I glance around her room. The whiteboard says, “Today is Saturday, October 10.” The same photo I have from my wedding of her dancing with me is on her dresser, and there’s a new label that says “your son Maverick”beneath where I’m standing in the photo.
Susan walks over to the dresser and picks up the frame. She hands it to my mother. “See, Marilyn? This is Maverick, not Raymond.”
“Maverick? What a strange name. Sounds like something Ray would’ve come up with.”
I went through a phase where I hated my name. I think every kid does, though Maverick was more unusual than most back then. But I looked up my name when I was in junior high, and I learned that my name means an independent, unconventional, nonconformist.
That might’ve been the moment I decided to live up to what my name meant. That was the moment I learned to respect it rather than to hate it.
I know what she said isn’t personal. She wouldn’t have agreed to name me Maverick if she didn’t like the name. But it feels like it’s the first time she’s ever heard the name, and while it isn’t about me, it still stings.
“May I sit with you for a while?” I ask her.
She wrinkles her nose a bit, and then she seems to relent, nodding to the chair in the corner. Susan stays nearby in the doorway, watching our interactions since my mother doesn’t even know who the fuck I am.
“So you’re my son?” she asks, and she seems confused.
I nod as I walk over to her bedside rather than to the chair. I take her hand in mine. “I’m sorry you’re having a hard time, Mom. I love you very much.”
She squeezes my hand, and she starts to cry. Seeing her like this makesmewant to cry, too. But I don’t. Not now. Not ever. Now is the time to keep my appearance strong for her.
“Tell me about you,” she says with a sniffle. I hand her a tissue and sit in that chair.
“I’m thirty-two. I play football professionally, and I’m here in town because my team is playing the Bengals tomorrow.”
“You should be with your team, honey,” she says.
“I’m just recovering from an injury.”
“Oh!” she cries. “No! What happened?”
“I broke a rib, but I’ll be back in the game next weekend. Promise me you’ll watch?”
“She watches every game you’ve ever played in,” Susan says from the doorway with a wide smile. “She’s very proud of you.”
Emotion pulses behind my eyes again, but I force it away. It’s unfamiliar, and it wasn’t there last time. I was able to get in and out, and while the visit was difficult and hurt, I didn’t leave the place crying. I can’t understand why I’m feeling so much more of the visitthistime compared to last. “Thanks, Mom.”
“Are you married?” she asks, nodding toward the photo of us. “Do I have grandchildren?”
I shake my head. “I’m not married anymore. And no. No grandchildren.” Having to tell her that sparks my own painful memories.
Sheshouldhave one. She should have a daughter-in-law, too. Shedidhave one.
But then it was all ripped away, and the aftermath is what broke me. It’s what turned me into the monster I am today.
That’s when it dawns on me.
Someone else is changing that.
I didn’t cry the last time I visited my mother even though the visit was painful as fuck. I didn’t allow myself to feel. But someone else unlocked those feelings, and now I’m a goddamn mess as I sit here fighting back the waves ofemotion plowing at me from every angle as I have to explain to my own mother who I am.
When it’s time to go, I tell my mom, “See ya later.”
She says it back, and it gives me some hope that not all is lost. It’s how we always say goodbye.
Before I leave, I talk with Susan, who gives me all the latest information, and I let her know I’ll come visit again as soon as I’m able.
And then I head back to the hotel feeling incredibly drained from the single hour of time I spent away from my teammates, knowing I need to face Everleigh after dinner.
