I’m wired and anxious to have breakfast with my parents. I would prefer not to see them, but it’s the only way they agreed to leave. Their flight’s today. I’m up, dressed, and on my way to the city long before I have to be there. I just want to get this over with.
When I arrive at La Mondrian -- only the best for Alice and Chuck Palmer -- I bide my time by the pool, drinking coffee. I’m not going to their room any earlier than I have to. The time goes by too fast and too slow, but like all things, the inevitable comes, and it’s time to go up.
Mom answers the door wearing a crisp linen skirt and blouse. Her hair’s in her usual ponytail, her makeup light, but her fresh look is complete with a simple string of pearls.
“Silas, honey.” She kisses me on the cheek and gives me a long hug.
I’m somewhat taken aback because it almost feels sincere. I don’t know if it’s me and my wishing for that to be the case, or if it really is. Either way, it doesn’t matter. She kills my sentimental thoughts as soon as she starts talking.
“Silas, have you considered what quitting the band means?”
She pours us coffee and motions for me to sit with her. Reluctantly, I obey.
“Yes, Mom, I have.”
“Honey, I don’t know how to say this, but you need to know that even with you doing this, we can’t… um, we can’t…” Her eyes flick to the doorway that leads to where the bed and bathroom are. It’s like she’s seeking reinforcements. My dad.
“Just say it, Mom.” My exasperation is strong and clear in my tone.
“What your mother is trying to say is that we can’t take a reduction in the money you send us even if you quit the band.” My father strolls into the room like he rules the world, his hands busy knotting his tie. “It’s simply not an option.”
Our gazes lock, his hard eyes challenging me, almost wishing that I’ll take him on.
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me, son.” His tone is somewhat softer, especially on the word son, but the hard glint is still in his eyes.
“Well, I haven’t even got there yet. I need to talk to my financial advisor to figure things out. It all depends on what I plan on doing next.”
I’ve never begrudged them anything, and even now, when my money is all they seem to care about, I still don’t want to leave them high and dry. They wouldn’t be destitute, or at least, I don’t think so, but either way, they are my parents.
Even with all of this, it still feels wrong, and it hurts like a motherfucker to have them dictate to me what I can and can’t do with my money. No matter how many times I go over our past, I don’t know how we got here.
“Silas, you don’t…”
“Chuck,” my mother interjects. A scowl covers his face, and she comes to his side, tugging on his arm. “We should eat or else we’re going to be late for the airport.”
He mutters under his breath, but relents and sits to eat. Our meal is rife with unspoken words, and we all pick at our food, hardly eating anything. Our appetites are lost to the thick tension in the air.
Mom dabs at the corner of her mouth with the napkin and puts on a tight smile. “Well, we best be going or else we’re going to miss our flight.”
“Yes, let’s go,” my father responds tersely, his eyes finding mine. “We’ll continue this conversation another time.”
Not a chance.
“Have a safe flight,” I say, heading to the door.
“But wait, aren’t you driving us?” Mom is quick to ask, her worrisome nature rising to the surface.
“No, I figured it would be best to have a driver take you. The limo is downstairs waiting for you.” I don’t look back as I walk out the door.
My chest aches like I’ve got an elephant sitting on it and breathing is hard. Fuck, why does this have to hurt so much? Anger runs like hot lava through my veins, and the urge to hit something is overwhelming.
Lost, fearing I’ll lose control, and with nowhere to go, I drive for a while along the coast, trying to find some peace or balance or whatever the fuck is going to help. The one thing I want right now, the one person, isn’t available. Pansy.
It’s then that I find myself doing the most unexpected thing of all. Pulling to the side of the road, I call Dr. Wexford, my therapist. I haven’t spoken to her in almost a year, and I’m surprised when she answers, and even more so when she tells me that she has time for me.
She’s waiting for me on the front step of her beach house. She’s a pretty woman in her early forties with bangs and long dark hair that she wears tied in a low ponytail. Her long, flowing dress and her willowy figure sway with the breeze.
“Silas, it’s so good to see you,” she greets me with a warm smile and handshake.
“Dr. Wexford, thank you for seeing me, it was… ah… spur of the moment.”
“Sometimes, that’s the best way.” She turns, and I follow her up the steps to her office above the garage. “It just so happens my usual appointment is on vacation, so I was free. I’m so glad that I was. It’s been a long time. How are you doing?”
