Page 29 of Sin of Love
14
The worst kindof nightmare is the one that you know is a dream but you can’t wake from. That little bit of awareness marries consciousness with unconsciousness, reality with fantasy. The lines are blurred, and so we believe what we see because in a significant way, it’sreal.
I’m twelve years old. It’s early morning on a school day. I’ve just turned off my alarm and I’m yawning and stretching beneath the Spiderman comforter I got for Christmas two years ago. I hate it because it reminds me of all the shit I don’t care about anymore. Comics, sports, friends…
I have bigger issues to deal with.
Mom seemed okay last night at dinner, but what the fuck do I know? She’s been out of the mental institution for less than a week. She did smile at a few of my dumb jokes, and even tucked me into bed and sang to me while she played with my hair. She hasn’t done that in years, so even though it made me feel little, I kind of liked it.
With a final yawn and full-body shake, I launch out of bed and head for the bathroom. As I’m peeing what feels like gallons, the top of my head tingles. Still not entirely awake, I don’t at first understand.
Drip.
Another drop hits me, this time on the forehead. I look up, my eyes squinted, wandering until I see another drop come from the corner of the light fixture overhead. I touch my forehead. Stare at my fingers. Why is the water pink?
It takes ten seconds.
Ten long seconds for me to put two and two together. Then I run. Faster than I’ve ever run in my life, I tear through my bedroom, down the hallway, and upstairs to my parents’ room.
“Mom! No, Mom! Mom!”
My voice isn’t shrill with adolescence, but deep and raw with manhood. I don’t notice the difference, not until I’m standing on the threshold of the bathroom and see the overflowing tub. Blood in the water, the same color as her copper hair. The empty orange pill containers. The fancy straight razor she bought Dad for his birthday when he decided he didn’t want to use regular razors anymore.
But it’s not my mom in the tub, sightless eyes aimed toward a Heaven her religion forbids her from entering. These eyes aren’t brown. They’re gray-blue. Brown hair—not red—floats like snakes around her pale, naked form.
And I understand again.
I’ve lost them both.
* * *
I wakeup heaving and roll to the side of the couch just in time to empty my stomach on the floor. Dream. Just a dream. It wasn’t Deirdre. She’s not dead.
“Good Lord, son!”
My father.
A woman coughs delicately. “He’s a mess.” She says it with the same disdain reserved for split seams, backordered fabric, and assistants who dare to have a life outside her design studio.
My ex-wife.
Flopping onto my back, I wipe my mouth with my forearm and stare blearily at the two people staring down at me from behind the couch. I’m not even surprised to see them—why wouldn’t I jump from one nightmare to the next?
“What the hellare you two doing here?” I rasp.
My ex-wife winces in what might be guilt, though it’s more likely she’s disgusted by what I’ve done to myself. Appearances were always of utmost importance to her.
“Frank and I are extremely worried about you,” she says crisply. “You haven’t answered either of our phone calls this week.”
I roll my eyes, then regret it as pain spikes through my temples. Hauling myself to a sitting position, I narrowly avoid putting my feet in a puddle of vomit. Fantastic.
“I’m fine. You can go now.”
The only reason either of them contacted me in the first place was for damage control. They didn’t want my questionable life choices putting any more stains on their high-profile careers—which I definitely accomplished when I was arrested last week for stealing a bottle of booze from a neighborhood liquor store.
Never mind that within twenty-four hours, my illustrious father had thrown enough money around that the charges were dropped, he wasn’t about to let bygones be bygones. And, of course, Lucy had to join the fun because she abhorred bad press and was sick of being asked about me by the paps.
I mumble, “I told the guy I was good for it. I shop there all the time. He didn’t have to call the fucking cops.”
