She gets to the end of the song, and I walk over to the piano. She still has her eyes closed, and I place my hands over the keysbefore transitioning to her favorite song. I’m sure she was going to play it next since she always played it after this song, claiming the end of this one flows perfectly into the one I play now.
I keep my eyes focused on the keys, and I haven’t played a piano in years, but it’s muscle memory for this song.
“Wow, who taught you to play so beautifully?”
I miss a key, and it throws off my entire rhythm, so I just stop. When I look over, she’s watching me with a warm smile, but I know that look in her eyes, and I wish I hadn’t come to check on her.
“You did.” I remind her, but she only looks confused, and a pit grows in my stomach. At least once a week, she forgets me, without fail, but every time my mom looks at me like she really can't recognize me, I get sick all over again.
“Were you a student of mine?” She turns her head to the side like the angle will make her recognize me, but it’s clear no bells ring. She never had a job but taught kids to play piano in her free time simply because she loved it. “Sorry, you’re all grown up now. I barely recognize you.”
“It’s me. Liam.” I watch her, desperate for her to remember me, but she only gives me a small smile.
“Right, how have you been?” She laughs softly, and I know she’s just pretending to remember, but I appreciate the effort. I just wish I hadn’t seen through her act.
She turns back to the piano and plays something I don’t recognize, but I don’t say anything as I sit beside her and watch her play. All I can think about as the melody fills the room is my childhood. She would sit at the piano for hours as I sat there on the rocking chair, watching her play with Shanti in my arms.
My focus shifts to Sage, as it has been the last few days. I keep asking her if we're broken up, and she keeps saying we're not, and she's just upset that I lied, but it sure does feel like we're broken up. She's distant, and I know when she talks toher brothers and they tell her just how much they hate me, it's over. I'm done lying to her. I told her they didn't like me, but she wants to hear it from them. After seeing her looking out my window at August like he was her fucking world, like he rotates the damn earth for her, it made me hate him more, and I know it’s stupid, but Ihatetheir bond.
She talks about her brothers all the time, and if she didn’t love them so damn much, my life would be easier, but they’re her brothers, and I need to figure out what the hell I’m going to do.
“Oh, don’t cry, honey.”
I look up as my mom rubs my back, and when she sees I’m not crying, she looks a bit embarrassed but still smiles at me sheepishly. “Trouble in paradise?” She offers me a warmer smile and I let out a sigh before leaning against the piano.
“Sorta.”
She smiles at me before pressing a few random keys.
“When did your late husband tell you he loved you?” I keep my tone light as I watch her closely in case the mention of him sets her off, but she surprisingly remains calm, and I let out a breath.
“A couple of months into our relationship.” She smiles at the reminder, and it’s rare that she speaks well of this man, so I listen closely. “We were on a carnival date. I kept nagging him about wanting to go on the Ferris wheel, but he was afraid of heights.”
She laughs softly, and I smile at the thought of my dad being afraid of anything. My dad was good to us when he wasn’t angry. My mom was good at keeping his temper in line, and honestly, I think she believed she could fix him or something, but he would just have these erratic episodes whenever something pissed him off. When I feel myself growing that mad, I remind myself that I swore not to be like him, and it’s the only thing that calms me from tearing apart rooms the way he did.
“He gave in after I begged, and when we were at the top, it stopped, as it normally does.” She peeks a glance at me. “He didn’t know that bit.” She laughs again, and if I could wish for anything on this earth, I'd wish he was always that romantic man she fell in love with.
“He squeezed my hands with his eyes shut and said, ‘You are so fucking lucky I love you,’ and it was like my world stopped.” She lets out a long breath before looking at the piano, and a sad look casts over her.
“Then he killed our baby.”
I feel my blood run cold, and she stares at the piano keys like she’s going to rip them apart.
“Mom–”
“My son has his temper.” She turns to me, but it’s almost like she sees right through me, and my heart sinks at her words.
“He tears apart his room when he’s angry, just like his father did at that age.” She shakes her head like she’s so fucking disappointed. I haven’t been that angry in a while. I resort to punching bags now, mainly because I got tired of having to clean my room after an episode.
“I pray every night that his temper never forms into the monster within his dad.”
“It won’t.” I don’t even recognize my own voice, and I have to look away from her lost eyes. I’m not sure how long we sit there, but she plays a few more songs as I drown in my thoughts.
When I run a hand through my hair, my mom looks back over at me with a smile on her face.
“What’s wrong?”
Everything.