Her office hasn’t changed since I was last there. It’s nothing like a doctor’s office, but more like a living room, with warm colors, comfortable furniture, a fountain, plants, and beautiful art. Behind her desk is a picture window overlooking the Pacific Ocean. I always feel calm and at peace in her space, even when I dreaded coming.
Sitting in an armchair, I glance her way, and she smiles encouragingly.
“I’m good. No, for the most part, I’m great. I met someone, and she’s changed my life in so many ways.”
“I can tell by the way you speak about her. Tell me more?” She crosses her legs in the overstuffed chair.
She listens, asking few but pertinent questions as I tell her all about Pansy. How we met, how things are now, and that I want her to live with me.
“She sounds like a remarkable young woman. I hope to meet her someday.” I nod and smile, feeling a bit self-conscious about having spilled my heart and soul to her, although she knows all there is to know about me. “What’s the but?”
“Pardon?” I furrow my brow, puzzled.
“I’m sensing that something is bothering you. Something prompted you to call me. And I’m glad you did. It can’t be that Pansy is not living with you, so tell me, what is it?”
Her soft, lyrical voice weakens me, and like water gushing from a breached dam, all my hurt, disappointment, and anger concerning my parents spills out of me.
Dr. Wexford knows the history with my parents, and the current state hasn’t changed since the last time I saw her. In fact, we spent most of our time focused on my mother and father. She also knew about my unhappiness with the band and wanting a change, but she felt a lot of my anger was rooted in my relationship with my parents. Or lack thereof.
“How did it make you feel when your father told you that lowering or stopping the deposits wasn’t an option?”
I’d forgotten how her simple questions, almost pointless because the answers are so obvious that a response isn’t needed, are always the hardest to answer. She gets to the crux of things simply and straightforwardly.
My response is on the tip of my tongue, yet my throat tightens, and my heart thunders against my rib cage. Fuck, saying it out loud isn’t easy.
“It pisses me off,” I grind out, my jaw clenching so tight it makes my head throbs. “Hurts. Like I’m worthless.”
“Worthless? How so?” Again, she’s curious at my choice of word, yet I’d bet she already has the answer.
“I don’t matter.” My voice cracks and I clear my throat, flicking my eyes to the floor.
Fuck, why did I come here? Because I want to talk about this. Because I want to put an end to this burning, all-consuming anger inside of me.
“Tell me more,” she prompts, her voice soft and soothing.
“My money is all they see and not their son.” I swallow hard and clasp my hands together with my head hung low.
The ugly, gut-wrenching feeling sits low in my belly. Oppressive and suffocating. Then the anger comes and burns as it washes over me.
“Talk to me, Silas.”
“Why the fuck am I ashamed?” My voice is steely cold and my fists so tight that my knuckles are white and the veins in my forearms are pulsing and bulging. “I don’t get it.”
“What don’t you get?”
I’m starting to get tired of her questions, but I catch myself and recognize what it is that I’m doing. It’s my knee-jerk reaction to redirect my anger at whoever is in my vicinity. Dr. Wexford always said the first step was to acknowledge the anger and the need to lash out. Don’t give in to it, I am in control, but recognize it because then I can choose.
“What happened to them? Between us? When did I become just a bank to them and nothing more? They don’t care about my music or the band. They haven’t asked once why I want to quit.”
“If your parents were here right now, what would you say to them?”
Lifting my head, I stare into her dark eyes that hold only patience and compassion.
“What? I don’t know.”
“You don’t know what you’d say to them? Really?” she pushes.
“I’d say nothing. That’s what I always do.” Defeat floods my voice, and it disgusts me.
“Okay. I’ve got some homework for you. Are you doing the exercises I’d given you to do?”
“Sometimes, not every day like you told me. Only when I feel on edge.”
Nodding, like she expected that answer, she says, “All right. I want you to do the exercises daily and also when you need it. And I want you to think about what you’d say to your parents. No holding back. Write it down and bring it next time you come. I’d like to see you next week.”
“Okay.”
We say our goodbyes, and as I walk to my car, I’m caught up in what I already know. Confronting them about their behavior is what strangles me. It stifles my air, redirecting and breathing life into my anger.
I know what I want to say, but fear has me by the balls. It could change everything. It could end things.
And as much as this hurts, as much as I want this to stop, I don’t know if I can ever say what I want to them for fear of losing them forever.