I sunk deeply into my mom’s living room sofa. The same one from my childhood. The cushions, which had never been replaced, were impossible to get up from if you were over thirty. My mom sat across from me in the oversized chair with the blue floral pattern. People often say, “You could feel the tension”—well, in this case, I could also hear it and taste it. It sounded like the piercing scream of a child and tasted like metal.
Then I just started . . .
“I’m sorry.”
My mom started to cry. This was not easy for me. Ever since the fight, I was trained to avoid hurting women. I knew her tears were more relief than pain, but tears were tears. A single tear was kryptonite. This waterfall of tears derailed me from my plan.
I wanted to tell her the whole story. I wanted to tell her that I had tried to kill myself by stepping in front of a car. Or that I had killed myself. I wanted to tell her that I saw her at my funeral and was sad to realize that we no longer knew each other. I wanted to tell her that I saw the conversation she had with my sister, and I had hung out with Blondie. I wanted to tell her I met God. I wanted to tell her about Joshua Tree and all the dreams I gave up on. Instead, I just said I was sorry.
She said she was sorry too. As she started to tell her side of the story, I felt my entire body tighten. I was trying to get as small as I could. My arms crossed. My legs crossed. Molded into the couch. I was trying to disappear. I felt hot. My heart raced. I was thinking of all the places I’d rather be at that exact moment. I didn’t like it. Her words. The way she spoke. Slowly. Deliberately. As though I was one of the first graders she once taught. It made me crazy. I felt so much . . . so much . . . so much . . . shame.
Shame!
“Stop! Stop! Stop! Please, stop talking!” I suppose it must have felt rude from where she was sitting, but I had to tell her how I was feeling.
I told her that love had been hijacked by shame.
“Oh, my God, Mom . . . this has nothing to do with you.”
Through the tears, I told her that I felt shame. When I was seven, she and my dad had those fights, and especially when she hurt herself, I abandoned myself. I promised that I would try to take care of her. I promised that no woman would ever feel pain. My dreams would come last. I wouldn’t make choices without permission. This became my life. I didn’t know what an inner child was then. I didn’t know what trauma was. But it all made sense now.
This wasn’t about her at all. Idiot. It was always about your relationship with yourself. It finally made sense. I was fighting myself. I needed to forgive myself. Just like God said. Forgive yourself. Forgive yourself. Forgive yourself.
I finally understood why I picked the relationships I did. I finally understood the lifetimes of sabotage. Of yo-yo weight gain and loss. I finally understood why I wanted to die. Every day. I finally understood. And I tried my best to explain it.
She was listening. She was crying. I was crying. Decades of old, dark wounds were being exposed to the light. Light heals. The subjects of hundreds of hours of conversations with therapists were finally being discussed. I told her that I surrendered. I surrendered the past. I surrendered to the reality of the moment. To the present. “We are both doing the best we can. We need to trust that.”
I told her that I forgave myself.
I forgave myself.
I forgave myself.
I forgave myself.
She spoke. Quietly. “When your grandmother was eighty or so, I sat on her bed and asked her why we didn’t get along. We both wanted to. We just forgot how to talk to each other.” She then said, “I don’t want to wait until I’m eighty for us to figure that out.”
Then I just blurted it out. “Mom, I tried to kill myself.”
I told her everything.
By the time I got to the part about God sending me back, we were both sitting on the couch, sinking into those quicksand pillows. I tried to break the tension. “I don’t know how you’re going to get off of this thing.” We laughed. For the first time in a long, long time.
“I didn’t know how to talk to you,” she said.
“I know. I see it now. I was unconsciously ashamed of my life, and I blamed you. You never had a chance when we talked.”
“I got scared. You were so callous and short with me. I felt such anxiety whenever I picked up the phone. I felt like everything I would say was wrong.”
“I know, Mom. And I’m sorry.”
The wounds were healing with each word. My wounds. Her wounds. I told her about my friend who told me that I had to get things right or I would regret it forever.
“I have enough regrets, Mom,” I said. “I don’t want more.”
We had to get this right.
And then she asked me why I liked watching cars.
“I didn’t realize you knew about that!”
“I’m your mother, Erik.”
Yes. Yes, she was.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
A writer who started a book twenty-five years ago tells his son that he’s not going to work on it any longer. Too much time has passed, he explains. The book is going in the drawer and will never be considered again. That same day, the writer gets an email from a publisher who wants to help get the book out.
Jess and I were settled into a faded, faux leather booth in the straight-out-of-central-casting midwestern diner. The server wasn’t quite sure what to do when Jess ordered a veggie burger, so she brought her a small dinner salad. “Closest thing we’ve got, honey.” On the other hand, I figured when in Rome and ordered what they called “The Specialty Burger” and fries. The sign on the table proclaimed that it was All about the sauce!
When it arrived, I wasn’t sure what made it so special. It seemed to be your standard burger with all the usual stuff, but that first bite . . . Holy shit. It was amazing. I did not know what was in the sauce, but I was ready to bottle it and start a new business. And the fries were perfect. The few that I had anyway. Jess might not eat any red meat, but the woman could mow fries with the best of ’em!
We were seated against a window, wolfing down our food and gazing out onto the perfectly Mayberry-esque street. It was an early Saturday afternoon, and the locals were out and about. Kids wearing their baseball uniforms, families on bikes, dogs walking themselves. A banner stretched above the street proudly announcing the upcoming chili cook-off to be held the following weekend at the nearby park. It was a living screenplay, and we were extras on a small-town movie set.
“I would love to be here for that,” I told Jess. “I bet that’s some of the best chili ever.”
“It is, honey.” Our server was back with our check. “Take your time, honey.” Everyone was “honey.”
