long to realize I was desperate for affection, some kind of positive reinforcement. A grown man saw that and manipulated me."
She lets out a distressing sigh with a gentle shake of her head. "I know what it's like to be rejected by your parents and the outcome of such neglect. If I can prevent another child from going through what I went through...I will.
"And Elias owes me one," she continues with a grimace, "I called him and we listened to your message. It was hard to make out, but we heard enough. He doesn't think it's enough to get a case going. You did record Don without his knowledge and then black mailed him." She shoots me a disappointed glare and I look away with a blush. "But he's going to talk to him man to man. Father to father. Same conversation he gave Opa."
I can tell from the way her eyes tremble, glassed over, the painful effort it took to make the phone call to ex. Let down her guard and ask for help. Not just for her son but for her son's boyfriend, who she knows so little of. Just enough. Enough to make the chip in her armor worth it.
But I don't feel good about it either.
I can sense her disgust in having to seek assistance from a Shinra. Like thousands of spiders crawling up my spine. I shift in my seat and tear my eyes from her. I realize the water in my lungs return, or my mouth fuses shut. I don't know what to say to her- the urge to apologize gathers in the back of my throat but I remember Reno scolding me earlier for the excessive sorrys I throw up when I don't know what to say. Or what to do. Believing my lack of comforting words is something I must regret.
But I wish she didn't need to put herself in uncomfortable positions when she's so newly sober and addiction just waiting for a reason to claim her.
"Why are you doing all of this?" My question feels like a bullet in a gun; but I can't imagine anyone willing going out of their way to help someone they've seen a handful of times with a clear head. Reno interacted with my father more than her. Dad often saying he's just going to adopt Reno at some point since he's practically living with us. But my mom would offer muted acknowledgments through hazy eyes. And I don't want her to say just because of me...that's not secure enough. How long before he overstays his welcome on that ticket?
She must have read the way my eyes narrowed with untrust, because she says in a tone both kind but stern: "Because it's the right thing to do."
That simple.
"I watched his father when Palmer so eloquently spread the vicious rumor about you two," she curls her lips into a forceful frown with a dramatic shiver, "My dad had that same look every time I did something not to his standards. Then, seeing him outside with you...all bruised up...he needed to get out of that situation"
"What if they don't let him…"
The thought pricks my chest like a needle. I flick my cigarette onto the floor without complaint from my mother, whose silence buries me in doubt. But the reality our endeavors would be fruitless still exists.
And what's the alternative anyway? His family disowns him so easily?
My mother rests her head on my shoulder, her arm rubbing my back in an attempt to crack the metaphorical boulders resting on my back. Like the weight of too many tragedies.
"We'll figure it out," and she sounds so assured, I buy it mostly because I need something to hold on to when I go back up there and face him. No use in both of us buried in melancholy. "He means a lot to you."
I nod. No use in pretending anymore.
"How long…" she starts but stops as if nervous to open that jar. But I know what she means.
"We've been together since late October."
"Wow, six months huh? That's forever when you're sixteen." There's a hint of amusement in her tone, but not mocking. "You love him?"
"Absolutely."
She pulls away for a moment so we can share a look; scanning each other's faces in silent discussion. My warnings- if he is forced to leave, I'm going to set this entire city on fire. I swear to fuck. And I know there's motherly logic in the lines of her lips that remain shut. That I'm going to do no such thing, but the consequences will be devastating. And if he means that much to me..
She rests her head back on my shoulder- and I forgot how small she is sometimes because her presence commands the room- and I lay mine on hers. She squeezes me with her arm around my back. And I never felt so...wanted...and loved before. And I promise myself to always remember this feeling on those days where I don't want to keep moving. When I forget the utterly destroyed look on her face when she tied towels around my wrists and repeated the same phrase until it burned into my brain. Until everything went black.
"Thank you...mom." I whisper. And I mean that statement in so many different ways..
Another squeeze like she's forcing me back together.
"He can sleep in your room tonight, but he moves into the guest room tomorrow."
"Ugh," I move away, "Really? Come on…"
"Smoking is one thing. Having your boyfriend sleep in your bed is a completely other thing."
