Damn the Torpedoes
Xander's expression flickered for a second before smoothing back into a goofy grin. "It's a prop from the school play."
I gave him kudos for delivery and semi-logicalness. In fact if I hadn't heard him a minute ago talking about demons and vampires with the same amount of sincerity I probably would have fallen for it. But I'd held that crossbow. It was a weapon, something meant to do damage, something that had done damage if what I interrupted from my son's conversation was right. Although I probably could have interpreted that the moon was made of cheese from that self-same conversation.
For a moment I was struck by the insanity of this. I was standing in a school parking lot looking like so much white trash in my denim dress. He was in red, which for some reason struck me as something that would have been appropriate in a Harlequin novel, and I wasn't going to let him get away with fobbing me off on a explanation most people would readily accept rather than mess up their perfect view of their children. They want to see their John as the perfect American boy with only girls and baseball on his mind. But I'd rather have the imperfect view and really know my son. I haven't known him for so long.
Shaking my head ruefully, at myself mostly, still smiling I snarked. "So Little John, when did Sherwood Forest become infested with vampires?"
He shrugged laconically. As if he was more comfortable now, under pressure, than when he was waiting for it. "The script writer's an aspiring Goth."
I snickered. "Okay, that was a good one. Got any more?"
"Ah, the cat ate my homework and Principal Snyder is a fuzzy bunny?"
The mental picture of Snyder in his wannabe suave suit furry gray paws sticking out the ends, white incisors hanging down past his pointy fur covered chin, with scraggly darker gray ears drooping down behind him and beady little eyes alight with hellish glee out from under puffy white cheeks popped into my head. Agh. Need brain soap.
I glared at my son. "I really didn't need that mental image."
The smile I got in return reminded me of his father, it was that crooked smug I-gotya smile. I could picture him as it was yesterday. Him leaning against an old crumbling brick wall, standing on the cobblestones of New Orleans' French Quarter, hands in his beat up jean pockets, giving me that grin under sparkling red on black eyes. Feeling decidedly sentimental and soppy I reached out and touched the half turned up corner of his mouth with my index finger. "That's your father's grin. He always did that when he'd pulled one over on somebody." I looked straight into my son's brown eyes I kept my tone gentle but I had to ask. "Why are you trying to pull one over on me?"
He turned his head away no longer smiling.
That hurt. It felt so much like rejection... I don't think I'd ever really been rejected before. When I was a young fool I always surrounded myself with other young fools who only cared that I was pretty and had money. When I grew older, I couldn't say I grew up because frankly I didn't do that, I surrounded myself with people who just wanted my money and a husband who just wanted someone to beat on. No one ever turned away from me. Everybody always wanted something from me. And for once I was the one asking, begging for him to love me, to look my way.
Silence dragged on. I couldn't find the words. I just stood there staring, as Xander's jaw muscles grew more and more coiled.
"Let's just go home." My son's voice was quietly cold and remote.
It was like a sudden chasm had split the earth between us, with him on one side and me the other. We weren't even feet apart yet I felt like I couldn't reach him. And I realized I had to say something, anything, or this would be it. It didn't matter if it was the wrong thing, if it made him mad or disappointed, because if I did nothing- if I got in the car and drove us home then I would be adding one more stupendous mistake to the pile of them cluttering my closet.
"And what would happen then?" My voice shook a little but I took heart when he glanced at me out of the corner of my eye. "Pretend nothing happened? I heard you talking to that girl. You- you hunt vampires. And demons. And the boogeyman for Christ's sake!" I was on a roll now and barely noticed that Xander was once again facing me.
Suddenly everything that had been under the surface, everything that had hung in the background of every talk every moment alone together, the dirty fermenting guilt, shame, horror, and -damn it- poisonous truth grabbed my vocal cords no longer content to be ignored. "I'm fucking bad mother!" I spat it out with all the self-disgust that ate away at my insides and made me sick to my stomach. "I've fucked and I've drank. I've done a fucking pharmacy worth of drugs. I'm one of the most self-centered bitches in this fucking state! And with Hollywood right next door that's really saying something."
My laugh was a hollow thing that sent shivers down my spine but I couldn't stop now. Brown eyes stared at me in shock, rending my heart. "Sometimes I even forgot you existed. God, I've seen your door Xander. All those locks. How many nights did you go to sleep scared because Mommy wasn't going to protect you from the monsters?" My son's face hardened and a faint blush spread across his cheeks. He was embarrassed. The implications of that stabbed me. A cool tickle on my own cheek was a tear slowly making its way down. "I can't-"I closed my eyes and turned away. Hastily I scrubbed away the tear trail that burned my cheek. "I can't undo all that." I swallowed the snot clogging my throat and opened my eyes trying to stop the itch of forming tears. "I'm your Mother. I was supposed to protect you. I didn't. I was supposed to be there for you. I wasn't." More than a little afraid of what I might see I turned back around. He made an abortive hand gesture toward me; it was fluttery and unsure and I tried not to read too much into it. "You're not a little boy Xander. I know 'I'm sorry' just won't cut it." I shut my eyes for a long moment then forced them open again. "I'm so sorry." His features softened a little.
Taking a deep breath I gathered my courage. "I'm here now. I'll support you through whatever this is. Not to make it up to you, that's impossible and I haven't killed enough brain cells to believe I can, but because I love you. Just let me in." Heart pounding in my chest, light headed and more than a little desperate I put my whole body into the plea.
