She scoots closer, wrapping her hand up and around my shoulder. “I know it’s complicated, but you’re my nephew, and I’ll always be here for you in any way you need, especially when it comes to your mother.” Her voice lowers, and I can tell she’s getting choked up, emotion coming up after being dormant for too long. “I only ever want the best for you. What can I do to help?”
I hate that she’s so forgiving, that she’s offering more instead of scolding me for not telling her the truth when it needed to be told. And that I was truly scared of telling her to begin with.
“I don’t know, Aunt Bess.”
Then a thought comes to me. Those words that mom said to me about my father. The comment has been popping up for memore than I care to admit. It comes back to haunt me when I’m in the shower, the second I lay my head down at night, and at varying points in my day.
The comment, while so small and potentially meaningless, embeds itself under my skin. If there’s anyone who may have any information about it, it’d be her.
“Actually, can I ask you something?”
“Anything.”
I look to the ground, focusing my attention there as I work up the courage. Stupid, but the little boy inside me who lived without a father figure his entire life, who was told that he left and didn’t care enough to guide me or watch me grow is terrified of an answer. Of the same unknown he’s lived with forever.
“What is it, Colson?”
Elbows on my knees, I clasp my hands together. “Mom made a comment about my father.”
Hearing it surprises her as much as it did me that night. Her hand drops from my shoulder, and she works her fingers over in her lap, rubbing her palms against the scratchy-looking fabric of her pants. “What did she say?”
“Just something small. We were getting into it, and she said:Just like your father.” I turn to look at her, seeing the discomfort on her face plain as day.
My biological father isn’t a topic we talk about often. There’s never been anything to discuss. He left. Never gave mom child support to take care of me. Never showed his face on weekends or birthdays.
All these years later and it’s still hard as hell to bring him up.
“She’s never commented on him before. I know nothingabout him, Aunt Bess. So, why would she suddenly say that to me?” The question that has come up for me over and over spills out of my mouth. “Does she know who he is?Hasshe known, all this time?”
With my mom’s history with drugs, I’ve always thought that she didn’t remember who my biological father was or literally didn’t know. Harrison Heights isn’t home to the best people. Fuck, there’re a shit ton of guys lurking who would take advantage of an innocent woman.
But now…
I’m thinking that’s not the case at all.
And maybe, if he is out there, he isn’t so bad. Maybe he’s the better half of the DNA that created me.
“Colson, I?—”
The way Aunt Bess says my name makes my heart sprint with speed. It bangs against my ribs wildly. “Do you know something that I don’t?”
“I don’t know why she’d say that to you.”
Her hands fold in one another. Her shoulders shiver with unease. If she knows something, and has all this time, I need to know.
“Was she in her right mind when it came out? You said she relapsed. Was she…?”
Was she high as a kite?
“Yes…” but that shouldn’t take away from those four words. Perhaps they came from deep inside her subconscious. Like how people have this unwavering honesty when they drink.
“Then that must be why,” Aunt Bess deducts. “It wouldn’t be the first time something off the wall has come out of her mouth being under the influence.”
I’d like to think that, too.
I really would.
But my gut, my instinct, screams bullshit at Aunt Bess’s conclusion. It’s not just what mom said. It’showshe said it. Like she knew. And it makes me wonder if I’ve had something kept from me.
