from the car and ended up in a coma was because I was giving my boyfriend a hand job. There you go, the ugly truth. He is a monster, Mom, and I think you’ve seen it, too.”
My mother’s mouth falls open, the room going dead silent for a minute. The ticking hands on the clock over the kitchen sink are the only sounds for a full sixty seconds, and I know she’s gone into shock.
I haven’t though. For the first time in years, I have precise clarity.
“I am done. Done. I am no longer under your thumb, nor will I listen to your instructions or demands. Your life having a dutiful daughter, it is over.”
Pride, relief, sorrow, and anger mix like a lethal cocktail in my veins as I march for the front door. There is no more left to say, no more left to listen to. My father is not going to own up to this, nor will my mother give him the earful he deserves tonight.
The only thing left to do is go home and lick my wounds. Pick up the pieces of my life, throw the rotting ones away, and start anew with what little I have leftover.
36
Bowen
I have never gone to my mother for advice or emotional support.
When I say never, I mean never.
First off, I’m a male. And I know that might be sexist, but unless we’re really hard up about something, we most likely are not going to blab to our mama’s about which girl broke our heart or what asshole friend stole our position on a sports team.
Now take that theory, multiply it by a hundred, and you get me.
Someone like Fletcher, he always indulged our mother in her need to gossip. She had no girls, and so someone had to fill it, and the most vulnerable of all of us was happy to do it. Keaton as well, as the oldest, went to her for a lot. Forrest, he was as lone wolf as they came, even in a family of five.
But me? I bottled everything up. I didn’t rely on her for parental direction, and I think it had always caused a rift between us.
Except now I had a major dilemma weighing on me. More than one if I’m being honest. My head is so fucked up, I can barely see straight. And I need help.
I’m surprised when I end up on Mom’s doorstep, but when she opens the door and greets me with a hug and a smile, I know instinctively that she’ll make everything all right.
“Bowen!” she says as we end our quick hug. “What’re you doing here? Who is at the shop?”
Mom might be more surprised than I am.
“I closed early for the day. Because … because I need to talk.” Those words sound strange coming out of my mouth.
And I’ve officially stunned my mother. “Oh … okay. Of course, of course, uh, come in, dear.”
She’s flustered but excited, I think. It’s taken almost thirty years for her middle son to come to her like this, so she’s probably just as nervous as I am.
I tell her as much as we sit down in her living room. “I don’t really know how to do this, truthfully.”
Mom smiles, and I’m instantly calmed. “Well, start from the beginning, and I’ll listen without interrupting.”
That sounded fair enough. I lean down, my elbows on my knees, deciding where to start.
“I’ve been interviewing for positions in the baseball industry. Well, not interviewing for positions … it’s just one position. As a hitting coach for a minor league team in St. Louis. It would mean leaving Fawn Hill. Which is both terrifying, and something that could give me a fresh start. And then, just now, Coach Hankins walked into the barbershop and offered me the head coaching job at the high school, as he wants to retire. I don’t even know if I’d be a good coach, and he’s offering me the top spot. My own team, young minds I’d shape all on my own.”
I stop for a second, gauging Mom’s expression. She’s listening intently, and when I don’t continue, she motions for me to keep talking.
Her wrist rolls as her hand waves. “But? These are all good things, Bowen. Tell me the big thing that determines it all. The one thing that makes your choice for you.”
And now I hang my head. “Lily.”
“Ah, I knew that was in there,” Mom says quietly. “You love her.”
I nod. “Always have. But … we’re through now.”
“You’re