"Mom, come on," I try to give her an innocent smile, "You're really gonna make him sleep in a different room when he's going through all of this?"
"Don't use this to be fresh with your boyfriend, Cloud Strife," she shoves me rough on the shoulder, "It's completely inappropriate to have teenagers sleeping together in your house. I can't be that much of a terrible parent!"
"It's not terrible!" I laugh when she glares at me, "You're not like the other moms. You're a cool mom."
She narrows her eyes, "Watch it, or you're sleeping in the guest room and I'll give Reno your room. Take this little win I'm giving you, and be grateful."
"Fine," I roll my eyes like an ungrateful brat. But she doesn't lose her grin.
And for the first time, in a long time, I have hope for tomorrow. For the future.
The rest of the night passed with an unnerving lack of chaos. My mother tried getting Reno downstairs to eat something, but he refused and hid in my bedroom for hours just staring at the ceiling. My concern for him only grew as I watched him struggle to hold in the tears that so desperately wanted to to spring from his eyes. I offered him bursts of privacy; and felt the cold reaction when I left and he didn't argue. My mother's only advice was to stay with him, be a shoulder he could cry on when he's ready, and let her handle the outside shit. But the unknown wrecked my nerves. And I found myself engaged in a standoff with Tylenol PMs like they held all the answers. And for a minute… a selfish minute...I considered taking three so I could fall asleep and not think-
But I closed the medicine cabinet instead. Because I can't weigh myself down, battle sleep paralysis demons, and arise with a murky swap of a mind, when he's life continues to spiral out of control.
We went to bed; he didn't even question if my mother would allow such a thing. But his sleep was terrible. The tossing and turning kept me in a lucid state. Eyes opened every time he huffed and rolled onto his back to fight with the demons in the ceiling. On high alert when he attempted to sneak out with my pack of cigarettes but too tired to will my body to move. And when I did, and I tried to creep down the stairs, I heard him in the kitchen with my mother. Just their voices, a soft volume. But I realized maybe he didn't need the supportive silent boyfriend at that moment. Maybe he needed a mother figure, who understood more than me, to bring him some comfort. So I left them there, my chest heavy when I heard a strangled fuck this shit coughed through a sob. And I waited for him to return to his side of the bed, eyes closed, and held him tightly- pulling him so his back rested against my chest.
Only then did I feel his body relax, his breathing even, and sleep claimed the both of us.
When I wake up, he's leaning against my window; the sun bursting through like an explosion of spring and illuminates his skin, sets fire to his hair. But his eyes are storm clouds filled with mayhem. His lips a thin straight line as he seems to glare at the budding weeping willow and her branches that dare to enter the room.
"Hey," I call out, but he doesn't stir. I try to think of words to say that aren't redundant or unhelpful. But I got nothing and it makes me feel so much worse.
"Someone's here," he responds without looking at me, "came in about a minute ago."
I sit up quickly, "Did they look familiar?"
He shrugs, "Dunno, can't see from up here."
I swing off the bed and just as I'm about to head towards the door, it opens with a crack. My mother pokes her head in catuiously, her bright grays looking between the two of us- Reno finally turning to acknowledge the new presence in the room.
"Hey," she forces a strained smile, "Reno, someone's here to talk to you…"
"Just talk?" he snaps.
"Yes," she assures him, "Just talking."
He brings his eyes to me, riddled with torment. "Can he come?"
"That's up to you, sweetheart," she offers.
Without another word he jumps off the bed and I take his silence as confirmation I should follow. He walks like he's about to enter the ring. Shoulders back. Eyes pointed in antagony. Head held up despite the weight of this situation attempting to drag him down. His motivation and resilience in this moment is admirable. And I am impressed by his stature, but worry when the facade crumbles. What would be left to put back together?
We're shaped by our trauma. Cut down. Rebuilt. With an extra layer to protect us- knowledge.
Sometimes that knowledge makes us cold-
And we either desire the warmth of another body till we forget who we are- or our heart freezes. And I think I have an idea of which category I fall in...and which he's falling into. So we have to decide whether we want that trauma to define us? Or become a footnote in our history.
