If the water was even a few degrees hotter it would be completely unbearable. The cast-iron claw foot tub was long and deep enough to submerge him completely—yet it couldn’t drown the guilt from his psyche. The ache was back in his belly and his head pounded as the sweat poured from his brow to the water he was soaking in.
He had not only drunk alcohol—he had wasted the entire morning attempting to recover from the night of drinking. Recollecting memories of the previous evening conjured nothing even remotely inviting. Disappointment, fatigue and the general feeling of worthlessness all seemed un-washable.
Pink and nearly desensitized, the skin on either thigh submerged beneath the water bore a stark difference to the white skin sticking out of the steaming bath water.
All but silent—all but still—the house was a lonely place to retreat. His body wasn’t all that was soaking. His mind was saturated in ill thoughts—thoughts inconsistent with the ability to thrive.
More than a hiccup or a slipup, the night out had proven to be a disastrous detour, leaving Bishop longing for some sort of comfort, yet yearning to be free of any form of communication.
It couldn’t be described as numb. Numb comes with benefits—numb is earned through withstanding and eventually growing immune. This was something more.
He wondered where he’d be if not for his parents and his privilege. Would he be homeless? One might assume he’d be grateful for the refuge, yet Bishop harbored a certain resentment toward his folks. If not for them, he could go too. He could leave this wretched world without any worry of the aftermath touching his loved ones. If not for them…he could drift away.
Pinching his nose, he slid under the water—opening his eyes. Several seconds passed and he was screaming under the water. As he emerged—fists ready to pummel something—he looked frantically toward the medicine cabinet.
Silence.
The only sound was drops of water diving from his hair and face to the bath water below him as he eyed the large antique oak cabinet in the corner of the elegant bathroom.
There’s nothing wrong with looking.
Lifting himself from the steaming water, he made his way to the cabinet without even attempting to towel off.
For being physicians, his parents didn’t practice proper medication disposal well. The cabinet contained an assortment of expired narcotics and relaxants—everything one might need to feel altered—or to sleep indefinitely.
‘To alleviate pain’ the words read so simply—as if it were that simple. Setting the bottle down, Bishop imagined his parent’s pain if they lost him too. This wasn’t him. This couldn’t be him. But there was no escaping this ache—this feeling. This wasn’t escapable with painkillers or vodka. This wasn’t something that would wash down the drain like a long day. Still, he slid back into the uncomfortably hot bath and continued to soak, hoping something would suddenly change or self-resolve.
At least thirty minutes later—his skin wrinkled and waterlogged—he made his way dripping down the hall to his room. Slipping into some boxers, he crawled back into bed. It was nearly eleven in the morning, but with sleep comes escape and Bishop longed to escape what he was feeling.
Comforter to his chin, he was drifting within seconds.
***
“Bish…sweet boy. Are you ill?” His mother’s soft words gently eased him from slumber.
“Mom?” Perhaps earlier he wanted to be left alone, but seeing her face sent Bishop setting up in bed and reaching for her. “I love you, Mom. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” His mother welcomed his hug.
“You’re okay. We’re okay. We had a late night last night.”
“I know. I’m sorry. I was doing so good—”
“You still are, sweet boy. Not today. No tears and despair today. Today is a new day and I want to enjoy it with you. Please, get dressed so we can grab a bite to eat.”
“You’re not disappointed in me?”
The soft palm of her open hand rested aside his face—cool and soothing as a childhood lullaby. “Never.”
Dressed and somewhat energized, Bishop exited the house with his mother and a shy smile. The previous evening’s poor decisions lingered slightly but for the most part his mood was improving.
“What sounds good, Bish?”
“Food. Lots of food.”
“Would you like to grab takeout and go to the park.”
“Sounds great.”
At the park, Bishop and his mother enjoyed Italian food and calm weather. The table they sat at was more than likely older than Bishop and was shaded by large trees. The park was off the west side of the lake Bishop often ran at.
A mild breeze circulated the air and carried with it countless conversations and other noises.
His mouth full of food, Bishop looked to his vibrating phone—Jenna.
“Hello.”
“What the hell, Bishop…you just bailed and then you don’t reply. I didn’t know what to think.”
“Sorry…I told your friend I was leaving.”
“Did you take a cab?”
“Nah…my mom picked me up.”
“Oh. I kinda thought we were going back to my place.”
“My bad.”
“Um…okay. Well, it was good seeing you. Take care.”
“You too, Jenna.”
Setting his phone aside, Bishop looked to his mother. “Thank you, Mom. I really am sorry. Thank you for coming and getting me.”
“Bishop, you needn’t thank me for doing my job. You’re my son…I’d do anything for you.”
“I know, Mom. But it isn’t your job to sort out my issues.”
“Perhaps not, sweet boy, but it is my job to remain supportive while you sort them out.”
“Well…looks like you’re going to be remaining supportive for a while.” Bishop’s grin opened for another bite.
“When you smile…your beautiful smile…I see the light in you. I know it’s in you.”
As he chewed his food, he eyed his mother carefully. “Yeah, well, I think my light is almost gone.”
Her soft chuckle was coupled with a grin. “Sweet boy…even the most gorgeous day is most beautiful when its light is almost gone.”
“Whatever that means.”
“Be patient, Bishop. Minds heal in mysterious ways. If we go through life discrediting hard work and perseverance each time we slip, we’ll slide away from any measurable amount of success. The idea is to take whatever we can from it and use it. I’m not asking you for perfection or even an apology…I’m asking you to use it. And…I don’t care if you’re twenty-three or fifty-four, as long as I’m capable of driving I’ll always be more than happy to rescue you from promiscuous Jezebels and sleazy club scenes at one in the morning.”
Shaking his head while chuckling, Bishop reached for his mother’s hand. “I love you, Mom.”
“And I love you, Bish.”