11: Mother Dearest
—Dejvice, Prague, November 2016—
Since Mike’s visit, a specter had followed Simon everywhere. It was exhausting.
Simon caught himself looking around on the streets, watching the passing strangers like he had the first few months after Matěj had left. He checked his phone more often, expecting a call from no one in particular. He woke up with a start every morning and experienced even more trouble falling asleep. He felt it coming at him from all sides, nowhere to hide. The Big Bad Truth was going to catch him, rip him apart and swallow him like a bag of cookies, leaving small lifeless crumbs of Simon on the ground to be eaten by Prague’s most disease-infested pigeons. And he was being melodramatic.
There was a chance that Mike and Marta would find Matěj. Simon knew rationally what the most probable outcome would be. Still, he had to go and start daydreaming about explanations and excusable circumstances. It was Marta’s fault. She made him into a marshmallow through her constant worrying, babying, and hugging. Oh, he loved the hugging, with the little pat on his head…
Then she became independent, making the sad, gay shrink painstakingly superfluous. And while Simon was feeling as though he’d been gutted with a ladle, the annual visit of his parents happened.
His mother was almost as tall as him; gaunt and gray-haired, dressed completely in black, she looked like an old librarian to a library where the shelves were shaped according to a Möbius strip. Simon had tried for years to convince himself of his unconditional love for his parents, but they did not make it easy. He thought he was a bad person because he couldn’t forgive and forget; they were the people who’d brought him into this world, taken care of him, loved him in their way and even tried to understand him—not successfully, but that was beside the point. Staring into his mother’s eyes now, Simon felt guilty and ungrateful.
“We’re visiting some friends tomorrow, and in the evening, we have tickets to the Lucerna Theatre. We’ll take the train back to Brno on Monday morning, but we’re free tonight.”
She never said what she really wanted. There were only hints and suggestions. He wanted to yell at her so many times—what the hell do you want? He never did, though.
His father nursed his beer, people-watching moodily. He hated crowds. The trip to Prague was Simon’s mother’s idea, as usual.
“Sorry, but I can’t tonight. I’m holding a guest lecture on Monday. I really need to work on it.” It was a blatant lie, but his parents knew nothing about his job, just like they knew nothing about his thoughts and opinions. They were better off not knowing.
His mother barely blinked at the refusal. “How is Marta?”
“She’s fine, I think. Happy. She’s dating someone new.” Simon thought he’d bring the conversation to a safe, more distant topic. Apparently, he was terribly wrong.
Mrs. Mráz looked like a wax figure just then. Her lips barely moved so it seemed like the voice came from some kind of a speaker device hidden cleverly in her stiff coat. “Such a waste,” she mumbled.
“Helena…” Simon’s father sighed, not looking at them.
“He’s thirty-six years old!”
“He is right here,” Simon said calmly.
“Simon, please! You do not look good, and I know you’ve been unhappy since Marta moved away. Why couldn’t you just—” She caught herself, straightened in her seat, and said in a lower voice, “You have many friends in the field. Couldn’t you talk about it with someone? There are organizations who help people like you.”
“Your people do a lot of helping as well.”
“Don’t be ironic with me! We do help—more than you’ll ever know. And I can’t give up hope there is some solution for you.” She actually blinked away tears. Boy, she was good. Simon suppressed the evil smirk fighting its way out. “You have been given so many gifts and you decided to throw them all back in our face.” She did not dare to mention God, but Simon could see the itch in her whole body. It cost her a lot to be this mild.
“There was no decision, Mom.”
“Of course there was! We are all born selfish animals. Then we grow and learn restraint! You used to be so guarded, so sensible. You say yourself you rely on reason. Everything you do every day…you do all of it consciously. That’s why I don’t understand why you chose this…this twisted way—”
And that was about as much as Simon could manage. His mother had avoided the topic of his sexuality lately so he hadn’t taken into account how she might react to the news about Marta. He should have kept his mouth shut. He started gathering his things in an apparent intent to leave as soon as possible. There were no theatrics. He just really needed to leave or he would have to grab his mother’s shoulders and shake her so violently her earrings would probably fly away like projectiles.
Simon’s father caught her hand on the table, and she sucked in a breath instead of finishing her speech. He looked uncomfortable. Simon thought looking uncomfortable was all his dad ever did—when his mother’s religious fervor showed too much, whenever Simon’s sexual orientation became an issue, and anytime they discussed anything to do with their family. Simon regretted they did not have more children. All the pressure was on him, and he was a bitter disappointment. A convertite, sinner, childless and, well, icky. His mother still tried to convince herself Simon did not act on his “gayness.” The thought of her son touching another man was too much for her. Simon never tried to explain anything anymore. It was fruitless and exhausting.
“I have to go. As I said, I have an important lecture on Monday.”
