On The Run

Chapter Forty-Five - "Your Loss For My Condolences"

Ricky

I guess I deserved it. Maybe I had even caused it. At least my punishment would be the guilt – the endless haunting of my soul. And I deserved it.

Fitch had been telling me for the last three years to go and see my mother, that maybe it might help her somehow. I wasn’t naïve and I was certainly no fool; I had no hopes or dreams that she’d recover. I never went, and I tried never to think about it. The slightly disoriented and haunted look on Fitch’s face every Sunday evening after his visits did nothing to soothe my worried spirit.

And then, for the last month, I’d suddenly started to think more and more about her. Was it the holiday season? Was it my growing love for Lexie? Was it the harried mother who came into the shop to fix her car, who happened to be wearing the same bracelet my mom had? Was it the fact that my father’s birthday fell during that time? I have no idea. But for some reason, everything made me think of my mom. It was unbearable.

When Fitch asked me if I’d like to come with him, two Sundays before she died – he always made an effort to get me to come once in a while, and my answer was always no – I’d hesitated. I was always so sure in my responses; I couldn’t believe I hesitated.

I thought God was sending me a sign, so one Friday afternoon, I’d taken the subway all the way to the Manhattan Psychiatric Center, and walked in, introducing myself as the second son of the woman who had mothered me and who I’d neglected for the last five years.

As I approached her room, with the doctors and nurses rushing in and out of her room, I slowed as my heart rate sped up. I even felt myself start to retreat, but then the nurse who’d been leading me there, stopped to talk to one of the other nurses and then looked back at me with a hint of excitement.

“Mr. Jackson, it appears your mother’s lucid,” she said.

I froze. She seemed to think I didn’t understand because she then said, “She has her memory. It might last for a few minutes, a few hours, or even days, but you must try not to stimulate her in any way.”

My heart rate had gotten even speedier, but I slowly started to walk to my mom’s room.

It was like a gust of wind blowing over me, as I took in her presence in the small armchair as she shook her head at a doctor and said, “Look, I don’t know what the fuss is about. I’m fine. It was probably just a bump on my head. Will you get my husband please?”

She spotted me and sighed, “Richard! What are you doing here? Where’s your father? Shouldn’t you be in school? Oh, what am I saying? It’s Christmas, apparently.”

I couldn’t control my emotions as I stood there staring raptly at her, breathing heavier and heavier by the minute. I felt a smile making its way across my face as relief, a kind of relief that was so rare to me these days, spread through every section of my heart, my mind and my body.

“Mom,” I breathed.

She smiled, “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Where’s your brother? Surely you didn’t come to New York on your own,” she said with a chuckle.

I shook my head, “No. Fitch is on his way.”

That wasn’t a complete lie. The nurses had said they’d try to get in touch with him immediately.

“What happened?” she asked.

I looked nervously at the doctor and he said, “Can I please speak to you outside?”