Delayed, Nathan Kingsly [read aloud txt] 📗

“You said as much.”

“I most certainly did not.” Her hands come to rest on her hips.

“Yes, you did.  Those were the words you said to me after six months of being catatonic.”

Her brows pinch, her eyebrows heavy over her eyes. Her fingers come up, pressing on her temples, and she slowly shakes her head from side to side. My body grows tense. Is she about to have an episode? Does she still have those?  I’ve been gone so long. Mia used to call every so often with tales of them, but that hasn’t happened in a few years. Reaching out, I set a hand on her shoulder, and she drops her hands from her temples.

“Mom? It’s alright I ...”

She stands a little straighter, the lines in her face smoothing out. “I remember, that’s the last time I saw you. Everything is hazy afterward, after they sedated me, and when I woke up, I couldn’t remember why you left. It’s falling into place.” Her mouth sags further into a frown as she takes my features in. “Oh...honey!” She places a hand on my cheek. “I wasn’t talking to you.”

“But mom, I was the only one there with you.” Shit, is she having a psychotic break? How did the doctors miss this? Should I worry that she has a team of imaginary people locked away in her somewhere?

This better not be a ‘that was Patricia’ type thing, or I will burn the hospital down with legal fees for not keeping my family apprised of her condition and care.

“I meant myself.”

That brings me out of my thoughts and back to her. “What?”

“I never blamed you. I’d been convinced it was my own fault. I was yelling at myself, punishing myself for what happened to your father.”

What….?

“What? Why?” They both spill from my mouth in a rush, equally needing answering.

“Not unlike what you still seem to be wondering. What if I could go back and change one action that led up to that moment? What if I hadn’t been so kind to Ger? What if I had confronted him before this? What if I had dressed differently to keep from his attention? Changing one thing, maybe I would still have your father here with me.” Her hands shake as she tucks that stray hair behind her ear. Those spring eyes look far away, blank, and I want to take it all away from her. None of it is her fault.

“You couldn’t have known, mom.”

She nods, and when I blink, her eyes are clear again. “I know that now. It took a long time to escape the compulsion to ask and live out all those what if’s in my head. Years of therapy and medication helped me cope with the realization I needed to come to terms with.”

“What’s that?”

“I had to let go of the illusion that it could have been any other way.”

A strange feeling of vertigo comes over me as I hear her say those words. An illusion. The illusion that I could do anything to change it, and I realize she's right. Pain slices up my sternum, a crowbar wrenching me exposed. I'd been living out all the impossible possibilities for no resolution. Swaying on my feet, my mother’s hands come up and grasp my arms, steadying me.

Her eyes bore into me as she continues. “No amount of blame or torture you put yourself through will ever change that. All that's left is to find a way to restart your clock. You can’t delay it any longer, or you’ll lose the rest of what time you have left.”

Those words force Emma’s face into my mind and all the feelings that associate with her. It’s clear that no matter where my life's headed, it’ll always end with her.

Isn't that what my father would have wanted? Wouldn't he want me happy? To find the kind of love he found in my mom? I know he'd want me to find happiness, and he would be disappointed that I've spent so much time doing so little with my life. What I’ve been doing isn’t living; surviving is more like it. I have been a fool.

"Hey, hand me the three-eighths over there on the bench," Dad says as his arm disappears farther into the maze of the car’s inner workings.

The wrench makes a satisfying slap before his fingers curl around it.

"Thanks."

"Yep, what can I do to help?"

"You are helping just by being out here."

"I mean it, dad."

He glances back at me, where I sit on the old worn swivel chair. "If your mom comes out here, you'll be my buffer." He winks and looks back where his hands disappeared.

"What did you do now?"

His shoulders rise then fall. "Couldn't tell you. All I know is when she came downstairs, she gave me ‘the look’."

"The look?" I could hear the speculation in my tone.

He peers again over his shoulder. "My arm’s too big. You’re going to have to do this part." Pulling his arm out, he hands the wrench over, all while explaining what I need to do. He waits till my arm’s down there, feeling for the bolt when he answers my question.

"The one where she looks constipated." He wipes the grease off with a rag before leaning on the side of the car.

"Oh, yeah, you did something pretty bad then."

"I know. She'll either tell me what I've done or make me pay for it later." Then he smiles. It's such a weird time to smile. Knowing you're in trouble, but not when or what the punishment will be.

"I'm never getting hitched." I shake my head. It makes you crazy. I get the wrench over the bolt and start loosening it.

His smile disappears, and his body straightens. "Why do you say that?"

"You're smiling knowing you're in trouble and in for punishment. Marriage turns you into a masochist. I rest my case."

He bursts out in laughter, which only confirms my suspicion. When he stops, he says, "I'm not a masochist, and neither