“Eleven. He hasn’t woken.” She stands and moves closer to the bed. She fiddles with some wires, and then pushes some buttons until the machine beeps, breaking the silence of the dark room.
“I don’t think I can do this, Mom,” I blurt without thinking. Wiping my sweaty hands on my jeans, I stand and get ready to retreat.
“Why is it so hard for you to let go, Jesse?” She looks up, her eyes have sunken in from the stress of it all, aging her more than her sixty-five years.
“Why didn’t you ever leave him?” I reply with my own question. I don’t expect her to comment, but I wait anyway. I mean, growing up experiencing everything we had, I think at the very least I deserve to know why she stayed.
“I thought about it a few times. Even made it as far as packing a bag once. But I couldn’t bring myself to do it.” She shocks me and I can’t keep the accusation out of my voice any longer.
“Why would you stay if you had the chance to get away?”
She moves back to the chair she was sitting in, and shakes her head once before taking a deep breath. “There are things you don’t know, Jesse. Things he’s seen, things he went through as a child.”
“Things that excuse him for beating us, beating you?” I push, needing more. Smoke and mirrors have always been Mom’s way of dealing. I’m not accepting that anymore. For a long time I hated her too. Often wondering how I was supposed to trust her when she stood by and allowed the abuse to happen. She was just as much to blame as him. But after a while, that blame shifted to pity. I witnessed my mother's physical and mental suffering, I saw her limitations, her inabilities and how her world was shrunken. I saw myself in her.
“Your father was a sick man, Jesse. Ever since he came back from his first tour, I knew he had changed. At first, I thought it was just a phase, something he would eventually get through, but it only escalated. He promised me he would get help and I believed him. In sickness and in health…”
“But he never did, so why didn’t you leave?” I push for more, not allowing her to hide behind her fear any longer.
“I wouldn’t have been able to give you boys the lives you had without him, Jesse. A single mom, three boys. What sort of life would that have been?” she asks, and I almost laugh.
“You think we had a good life? The schools, the clothes, everything he provided for us, it meant nothing.”
“It meant something to me, Jesse. I wanted to give you boys everything I could. I’m not saying it was the right decision, but I tried my hardest. I second-guessed everything, but in the end, I loved him. I couldn’t do it. And maybe that makes me a bad mom, a doormat wife, but I couldn’t walk away from him when he needed me.”
“Yeah, well, guess that’s where we differ, Mom. I’m not so forgiving. He doesn’t deserve the peace you all think he does.”
“You’re right but, son, you deserve peace. Forgiveness isn’t about the person asking to be forgiven; it’s about allowing yourself permission to stop hurting. Walking around with this much hatred in your life isn’t going to go away when he dies, Jesse. What he did to you, to me, to our family, it will always be with us, but you need to separate the ugliness growing inside of you before it takes over. Don’t you want peace for yourself?”
“That man took my peace. Because of him, I am the way I am. I spent too many years searching for acceptance and love, that when I finally found it in a woman, I pushed her away because I’m scared of it. Do you know how fucked up that makes me? I have seen death. I have lived through pain, and rejection, Mom, yet love scares me.” My hands shake at my side as I fight my tears.
She’s silent for a moment, the distance between us growing when she doesn’t give me what I need.
“You need to find your own peace, Jesse.” She finally looks up, her lip trembles but she controls it. “Find it for yourself, sweet boy, before this ugliness grows in you too.”
“How, tell me how, and I will?” The plea gets stuck in my throat and comes out strangled. Ignoring my question, she moves from her chair to the desk in the corner and pulls out a white envelope.
“I wish I could give it to you, Jesse, but it’s you who needs to allow yourself to stop suffering and release the burden. Only then will you see how you did survive. And still are surviving.” My eyes move to the envelope as she offers it to me. “Your father asked me to give this to you when he passed. But I think you should have it now.” She places the envelope into my hand before pulling me into a hug, her arms coming around my middle and hold me tightly, just like she would when I was a kid.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t be the mom you deserved. I live with those memories every day,” she whispers then steps back. I don’t know what to say to her, because it’s what I needed to hear, apologizing for what she allowed and acknowledging things have never been right. Only it’s twenty years too late.
“Read it. I think it may help.” She wipes at her face. Nodding once, I put the envelope in my back pocket and turn to leave.
“He loved you, Jesse. He loved all of us. He just didn’t know what to do with our love.” She steps away and moves back to my father’s side.
I don’t say goodbye to my dad, or turn to look back.
I know I’m not going to see him again.
And maybe I’ll regret it later, knowing he was only a few steps from me and I didn’t reach out, but I couldn’t sit there and watch him die. I couldn’t get past my own anger and hurt to give the old man a peaceful goodbye.
