The sweat seeping in at the corners of his eyes nearly sealed them. Laced with the previous evening’s indulgences, Bishop’s morning run had his forehead pouring toxins directly under his eyelids. Pungent and sour, he appeared through the front door of his empty home—heading straight for the kitchen to rehydrate after a steady five-mile jaunt through the gated community.
Irritated with a sense of inflammation, his insides ached for something other than vodka. Three eight-ounces of water down, and he was up the stairs, stripping as he made his way to the shower. The water warming, he examined himself in the mirror. His body still chiseled, yet his face and eyes carried a certain wasted look—the look one might awaken with after a four-day binge in Tijuana. Tired and lacking turgor, his skin appeared to need a boost of life.
“Slow down, Bishop.” Whispering to his reflection elicited an awkward feeling. Flashing a boyish smile, he convinced himself his current ailments could be mended with detox and a good book by the pool.
Showered, shaved, and carrot juice in hand—he made his way to the poolside with Rage by Johnathan Kellerman. Twenty pages in and he found himself sweating again—a good thing, but annoying just the same.
Last gulp of carrot juice down, he contemplated swimming or at least wading in the shallow end. Much to his surprise, his mother’s voice announced her arrival from behind him.
“Bish. How are you, dear?”
“Oh…hey, Mom.”
Dressed in a simple sundress, his mother maintained her elegance effectively. At her side was her houseguest, a woman dressed anything but simple. “Bishop, you remember Dr. Monica Holms?”
“Um…I don’t believe so.”
Standing to greet the flashy woman, Bishop set his empty glass aside.
“I remember you when you were just a tot. Absolutely precious.”
“Oh…well, thank you.” As he shook her hand he studied her face—attempting to recollect a memory of her.
“Bishop, Dr. Holms has been a friend for years. I learned just last month she’d be practicing per-diem in the area.”
“Oh…well, I guess that’s good. Can never have too many friendly faces. What’s your specialty, Dr. Holms?”
“Please, call me Monica. I’m a psychiatrist.”
Her gentle smile was anything but alarming or intrusive, yet Bishop understood exactly the nature of this impromptu introduction of his mother’s long-lost colleague.
Diverting eye contact while assuring to maintain his smile, Bishop basked in the sun and awkward silence that fell about the scene for nearly five seconds.
“Your mother is treating me to dinner this evening, Bishop…won’t you join us?”
“Um…yeah, sure. I don’t have any plans.”
“Fantastic. I’m interested to learn of your plans to repatriate South Africa.”
“Oh, well I’m definitely still in the planning phase.”
“Aren’t we all?”
“Guess so.”
“It was excellent re-meeting you, Bishop. I’m afraid I’ll need to head indoors to escape the heat.”
“Nice meeting you too.”
With Monica’s back to him, Bishop attempted diligently to shoot his mom a look of disapproval. The glance fell flat to the pavement as she failed to make eye-contact—perhaps intentionally.
Both ladies safely inside and free of the sun, Bishop was free to continue detoxing. Returning to the poolside, Bishop closed his eyes—squeezed them shut. The backs of either eyelid glowing a dull red as he inhaled deeply through his nose—clenching his teeth as the sun beat down atop his head. Either arm extended to his side, fingertips pointing opposite of each other, he blindly fell forward, the water forcefully slapping his front.
The stinging and numbing was brief. He surfaced to look to the sky—bright, blue and endless. Always there, yet never constant, the sky seemed to have mastered the art of adjustment. A silly thought, but a thought just the same.
This change would be for the best…it had to be for the best.
***
“Bishop, your mother tells me you won’t be ordering the lobster.” Monica Holms was dressed in an extravagant ensemble. Seated across from Bishop and his mother at the pricey restaurant, she smiled and awaited Bishop’s reply.
“Nope. No lobster for me.”
“You have a kind heart.”
“Yeah. Maybe.”
The greenery on his plate was completely disheveled as Bishop moved the salad around with his fork—very little had made it to his mouth.
“Albert?”
“Ha…I take it Mom told you about that.”
“She certainly did. I think it’s priceless.”
Clattering, clinging, and numerous young athletic wait staff boasting brilliant-white aprons and loud voices as they whisked by—made it all for an almost claustrophobic environment.
“I guess. I was only nine.”
“So you think your actions would differ now? Would you have saved Albert now?”
Placing his fork atop his plate, he looked to Monica and shook his head. “I would have smashed his claws off.”
His words halted the conversation momentarily and eased the smile from Monica’s face.
“Albert…the lobster. I should have taken his claws off before I let him go. Maybe then if he got caught again they wouldn’t keep him and just toss him back.”
“Oh. Well, you don’t think he might have needed them?”
“They’d have grown back…eventually.”
“Aw, I see. Well hopefully Albert learned his lesson the first time and doesn’t get captured again.”
Only offering a simple smile, Bishop returned to the mutilation of his salad.
“You’re not eating, Bish.” His mother’s soft words were coupled with her hand on his shoulder.
“Stomach’s bothering me.”
“You should have said something. I have Imodium.” As his mother reached for her purse, Bishop smiled, stretched, and looked to the light fixture hanging in the center of the table.
“I don’t have diar…I don’t need Imodium, Mom.”
“Oh…heartburn?”
“Nah. I drank too much last night. Got pretty hammered. The gut’s not likin’ it today.”
The silence at the table said it all. Both women were taken aback by his passive proclamation. “What? That’s why we’re here, isn’t it?”
“I beg your pardon?” Monica sat her fork down as her tone and expression developed a seriousness they’d previously lacked.
“Mom thinks I’m not dealing…or coping. She thinks I’m drinking too much and asked you for help. Right?”
“Bish…honey, please.”
“Mom…I’m not mad or anything. I get it. I’m just saying let’s cut the bullshit and just…I dunno. Let’s just get to it.”
“Get to it?” Almost instantly, Monica’s stature took on a professional and even clinical demeanor.
“If my mom is worried enough to ask for your help then I’ll do whatever it is you think I need to do. I’ll come see you or go wherever.”
The noise continued around them, but Bishop was left feeling isolated with his mother and Monica—as if the table were in an empty building.
“Bishop, I don’t believe you need to go anywhere. I do however feel it may be beneficial to meet with me one on one at least once. Nothing too intense, and if needed, maybe I can refer you to a colleague after.”
“Okay.” Looking to his salad plate once more, Bishop found the kiss his mother planted on his cheek comforting rather than intrusive or embarrassing.
“My sweet boy. Would you like some cake? Maybe that will sit well with you.”
“Sure.”