Words Unspoken

If it were up to me, I would never attend another funeral in my life.

Or rather, never again submit to the constant badgering and shaming of my family and allow myself to be dragged into such a grim celebration of life, if it could even be called a celebration.

I would say I rather die than attend another funeral...but Bruce would probably manifest out of the shadows and go on another long winded speech that was meant to be stern yet inspiring.

He never did like it when I spoke like that. My therapist doesn’t either, but at least she doesn’t immediately jump to the conclusion that I’m seriously contemplating suicide.

So I’ll rephrase that: I rather spend the rest of my life licking the tile floors of a public bathroom clean, or hosting a family reunion for a huge family of skunks in a windowless home, than pretend I willingly brought myself to a dead woman’s party.

A dead woman once known as Lisa Roy, my biological mother.

A former heroin addict who dropped me off at my grandparent’s house one Tuesday morning, passed off my backpack of clothes and toys, and walked right back out the door without a single goodbye. Already back in her ugly black car and speeding down the dirt road by the time my grandma noticed that I was sat on the old creaky steps of her front porch. Wasting no time in scooping me up in her thin leathery arms and carrying me inside, stroking my tangled brown locks as I innocently watched my mother become nothing more than a memory.

If only she stuck around another day, just so I could crown her as Mother of the Century. Lay a broken crown of rose quartz upon her matted black hair and tuck a bouquet of withered pink carnations into the crook of scarred arm. She clearly deserved such a prestigious award!

Am I bitter? Of course. Am I still crying over her? Course not, I stopped doing that by the time I realized she was never coming back...which would be about 2 years ago.

Do I feel bad that she’s finally long gone..?

No.

“Oh, Tristan, there you are. You have any idea how long I’ve been looking around for you?”

It's the sound of a gruff yet familiar voice that breaks me from my thoughts, jolting in place and nearly dropping the lit cigarette between my lips. Just barely catching it in my hand as a calloused palm fell on my shoulder, giving a squeeze as I glance over my shoulder.

I wasn’t surprised to see Bruce there. Though I was a bit annoyed that I nearly lost my last cigarette because of him.

“You could have called me, you know…” As I place the stick back between my lips, I turn my attention back to the sky, a powder blue view now shrouded by a mass of ugly gray clouds.

I really hope it doesn’t rain. I wouldn’t want to leave my spot on the back porch and head back into the overcrowded home of mourning people. Be forced to bare everyone’s sympathetic glances and attempts at comforting words.

“Yeah? Well, I’ve been calling you for the last half hour,” Bruce grumbled. His hand falling from my shoulder as he shuffled forward to my side, “And you never picked up. I was asking your whole family where you went, before I realized-“

He reached out to pluck away my cigarette, effortlessly flicking it away into the barren backyard, “Besides the bathroom, there’s only one place where a recluse like you would run off.” Probably not even batting an eye as I watched my only source of relief disappear into a boundless field of green.

Asshole.

“I hate you.”

“Mhm. I love you too, kid.”

I heave out a heavy sigh with a roll of the eyes, slumping over and leaning on the porch’s railing. Glaring ahead at nothing as the older man simply stood there without a word. Always the strong silent type. Though for once, I actually appreciated his silence.

“How are you doing?”

That silence wouldn’t last for long it seemed.

“I’m okay...I guess.” I shrugged with a murmur.

After repeating that same line for most of the day, it didn’t even sound like a real phrase anymore.

Bruce didn’t say anything. Probably didn’t even move from his spot either. It was tempting to cut my gaze aside and peek up at him from the corner of my eye, but my stubbornness refused to let me.

Leave it to me to act like a brat because I lost a cigarette that would end me as quickly as my mom if I wasn’t careful.

Any ounce of stubbornness quickly escapes me as Bruce’s hand captures my own, his calloused fingers touching the center of palm while his thumb gingerly runs along my scarred knuckles. Finally allowing my head to turn aside and peer up at him, blinking owlishly as his hand gives me a tight yet brief squeeze.

There’s that smile on his face.

A lazy crooked smirk that makes my heart thump against my chest, brings me the faintest trace of ease...giving me the faintest trace of hope that everything would be alright after all. Even with the twinkle of pity and concern in Bruce’s single emerald eye.

I bite down on the soft meat of my inner cheek before a sheepish smile can tug at my lips. But there’s not much I can do for the sudden darkening of my freckle speckled cheeks.

Bruce’s smile wavers for a moment as he grunts, “Hey...your step dad-“ His eye widens as I hiss, looking as though he were about to take a step back.

“Kiyoshi isn’t my step dad. He’s my mom’s husband.”