Xander's expression flickered for a second before smoothing back into a goofy grin. "It's a prop from the school play."
I gave him kudos for delivery and semi-logicalness. In fact if I hadn't heard him a minute ago talking about demons and vampires with the same amount of sincerity I probably would have fallen for it. But I'd held that crossbow. It was a weapon, something meant to do damage, something that had done damage if what I interrupted from my son's conversation was right. Although I probably could have interpreted that the moon was made of cheese from that self-same conversation.
For a moment I was struck by the insanity of this. I was standing in a school parking lot looking like so much white trash in my denim dress. He was in red, which for some reason struck me as something that would have been appropriate in a Harlequin novel, and I wasn't going to let him get away with fobbing me off on a explanation most people would readily accept rather than mess up their perfect view of their children. They want to see their John as the perfect American boy with only girls and baseball on his mind. But I'd rather have the imperfect view and really know my son. I haven't known him for so long.
Shaking my head ruefully, at myself mostly, still smiling I snarked. "So Little John, when did Sherwood Forest become infested with vampires?"
He shrugged laconically. As if he was more comfortable now, under pressure, than when he was waiting for it. "The script writer's an aspiring Goth."
I snickered. "Okay, that was a good one. Got any more?"
"Ah, the cat ate my homework and Principal Snyder is a fuzzy bunny?"
The mental picture of Snyder in his wannabe suave suit furry gray paws sticking out the ends, white incisors hanging down past his pointy fur covered chin, with scraggly darker gray ears drooping down behind him and beady little eyes alight with hellish glee out from under puffy white cheeks popped into my head. Agh. Need brain soap.
I glared at my son. "I really didn't need that mental image."
The smile I got in return reminded me of his father, it was that crooked smug I-gotya smile. I could picture him as it was yesterday. Him leaning against an old crumbling brick wall, standing on the cobblestones of New Orleans' French Quarter, hands in his beat up jean pockets, giving me that grin under sparkling red on black eyes. Feeling decidedly sentimental and soppy I reached out and touched the half turned up corner of his mouth with my index finger. "That's your father's grin. He always did that when he'd pulled one over on somebody." I looked straight into my son's brown eyes I kept my tone gentle but I had to ask. "Why are you trying to pull one over on me?"
He turned his head away no longer smiling.
That hurt. It felt so much like rejection... I don't think I'd ever really been rejected before. When I was a young fool I always surrounded myself with other young fools who only cared that I was pretty and had money. When I grew older, I couldn't say I grew up because frankly I didn't do that, I surrounded myself with people who just wanted my money and a husband who just wanted someone to beat on. No one ever turned away from me. Everybody always wanted something from me. And for once I was the one asking, begging for him to love me, to look my way.
Silence dragged on. I couldn't find the words. I just stood there staring, as Xander's jaw muscles grew more and more coiled.
"Let's just go home." My son's voice was quietly cold and remote.
It was like a sudden chasm had split the earth between us, with him on one side and me the other. We weren't even feet apart yet I felt like I couldn't reach him. And I realized I had to say something, anything, or this would be it. It didn't matter if it was the wrong thing, if it made him mad or disappointed, because if I did nothing- if I got in the car and drove us home then I would be adding one more stupendous mistake to the pile of them cluttering my closet.
"And what would happen then?" My voice shook a little but I took heart when he glanced at me out of the corner of my eye. "Pretend nothing happened? I heard you talking to that girl. You- you hunt vampires. And demons. And the boogeyman for Christ's sake!" I was on a roll now and barely noticed that Xander was once again facing me.
Suddenly everything that had been under the surface, everything that had hung in the background of every talk every moment alone together, the dirty fermenting guilt, shame, horror, and -damn it- poisonous truth grabbed my vocal cords no longer content to be ignored. "I'm fucking bad mother!" I spat it out with all the self-disgust that ate away at my insides and made me sick to my stomach. "I've fucked and I've drank. I've done a fucking pharmacy worth of drugs. I'm one of the most self-centered bitches in this fucking state! And with Hollywood right next door that's really saying something."
My laugh was a hollow thing that sent shivers down my spine but I couldn't stop now. Brown eyes stared at me in shock, rending my heart. "Sometimes I even forgot you existed. God, I've seen your door Xander. All those locks. How many nights did you go to sleep scared because Mommy wasn't going to protect you from the monsters?" My son's face hardened and a faint blush spread across his cheeks. He was embarrassed. The implications of that stabbed me. A cool tickle on my own cheek was a tear slowly making its way down. "I can't-"I closed my eyes and turned away. Hastily I scrubbed away the tear trail that burned my cheek. "I can't undo all that." I swallowed the snot clogging my throat and opened my eyes trying to stop the itch of forming tears. "I'm your Mother. I was supposed to protect you. I didn't. I was supposed to be there for you. I wasn't." More than a little afraid of what I might see I turned back around. He made an abortive hand gesture toward me; it was fluttery and unsure and I tried not to read too much into it. "You're not a little boy Xander. I know 'I'm sorry' just won't cut it." I shut my eyes for a long moment then forced them open again. "I'm so sorry." His features softened a little.
Taking a deep breath I gathered my courage. "I'm here now. I'll support you through whatever this is. Not to make it up to you, that's impossible and I haven't killed enough brain cells to believe I can, but because I love you. Just let me in." Heart pounding in my chest, light headed and more than a little desperate I put my whole body into the plea.