We enter the kitchen, my mother leading the way. Standing near the sliding door, a man in his early forties with short glistening black hair and stern smile. He regards us with a quick nod as my mother went over to thank him again for coming.
"This is Veld Numura," she introduces with a quavering smile, "a good friend of Mr. Shinra. Veld, my son Cloud and Reno…"
He clears his throat, his voice deceptively soothing. "Sorry we have to meet under these circumstances."
"So?" Reno bites, hands shoved in pockets and leaning against the wall with an impatience scowl. "What do you have to do with this?"
Veld lets pass an annoyed sigh. "I'm Elias Shinra's attorney, he asked me to handle these next steps. Your parents aren't happy with what transpired last night. President Shinra managed to calm your father and mother down-"
"Psh," he sputters, " Oh I'm sure they were just devastated."
"No," Veld corrects, "they were enraged by your actions."
Reno doesn't react to that statement; his eyes falling half open and bored. Like he's had this conversation before; performed this routing. What else is new?
My mom, maybe noticing the tension in the air takes control of the conversation. "What are his parents planning on doing?"
Veld tears his eyes from Reno. "Nothing."
"Bullshit!" Reno laughs, "No way they ain't trying to send me to some Jesus Camp."
"Your parents were going to call the police," the attorney responds coolly, "They said you're violent and attacked your father unprovoked. President Shinra convinced them otherwise."
"And what's the otherwise," the red-head mocks back.
His attitude feels like that of a kicked dog. Ready to rip apart anyone who throws even a muted glare in his direction. His eyes like two balls of white hot flame. The way his lips flick like the switchblade now back in my nightstand. He's so fucking angry he can't even get out of his own way right now. But Veld doesn't react; and the eyes I originally felt cold and unnerving soften with pity.
"Your parents don't want you to come home. They feel your 'deviant' behavior will harm your little brother," a visible frown on the man's face when the sentence leaves his lips- and Reno's smirk slowly dies when the words reach his ears. Then, much like the morning covered in snow, realization cracks him in the face and he lets out a throaty chuckle with the shake of his head.
"They want you to stay away from them," he continues, "and they want no more trouble- from either of you.
"Going through the courts to make the separation official is a long, drawn out process that would further cast shame upon them. They are willing to move forward with just mutual understanding between the two parties: they will rescind their parental responsibilities towards you and they won't press charges for attacking your father."
He gives us a moment to juggle his words- my mom, with her face in her fist processing the information, shooting Reno an empathetic look. But I want to scream. In certain words, they essentially admitted desperately wanting their older son out of the house. Away from their perfect vision of a family. He's doing them a favor by leaving and in return they won't pull a bullshit charge on him. The fucking audacity. And everyone, the adults act like they've been robbed of their tongues. And Reno just stands there with a blank face; like he can't tell if this is good news or bad. If he should be a furious flame or devastated.
"So," Reno raises an eyebrow, "They ain't comin' for me or anything?"
"No," Veld grimaces, "And they couldn't force you unless they have proof you are a danger to yourself and others, which they don't. This is the cleanest break you can get until your eighteen."
A rancorous shake of his head. "Sweet," his tone as bitter as dandelion leaves and a sardonic smile that looks more like cracked glass, "So that's it? It's over? I'm fucking free?" a deranged look as he scans Veld's face. Then the painful, affirming, nod. And Reno clenches every single muscle in his body with the sharpest inhale. "Awesome. So if it's alright with y'all, I'm going to fuck off back to his room then since," he throws his hands in the air as he back out of the kitchen. "Well, fuck me, yo."
And he stomps out, up the stairs to my room, where the slamming of the door shakes the entire house. Glass rattles but doesn't break.
Veld turns to my mother, "Think about what I said about emergency guardianship; it looks like they're open to that option." And she nods sadly, before thanking him for his time. "Good to see you again, Claudia." He acknowledges me swiftly and sees himself out of the house- acting as if he's been here plenty of times before. And I wonder if he has for a second, before I grant my mother my attention.
