His Reverie (2 page)

I was ten and wailed like a wounded beast when Mom broke the news to me. She explained, gentle and firm, that I was the man in the family now. Not only the man of the house, which she declared me to be after Dad left, but the man of the entire
family.
Our family of two.

This meant I not only took care of me, but I needed to take care of her. Talk about pressure. So we’ve never left, never had an inclination to. She has a decent job. And she had to stick around when I got tossed into jail. Oh, she wanted to make bail for me but we had nothing. No collateral.

“You’ll find out where I’m taking you soon enough,” she says with that smug smile she wears when she’s got something good up her sleeve. I lean back in my chair and breathe deep, taking in the perfume, the slightly musty smell that lingers because of the ocean, the faint scent of cigarettes. She quit smoking a couple of years ago after I harassed her one too many times. I already lost one parent. Really couldn’t afford to let that happen again.

She takes me to my favorite breakfast place and I utter a mock “thank the lord Jesus” under my breath as she parks the car. I order the biggest meal they’ve got on the menu, and when they set the plate in front of me I dive in, not even bothering to act polite. I flat out devour the food like my mouth is a vacuum. Like I’m eating the best meal I’ve ever had in my life.

Which isn’t too far from the truth, considering what I’ve been living on.

“Your hair is long,” Mom says as she watches me, amusement lighting her eyes that are the same color as mine, dark, dark blue.

I flick my head, the hair that falls over my forehead flipping to the side. “Yeah. Didn’t bother much with haircuts in there.”

She hadn’t come to see me much the last couple months I was locked up. She was at her job most of the time and needed the money since I was not there to help. She’s a LVN nurse and works at a senior care center, AKA a rest home. She loves it, tells me she finds it rewarding. To me it’s like she’s always losing someone there. That’s where the old folks go to die. I don’t know how she can stand it. Liking someone, caring for someone, then losing them.

Witnessing her cry over one of her patient’s death, combined with how I lost Dad…I don’t let myself get close to anyone. It’s easier that way. Less chance to get hurt.

I’ve been hurt enough. By my best friend, who I still refuse to talk to and will until the day I die if I can help it. By my ex-girlfriend, who told me she loved me and banged my best friend all in the same day. By the system that failed me.

The only person who’s ever been there for me with unconditional love is sitting across the table, her eyes going wider every time I shovel more food in my mouth.

I can’t help it. I’m fucking starving. Jail food is shit.

“You act like you haven’t ate for days,” she says, wonder in her voice.

Pausing in my shoveling act, I stare at her for a moment before grabbing the glass of ice-cold chocolate milk in front of me. “Feels I like I haven’t,” I say just before I chug half the glass down.

The cold liquid hits my gut and makes me grimace. I ate way too fast and I need to slow down before I puke. Leaning back against the booth seat, I watch Mom as she eats a far more civilized meal, but she doesn’t bother putting the fork in her mouth. Just pushes her food around with her silverware, streaking syrup from her French toast all over the plate.

She’s barely touched it.

“Mom.” She glances up, guilt and worry written all over her face and I know something’s wrong. Alarm races through me, buzzing through my veins and I try to stuff it down. “Why aren’t you eating?”

“I don’t have much of an appetite lately.” She shrugs, her eyes skittering away from mine.

As if she’s guilty of something.

My gaze roams over her, noticing for the first time the gauntness in her cheeks, the pale color of her skin. Her hair is long and curly, dyed blonde to hide all the gray, she told me that long ago. She has it pulled into a ponytail and it looks…

Thin.

She looks thin. Tired.

Too tired.

“You’ve been working too much,” I state, not bothering to ask if that’s the case. I know it’s the truth.

“Not so much lately.” She pushes her plate away and rests her arms on the edge of the table. “I didn’t want to do this now, not with you just being released, but I can’t hide it forever…I need to talk to you, Nicky.”

Fear slithers down my spine like the coldest, deadliest snake. This isn’t good. It can’t be good. “What’s up?” I try for nonchalant. Casual. But I’m just deluding myself.

I can feel the bad news she’s about to deliver, creeping over me like the thick, damp fog that can settle in around here, even in the summer. Especially the summer. What she has to say is going to devastate me. I know it.

“Honey. Nicky. I…” She pauses and the tears form again, welling up in her eyes and I shake my head, push my own plate away with such force it bumps into my glass of chocolate milk and it spills all over my remaining breakfast. Mom’s eyes widen in horror. “Call the waitress,” she urges. “We need to get this cleaned up.”