Simon fled the restaurant heading straight for home. He had to go running. The trip by metro was too long; Simon would suffocate in Prague’s underground one of these days. Trying to block out the dirt, smell of urine, and ever-present people, he climbed the stairs, quickly reaching the open space and taking deep breaths. Up here in Dejvice, the air was almost chilly. He would take his car and drive out of the city to run in the woods. He needed the sense of solitary freedom.
He turned a corner, watching the familiar facades as if he saw them for the first time. Something didn’t add up. Something was different. Was it the weather? Sinister low gray clouds created a lid on the shaking pot of Prague’s inner city. Inversion. That was it. Simon hurried toward his home, breathing heavily. He crossed the street, dodging an angry driver in a polished black Audi. The driver honked, and Simon fought the urge to flip him off.
He was almost home when he saw it. The black bird with a red cap sat glued to the facade high above, next to the third-floor windows. A woodpecker? Here?
Simon stood frozen, staring up at the bird. The woodpecker looked around jerkily and did the unthinkable. It started hammering on the facade, digging a hole in the solid material. The sound echoed in the narrow street. Tap, tap, tap. The bird paused, inclining its tiny head to the side as if contemplating its efforts and then continued. Tap, tap, tap, tap.
Simon stood with his neck bent back, his mouth hanging open. He couldn’t take his eyes off the foolish bird that was doing its damnedest to excavate a hole in the building’s hard surface. Its tiny bird brain had to hurt.
And all Simon saw was himself—banging his head, face first into the stone. Tap. Tap. His job, his patients, his teaching. Tap, tap, tap. His family. Tap. Tap. His friends, his interests, his personal goals. Tap, tap, tap. His love. Tap, tap, tap, tap… The bird continued drilling as if its life depended on it. Tiny pieces of plaster fell down on the sidewalk.
In a wasteland made of stone and concrete, Simon couldn’t even dig himself a hole to crawl into.
***
The run was good. It exhausted him in the right way. Every time he caught himself brooding, he pushed harder; his muddy shoes ate up the trail, the whispery sounds of the autumn woods inaudible over the blood rushing through Simon’s head. He’d puked twice by the time he reached his car. He rinsed his mouth with water and stretched. Then his body went stiff again while he drove back. He scrambled awkwardly out of the car, stumbling toward the elevator like a drunk.
He showered, forced down half a sandwich, and poured himself a glass of pure vodka. The image of the woodpecker digging into the facade wouldn’t leave his mind. He stared at the truly Russian amount of the clear liquid in his glass and smiled bitterly. He deserved a break from himself.
***
Do not drink and dial, Simon, never drink and dial… He tried Marta first. Voice mail. Do not drink and dial, Simon. That was enough. Do not dial the phone, Simon…
“Simon?” Jano’s voice was sleepy and strangely unfamiliar. “Is something wrong? What time is it?”
“I don’t know. I’m sorry,” Simon slurred curling into a ball on the sofa. The room swayed a little.
“Oh, hell, Simon, baby…” Simon winced at the endearment. Why the fuck did it not feel right? Why hadn’t it ever felt right? “You’re drunk, aren’t you?”
“I think so.”
“What do you need, Simon? I feel like…” Jano sighed audibly, and Simon closed his eyes. “I wanted you to need me, Simon, so much. I wanted to help you. But I can’t save you, baby. You’d kill me in the process.”
Simon couldn’t feel anything but deep respect for the man. He was smart. Simon thought he should say so.
“You’re really smart, Jano, really smart,” he said.
“Yeah, much good it did me.” Another deep sigh. Simon lay on his side, one hand barely holding the phone limply over his ear. “I’m going to let you go, Simon, okay? I have to let you go now.” And Simon knew, even through the alcoholic fog, that Jano didn’t mean just hanging up the phone.
“I’m so sorry,” Simon mumbled, “so sorry.”
“I know. Get some sleep, okay?”
“Yeah.”
“You’re going to be okay?”
“Yeah.”
“Goodbye, Simon.”
“Bye.” The line went silent.
There it was. The D-word transformed yet again. Now it was a pool of tar. The more Simon thrashed around, the deeper he sank into the blind heavy wetness. It seeped into his pores, glued his eyes and ears shut. It got into his mouth robbing him of taste. It stuck to his fingers tarnishing his touch, blackened his lungs and poisoned his mind.
So, this was how it felt, then. The Big D. Briefly finding himself in the eye of a storm, Simon experienced a few seconds of clarity. All the symptoms, those early signs, his friends’ warnings, the insomnia, the exhaustion, the constant running when the endorphin rush never seemed to arrive anymore. Instead, he threw up every other day. Doctor Simon Mráz, the renowned psychiatrist, was depressed.
Simon began crying. It was the ugly, bawling, snotty kind of crying.