“R-Right. Sorry, kid, I uh...he wanted me to give you something…” As his voice trails off into a murmured whisper, his gaze flickers down to his jacket’s pocket and his hand delves inside, smile all but gone as he pulls out a crisp white envelope.

The envelope laid neatly upon a small black notebook. What the…? Why the hell would Kiyoshi want to give me a book of all things? I only just met him yesterday, and all we did was sit in silence and stare at one another till I made an excuse to head back to my hotel room.

“Bruce?” I cock my head aside, pushing myself off the railing as his hand gives my own one last fleeting squeeze, confusion written across his near helpless expression, before handing me the envelope.

For a moment, I simply hold it between my thumbs. Folding it over, expecting to see Kiyoshi’s sloppy handwriting, yet all I find is...is my mother’s writing.

For Tristan. For...for me?

I probably looked those words over a thousand times. Read them over and over again till all I could see was my name in my head. Not even aware that I had practically tore open the envelope, almost split down the middle, that bills of green had sprung free and were drifting down to my feet.

This...this was…

“Jesus...kid, that’s-“

$10 bills. A stack of it...once folded into a half roll, now spread along the wood ground. All for me. For Tristan. But...why? Why me? Where did mama...m-mom even...get all of this?!

My hands feel numb. My stomach is tight, twisted into knots and lurching with every labored breath. It feels like all my weight has traveled to my feet, like all my organs and bones had dissolved into thick mush and trickled down. My mind is blank. The sound of rushing water flooding my ears and throwing me into a void of white static.

No thoughts, no hesitation, nothing stopping me from letting the envelope slip from my hands, springing forth to snatch the notebook out of Bruce’s strong yet gentle hands. My lover becoming nothing more than a fuzzy figure. No longer there as I open the black notebook, my glaring eyes falling to lines of jumbled chicken scratch, my mother’s writing.

Her words. Words I never saw her write. Words...directed to...me.

I’ve never been good at writing. Never been good at expressing my feelings, I guess. So...sorry if this all sounds like a load of crap, Tristan. It’s honestly the best I can do.

Look, I know you probably hate me. I would hate myself too if I were you. I mean, I abandoned you. Been too much of a coward to...you know...come back to see you. Let you know that I’m still alive and kicking. That you’re still my son.

My beautiful little boy.

I’m dying. Even after spending all that time in rehab and being sober for 5 years now, all that shit still caught up to me in the end. It’s not fair, I know. But I guess it’s karma for all I did to you.

Funny how that works.

I wish I could have said all of this to you in person. Maybe shared a few hugs, cried on one another, just like the movies. Though I’ll admit, even as I’m dying, I’m still scared to see you once again. I know you hate me. You have every right to.

I’m getting pretty tired, so I’ll finish this up.

I know there’s nothing I can do to make up for what I did to you. The best thing I can is give you 20,000 bucks I had stored away, just for you. Remember what you told me as a kid? If you were rich, you would buy us a house in the countryside, so we could be happy and get all the dogs we want. I doubt you still have that same dream. But...in case you do have any other dreams...take the cash.

It’s all for you.

I’m sorry. I’m sorry there wasn’t more I could do for you. I’m so sorry. Please, please forgive me. I love you so much, my little baby boy, I always loved you. I loved you ever since I first held you in my arms.

Your mama loves you, Tristan. Mama loves you with all her heart.

She loved me. After all she did, she still loved me. She gave me $20,000. For a house in the countryside, with a family of puppies I’ve always wanted, for us. To live happily again. That was the last thing she did for me, in her final moments.

I don’t forgive her. I could never. It would take more than some cash to gain my forgiveness, to erase all the pain she brought me. To make me see her as my beloved mama again.

Even as my fat teardrops stain the pages, ruining the inky words and smearing them, I won’t ever forgive her. Even as I drop the book besides the floor of money, feel my knees buckle and shake, that hole in my heart doesn’t fill. Even as Bruce captures me in his tight embrace, crushes me against his beating chest, my eyes only well with more tears and my throat clogs with bubbling sobs.

I won’t forgive her. I can’t forgive her. It wasn’t that easy.

But as I wrap my trembling arms around Bruce’s waist and cling to his suit jacket, smother my flushed face in his wrinkled white dress shirt and allow choked sobs to tumble past my lips, allow scolding hot tears to stream down my swelled cheeks and drip off my balled chin, I realize…

I love my mama. Even as a small fragile little boy, as a growing adult with a poor attitude, I love her. I would never grant her my forgiveness or my mercy, but the love I held for her in my heart would always be there.

Oh mama...if only I could see you one more time. Feel your love for me one last time.