Her eyes glued to the ceiling as if trying to communicate telepathically to Reno. And her face tells me everything; how she's reliving her past through the eyes of a teenage boy. Outcomes so different yet the same. And I wonder if she's having second thoughts about helping him. There was no outward discussion about him staying with us, but she alluded to the possibility of an extended stay last night. Maybe that was the adrenaline talking.
"What...now?" I ask.
"I'll handle the adult stuff," she sighs and dances her eyes to me. "You just make him comfortable? No one feels good after this and if they do, then it must have been that bad, right? All we can do is make him feel...at home."
I recall when this was the best case scenario. So, why does it feel so tragic?
We exchange a tense look. She still wrestles with her internal conflict, but she's done sharing her plans with her sixteen-year-old son. And I am actually relieved that the burden has been lifted- I've missed the reckless abandon of adolescence. So I take my leave upstairs, see if he wants to be left alone or will welcome the company.
In my room, back at the window, he sits with his head leaning against the molding and eyes focused on the bright blue sky. The sun hits the side of his face, casting shadows of branches along his features. He looks like he's on the verge of complete collapse. Held together by just his rage. Four stages of grief rush along his face- denial, bargaining, depression, anger- like a retracting wave crashing onto the beach.
"You gonna stand there like a fucking creep all day?" he snaps without moving his eyes.
"Don't know if you want to be left alone?" I counter softly.
"It's your fucking room, yo, do whatever the fuck you want."
He's not angry at me. I know that. I recall the week of Christmas break, when he was full of misguided aggression, it leaked onto our time together. So I try to be patient. Take a breath. Recognize he can't direct his anger towards his parents. That he's been abandoned by them. And all he has left…
I join him on the bed, back up against my poster. His eyes quiver but never move. I find myself drawn, though, by how the spring sun sparks his electric blues. The different hues swirl like a kaleidoscope. And while he occupies the space next to me, he's far away. I consider taking his hand; but his arms are crossed on the sill, hands tucked away. I try to open my mouth to offer some kind of support, but I anticipate the biting remark. Silence falls over us; just the wind blowing through the nearly bare branches of the weeping willow breaks the tension. Birds returning home from winter sing across the sky; louder than the hum of airplanes traveling from Newark.
I think about my dad coming home from his business trip in a couple of days. He left here with hope for our family unit. Now he'll come home to a son about to be expelled from school because of his sexuality and a new house guest who has been his son's boyfriend for six months. And yet, all those changes pale in comparison to the complete uproot of Reno's life. I scan my bedroom, the one he woke up in this morning in clothes that don't belong to him. All my posters that adorn the wall and ceilings that showcase all my favorite pop culture references. My computer, with the whirling colors for a screen saver, on a desk with a cork bulletin board. Home to pictures of friends, ticket stubs to concerts. Sixteen years of my life accumulated into this room. This familiar warmth for me, something chilling for him- none of his personality lingers in here. Nothing here belongs to him.
He's free but at what cost?
"Why does it feel this shitty?" Reno chokes through his words, curling his lips inward. "This is what I wanted right?"
I remember the first night he told me about his parents. Sitting in this same position. And his words swollen with grief as he mourned his parents' rejection. How all he wanted was for them to feel a sense of pride. His hope to accomplish something so great it would overshadow their shame.
I shake my head, "No, this isn't what you wanted." He looks over with bloodshot eyes from the tears he refuses to let fall. But they gather and he just barely holds on. As he reflects on his own words. And the tragic truth behind them. "You wanted them to accept you."
He tries to clench his jaw to stop the rogue wave of emotions from crashing along his face, but two hot bitter tears fall down his cheeks without permission as he nods. "Yeah," his voice cracks, "I guess you're right."
I was always taught the five stages of grief ends with acceptance; but I think it's more of an oblong path than a straight line that circles back to the beginning. And maybe in this moment he accepts he wanted more of his parents than they were willing to give. Now there's a new knowledge he must mourn. But this time, I can't imagine letting him travel this road alone. I grab his arm and he doesn't fight me when I pull him against me. And he doesn't push me away when I wrap my arms around him. Caressing his cold arms as he crumbles silently in my embrace.
All I hope for now, he'll realize how loved and accepted he is here. And he won't be alone rebuilding his life.
