I furrow my brow. “Why? That’s the worst place to blame someone for anything, whether it’s true or not. You were grieving your mother.”
We’ve both slid down the bed so we’re lying back, heads on the pillows, facing one another. Adam sighs. “Yeah, I guess there could’ve been a better time. But I was always running away from my problems, you know? I never forgave my mother for staying with my dad.”
“William’s son, right?”
“Yeah. You ever heard Gramps talk about my dad?”
I nod, widening my eyes a little bit as I remember. “Yup. He isn’t…well. He’s not impressed with him, I can say that.”
“My dad is an alcoholic.” Adam winces. “Like me. But unlike me, he gets mean and violent when he drinks. He started when his own mom died, when we were little. And honestly. That’s when I started getting carried away with my cups. When my mom died. Apple doesn’t fall far, I guess.”
“Is your dad still drinking?” I ask.
Adam lets out a sad sigh. “Every damn day, far as I know.”
“See,” I say. “The apple isn’t as close as you fear.”
“Maybe.” He doesn’t sound convinced. “Anyway. Yeah. My sisters really got on my case, and I can’t say that I didn’t deserve it. I should have visited more. Answered the phone more. But like I said, my MO is to run away. I ran away from my family because I was so angry at my parents. I stayed away from my siblings because I wanted what they had—spouses and kids—but I didn’t think I was good enough to have it. Seeing them was painful, so I just stopped. Got busy with work. Traveled as much as I could. Took on as many assignments as I could, and then some.” Heclears his throat and I’m under the impression that he wants to cry but will not. “And yeah, when my mom died, that whole game plan just crumbled to dust. I sometimes drank a little too much in college, but that was it beforehand. After the funeral, it started as a drink after work, every day. Then two. Then the whole six-pack. Then one day, I looked at the empty bottles in the recycling and had a flashback to my childhood. My dad’s weekly pile of bottles. That’s when I stopped completely. Six months ago.”
“Six months sober?” I ask.
“Six months sober.”
“You should tell your siblings about it,” I say to him. “Your anger. The pain. Your journey in sobriety.”
“I should, but I don’t know what to say. I’m in the family group chat and I never participate. They probably have a separate group chat just to talk shit about me.” He chuckles, but it’s such a sad laugh that I wrap my arms around him and squeeze him tight.
“They don’t text you at all? Not even aHey, how have you been?”
Adam shrugs. “I mean, yeah. But I don’t really know what to say back. I can feel the weight of their accusations every time they get in touch. Gramps says that’s just my guilt talking, but…” He sighs.
I decide to try to the steer the topic into what are hopefully happier memories. “I’m so sorry your mom died, Adam,” I say as softly as I can. “Can I ask, what was she like?”
Adam leans back and closes his eyes, and I can almost see the memories gliding through his brain. A half smile appears on his face, and his shoulders relax, and I instantly know that she was good. A good person and a good mother, even with her faults thatcaused so much anger in him. She had to have been, for his nervous system to completely relax at the thought of her.
“She liked baking and cooking for people. Like you, actually.” Adam opens his eyes, staring at me and blinking a few times. “But she focused more on the baking.”
“What was her specialty dish?” I ask.
“Cheesecake. She would blow her baking budget on real vanilla pods from the fancy health food store. When we were little, I used to watch her slice them open and scrape the seeds into the cheesecake batter. When I got older, she began making her own vanilla extracts. Birthday gifts were so easy for her. Get her a dried vanilla pod variety pack from all over the world. She would screech with happiness every time.”
I smile. “Was it always vanilla cheesecake?”
“In a way, yes. Her cheesecakes always had vanilla. Like, that was her base. But she’d made every flavor imaginable. We used to joke that she could open the dessert portion of Cheesecake Factory from her kitchen.”
“Which flavor was your favorite?” I asked, leaning into his shoulder, running my hands over the soft fabric covering his chest.
“Peanut butter chocolate. She would make the thick, homemade whipped cream and make it even better by adding chocolate flavoring to it. She’d put it in one of those bakery bags and pipe it all over the cheesecake, then shave chocolate on top.”
“Mmm.” I close my eyes, and I can see it: the dessert, delicious and beautiful and lovingly made. “That sounds so good. Was the cheesecake peanut butter flavored or chocolate flavored or both?”
“Peanut butter. Then she’d make this ganache and drizzle itover the top. It’s what she—” He chokes up. “Sorry.” He takes one deep, slow breath. “She always made it for my birthday. Except for the year she died, since I didn’t make it down.”
“Do you need to cry? It sounds like you need to cry.” I glance up at him.
He shakes his head. “I probably do need to cry, but I really don’t want to right now.”
I nod. “Okay.”