“Forget it.” I shake my head, not giving a shit if the rest of my bacon is swimming in chocolate. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

“But your food…”

“Fucking tell me what’s wrong!” I slam my hand on the table, and the plates, glasses and silverware rattle enough to cause the couple sitting across from us to turn and stare. I glare at them back. My meanest, hardest stare until they finally look away.

Guess I learned something useful when I was locked up.

“I have cancer,” she says, the words rushing out of her, like she said one word instead of three.
Ihavecancer.

I blink once. Twice. The waitress approaches our table with white rags clutched in each hand but I wave her away. She doesn’t hesitate, scurrying away from our table like her shoes are on fire. “Cancer?” The word comes out a croak, my throat sandpaper dry.

Mom nods, her expression resolute. “Terminal, Nicky. I’m…I’m filled with tumors. They’re all too risky to remove.”

“What?” I blink again. Terminal. Tumors. Too risky. It’s all a jumble and makes no sense. “Can’t you do some sort of treatment? Chemo or whatever?” Isn’t that normal? How bad can it be? Did this happen because she smoked? God, she should’ve stopped sooner. Here I am, thinking all about myself, and Mom is sitting there with fucking cancer.

“No. It’s no use. The cancer has spread into my organs and my lymph nodes. The doctors are afraid it’s too late. So I’ve decided whatever happens, I’m going to live. And when I die, I want to do it on my terms.” She smiles, the sight of it like an arrow to my already breaking heart. “And I
am
dying. I-I don’t know how much longer I might have.”

I say nothing, just sit there as my brain tries to compute what she’s saying, the spilled chocolate milk still swimming in my plate, the food settling in my gut like a hard, ugly reminder.

Nothing in this world is perfect. I learned that long ago. But this? This was just…wrong.

Scary.

“We’ll make the best of it,” I vow to her, my voice quiet, my thoughts scattered all over the place. “However long you have is going to be the best time of your life. I promise.”

She reaches across the table and grabs my hand, giving it a squeeze. “Such a good boy, Nicky. You always try and take care of me.”

Not good enough. Not while I’ve been in jail for almost a year.

“I'm gonna take care of you. Now and forever.” I pull her hand to my mouth and give her knuckles a kiss. “I figure you have at least a few years right?”

She doesn’t answer.

Mom had less than two months. I got out of jail April 26
th
. She died June 6
th
. It was like once she told me she had cancer, her body shut down methodically. One day after the next, she just broke down. Like the lights shutting off in a giant skyscraper, one floor at a time, until finally she was just…dark. Empty.

Gone.

Believe: to have faith in.

June 23rd

F
rom the moment I got out of jail, life has delivered me nothing but endless shit. Mom has cancer. I can’t find a job. Mom dies. None of my old friends will talk to me. The only friend who wants to talk to me is the one who almost ruined my life so forget that fucker.

No matter how much it hurts, I have to forget him.

Finally though, it’s looking up. Just when I thought I’d have to give up the apartment Mom and I lived in because I couldn't make rent, I get a job.

Working for a crazy man.

Yeah, he’s not really crazy. He’s actually pretty smart since he has all these people snowed. They believe every word he says, listening to him with rapt attention. They open up their wallets and give him a crap ton of money too. I guess I should admire the guy for being so convincing.

But it all feels fake. What he says. How he looks. The way he acts. The convict that still lingers in me recognizes a smooth liar when I see one and I’ve met plenty. Some might even say I’m one of them.

I’m not though. Not really.

The Reverend Harold Hale is my boss. He of the Flock of the Lambs cable network, the current most influential televangelist around. The guy is freaking famous and rich as…sin. Yeah, I said it. So sue me.

Actually I better watch what I think and say because I had to sign a huge privacy disclosure where I’m not allowed to breathe a word of what I see and hear while working for Reverend Hale or else he’ll bring litigation against my ass so fast I won’t even see it coming.

Why would he hire an ex-convict like me? I’m officially not a convict at all but we all know that’s what people see when they look at me. When they hear my name. I have a reputation that was blasted all over the local media and it follows me everywhere I go in this town.

It will for the rest of my life. I’m innocent but I may as well have done it, what with the way people treat me. I need to escape. Get out of this place and never look back. But I have no money. That’s why I need the job. I save up enough I can leave this town.

That’s my plan. I’m determined to follow through.

Lucky for me, Reverend Hale is on a current crusade to save lost souls. That’s what the guy who initially interviewed me said. When I protested that I’m not a lost soul, that I never committed the crime I’d been accused of, the dude just nodded and closed his eyes for a brief moment, like he was saying a prayer for me or something.