“I don’t think I can do this, Mom,” I blurt without thinking. Wiping my sweaty hands on my jeans, I stand and get ready to retreat.
“Why is it so hard for you to let go, Jesse?” She looks up, her eyes have sunken in from the stress of it all, aging her more than her sixty-five years.
“Why didn’t you ever leave him?” I reply with my own question. I don’t expect her to comment, but I wait anyway. I mean, growing up experiencing everything we had, I think at the very least I deserve to know why she stayed.
“I thought about it a few times. Even made it as far as packing a bag once. But I couldn’t bring myself to do it.” She shocks me and I can’t keep the accusation out of my voice any longer.
“Why would you stay if you had the chance to get away?”
She moves back to the chair she was sitting in, and shakes her head once before taking a deep breath. “There are things you don’t know, Jesse. Things he’s seen, things he went through as a child.”
“Things that excuse him for beating us, beating you?” I push, needing more. Smoke and mirrors have always been Mom’s way of dealing. I’m not accepting that anymore. For a long time I hated her too. Often wondering how I was supposed to trust her when she stood by and allowed the abuse to happen. She was just as much to blame as him. But after a while, that blame shifted to pity. I witnessed my mother's physical and mental suffering, I saw her limitations, her inabilities and how her world was shrunken. I saw myself in her.
“Your father was a sick man, Jesse. Ever since he came back from his first tour, I knew he had changed. At first, I thought it was just a phase, something he would eventually get through, but it only escalated. He promised me he would get help and I believed him. In sickness and in health…”
“But he never did, so why didn’t you leave?” I push for more, not allowing her to hide behind her fear any longer.
“I wouldn’t have been able to give you boys the lives you had without him, Jesse. A single mom, three boys. What sort of life would that have been?” she asks, and I almost laugh.
“You think we had a good life? The schools, the clothes, everything he provided for us, it meant nothing.”
“It meant something to me, Jesse. I wanted to give you boys everything I could. I’m not saying it was the right decision, but I tried my hardest. I second-guessed everything, but in the end, I loved him. I couldn’t do it. And maybe that makes me a bad mom, a doormat wife, but I couldn’t walk away from him when he needed me.”
“Yeah, well, guess that’s where we differ, Mom. I’m not so forgiving. He doesn’t deserve the peace you all think he does.”
“You’re right but, son, you deserve peace. Forgiveness isn’t about the person asking to be forgiven; it’s about allowing yourself permission to stop hurting. Walking around with this much hatred in your life isn’t going to go away when he dies, Jesse. What he did to you, to me, to our family, it will always be with us, but you need to separate the ugliness growing inside of you before it takes over. Don’t you want peace for yourself?”
“That man took my peace. Because of him, I am the way I am. I spent too many years searching for acceptance and love, that when I finally found it in a woman, I pushed her away because I’m scared of it. Do you know how fucked up that makes me? I have seen death. I have lived through pain, and rejection, Mom, yet love scares me.” My hands shake at my side as I fight my tears.
She’s silent for a moment, the distance between us growing when she doesn’t give me what I need.
“You need to find your own peace, Jesse.” She finally looks up, her lip trembles but she controls it. “Find it for yourself, sweet boy, before this ugliness grows in you too.”
“How, tell me how, and I will?” The plea gets stuck in my throat and comes out strangled. Ignoring my question, she moves from her chair to the desk in the corner and pulls out a white envelope.
“I wish I could give it to you, Jesse, but it’s you who needs to allow yourself to stop suffering and release the burden. Only then will you see how you did survive. And still are surviving.” My eyes move to the envelope as she offers it to me. “Your father asked me to give this to you when he passed. But I think you should have it now.” She places the envelope into my hand before pulling me into a hug, her arms coming around my middle and hold me tightly, just like she would when I was a kid.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t be the mom you deserved. I live with those memories every day,” she whispers then steps back. I don’t know what to say to her, because it’s what I needed to hear, apologizing for what she allowed and acknowledging things have never been right. Only it’s twenty years too late.
“Read it. I think it may help.” She wipes at her face. Nodding once, I put the envelope in my back pocket and turn to leave.
“He loved you, Jesse. He loved all of us. He just didn’t know what to do with our love.” She steps away and moves back to my father’s side.
I don’t say goodbye to my dad, or turn to look back.
I know I’m not going to see him again.
And maybe I’ll regret it later, knowing he was only a few steps from me and I didn’t reach out, but I couldn’t sit there and watch him die. I couldn’t get past my own anger and hurt to give the old man a peaceful goodbye.
