The drive on I-81 feels longer than usual today. I’ve thought about Samantha a lot wondering what I could’ve done for our relationship not to escalate as it did. I never expected her to cheat on me, in my own bed nonetheless. She was, what I always thought, the perfect person by my side. We had good times. I admit though, we barely did anything together. I was focused on playing the piano as she was focused on dance. She spent more time in the studio choreographing new moves as I was composing new music for my YouTube channel. So many people covered top pop and rock songs, as to me I would compose my own music, creating notes that aren’t supposed to be played at the same time. I always thought outside of the box because I’d rather be known as someone that went above and beyond than copied something for the hundredth time.
Often, I would suggest we collaborate in something. I could play on the piano as she would choreograph a dance to match the sound, but her words, not mine, “your music is too slow for what I do,” and that would be the end of it. Thinking back, she never supported my musical path as I promised to always support her. I attended all her shows for school, she came to one of mine, only because it was down from where her time ended and she had to walk by and endure my music.
“You do you, I do me,” she would say as I asked her over and over to come listen to me play. I would assume I wasn’t as good as I thought of myself. She would argue it and make me believe I was good enough. But not good enough for her?
Samantha is on my mind five hours of my trip. The other hour I wonder how this audition would go. Doubting my skills, I contemplate even going. I might just give up on the musical career feeling like I have a bazillion other musicians trying to make it big in the world. Maybe it’s just not my calling?
At a rest stop, after I’ve released from drinking so much soda along the way, I change from some sweats into shorts, my favorite jeans shorts. Funny story, I wash them everyday just so I know they’ll be clean for the next day. I don’t know why I take care of them better than I did my relationship. Truthfully, it was easier and less work. When Samantha and I would be together, it was a lot of sex and barely any talking. I just didn’t realize it wasn’t enough sex for her if she had to go and find someone else to pass the time with.
It’s noon when I arrive at my mom’s house an hour from Manhattan. It’s a beautiful sunny day. My stomach is growling and I look forward to my Mothers cooking. She’s had this obsession about cooking since she was young. I often told her to open her own restaurant, but she said she didn’t have the business brain. Instead, she has worked in the same local restaurant as a chef for the past ten years. She loves it since her boss is her best friend, so it’s friendlier than a job. And when she’s not preparing five course meals at the restaurant, she is cheffing it up at home with new ideas and recipes.
“Mom, I’m home,” I swing open the big green front door and walk into her home as if I own the place.
“Elliot,” gleaming she runs down the stairs and welcomes me with a warm embrace.
“I’m starving,” I admit not having much on the road trip besides soda.
“Sit down, I’ve made vegetable lasagna,” she beams but I’m anything but excited.
“Got anything with meat?”
“Eat a beef jerky to hold you over, but you will try this lasagna,” she demands.
Mother’s orders. You do what she says.
My father, biggest douche of all, left my mother a few years back for a younger woman. It took her a while to get over it, stopped work, and sat in her bedroom day in and day out. She lost faith in herself. She hadn’t dated in years, I don’t think she ever dated after he left her. I of course stood by her side, but it hasn’t been easy. When the heartbreak subsided and she realized there’s more to life than just her broken marriage, the old mom came back. The life of the party. The lady you would respect but could have sarcastic conversations with no hurt feelings. She’s always been my role model. More than my father ever tried to be, even before they divorced.
The day their divorce was finalized was the last day I saw my father. I was only a teenager, but even then I knew he wasn’t much of a man and not anything I would ever wanted to resemble. I’ve grown to despise him more than my mother ever could.
“How was the trip?” she asked as she prepared our lunch.
Sitting at her kitchen bar watching her, “it wasn’t half bad today.”
“How’s Samantha?”
“I don’t know.” I debate whether to start telling her everything now or after we eat.
“How do you not know? You didn’t see her when you left this morning?”
“Actually mom, we’re broken up,” I ease into the conversation.
“What?” she’s shocked as she stops mid room before handing me my plate, “what do you mean broken up? You two were so good together.”
“Yeah, the five minutes we would see each other,” I snort, “but that’s not the only reason.”
“There’s more?”
“She cheated on me,” I’m blunt.
“How do you know that?” you can tell she doesn’t believe it.
“I caught her,” I spare her the details of that image.
“Caught her?” she seems clueless.
“Mom! You know when you catch two people naked in bed together, doing the you know what, pretty good indication she’s cheating on you.”
“Honey, I’m so sorry,” she places her hand on mine, “I had no idea she was that type.”
“Neither did I mom, neither did I,” I roll my eyes as I take the first bite.
“So, what do you think?” she’s making me uncomfortable watching me eat.
“About Samantha?”
“No silly, the lasagna,” she laughs.
“It’s not bad.”
“Not bad? You kidding me? It’s delicious,” she beams.
“It’s delicious Mom,” I say as I kiss her cheek and remind her what a great cook she is. She loves compliments.
“There’s something else, ma,” nerves are starting to get the best of me.
“Oh no, what else?” she’s prepared for the worst.
“I, um, “I,” I stutter, “I have an audition,” I take a long pause as her eyes are getting bigger and bigger, “an audition for the New York Philharmonic,” I wait for a reply on her part.
“I need you to repeat that,” she’s smiling.
“I can’t. I still don’t believe it myself,” I admit.
“Elliot! Elliot! Oh my god, I’m so proud of you,” she drops her forks and leans in for a hug, “I’m so fucking proud of you.”
“Mom! Since when do you curse?”
“Since I’m so fucking proud of my son, that’s when,” we both laugh.
I wouldn’t say I’m a momma’s boy, but I do try to make her proud and take care of her. I admire her smile. Her devotion. And most of all, her strength. She’s been there for me over the years no matter where she had to drag me to, what horrible sounds she had to endure while I learned the piano, but she was always by my side supporting and pushing me. Not once did she give up on me even though I had given up on myself.
As my cell phone rings with the call I’d been expecting all day, I’m pacing the living room debating whether I should answer or not. It’s now or never.