Short Sighted

An unknown number appears on my phone when it rings. It’s probably my son. He’ll be polite at first and ask me how I’m doing, then suggest we go to lunch or a movie. I will pay, of course. I’m the mom. But I know he doesn’t care how I’m doing, and certainly doesn’t want to see a movie. Lunch maybe. He never turns down food. He’ll suggest sushi, because he knows I can’t resist our special place, or what used to be our special place. But we always end up at a fast food drive-through where he’ll order two milk shakes…one vanilla, one chocolate.

“Don’t you want a cheeseburger?” I’ll ask.

“No,” he’ll say.

“How about fries?”

“No.”

“You need to eat something,” I say.

He’ll bang the straw on his knee and pull it out of the wrapper with his teeth.

“How about chicken nuggets?” I’ll press.

He’ll asks for a spoon for his milkshakes, and I’ll mumble something about why we bothered.

Now days, all he wants is sugar, and the faster the better. I don’t fret though. Fast food is cheaper than sushi, and eating in the car while driving avoids the awkward silence from across a restaurant table.

I just want him to eat, to gain weight. Sugar can do that. The handsome boy I once knew has been replaced by the gaunt face of the stranger who stole my son. Baggy pants drape over the protruding bones in his knees like a silk covered twig. Arms, once muscular and manly, hang like toothpicks from a ragged t-shirt.

Two more rings and I consider answering, but the voice in my head screams, “Don’t!” But he might be in trouble or has finally hit bottom and needs me to drive him to rehab. Maybe he’s given up on life and wants to say he loves me one last time. I’ll regret forever not answering if he kills himself. But if I answer, he’ll fool me into driving to places no mother should go. I go anyway, because giving in is better then the yelling, the name calling, the bullying.

When we’re together, I say very little for fear of sending him into a rage. The mere sound of my voice can do that these days. When he starts, I shut-up to calm him down, so I won’t have to drive to a police station to have him removed from my car. If I’m lucky, the damage to my car will be minor. But like so often, I’ll end up hating him the way a mother should never hate her son, and then guilt will make me do it all over again.

Yeah, it’s probably him. Some kind person let him use their phone. I bought him sixteen phones in just the last year alone. He tells me they were lost or stolen, but I know better. He thinks if he admits to selling them, I’d not buy him another. He’s wrong. I just don’t want him to think I would be so foolish, so I let him get away with the lie. After all, without a phone how can he call me?

Friends tell me I’m a fool and to let him go. Why should I listen to friends with perfect kids. How can I turn my back on my son when he has no food or place to sleep, and his feet hurt from endlessly walking the streets. He has no hat for the summer sun. Well, he had one, but lost it. Probably sold it for a dollar. He’ll get melanoma if he doesn’t have a hat. A good mom makes sure her son has a hat.

“Do you think I should answer it?”

“I think you should turn your phone off,” the woman said. “It will distract your progress.”

I close the phone and the ringing stops. A numbness radiates out from my chest and flows down my arms. My thoughts are flooded with the image of my son, hurt, and I can’t do a damn thing about it.

The woman picks up a pad and pen and folds her skirt under her when she sits. She’s probably just as cold as all the others. I doubt she’s ever had a kid. No one can look that good, that put together and have a child. She still wears lipstick.

“What is it you fear will happen to your son?” she says.

Now I know she’s never had a child. “Anything. Everything,” I say.

“What would happen if,” she pauses and points to my phone, “you didn’t answer his call?”

I shrug. “He’ll call back.”

“But what would happen if you stopped answering all his calls?”

“I couldn’t do that. How could I? I would worry too much.”

The woman blinks slowly. “What would he do if you stopped answering his calls?”

“What would he do? I don’t know.”

“When I asked what you feared would happen to your son, you said everything. Can you be more specific.”

“I suppose fear of loosing him.”

Fear claws at my heart. Just the thought of loosing him makes me want to scream. But I don’t. I lean back and rest my arms on both sides of the chair. Open. Relaxed. No closed-off crazy person here. My fear is not for the cruel imposter, but for the boy he stole. The one I wait to call me, to say he loves me, misses me.

“I guess I’m hoping he’ll change,” I add. “But that’s neither here nor there. I’m not here to talk about my son.”

The woman squints and cocks her head a little to the left and looks down at her notes. “Then what are you here to talk about?”

“My marriage.”

The woman turns her tablet to a new page. “Go on.”

“It’s my husband. Since he retired, it seems he doesn’t want to do anything for himself and just sits in his chair watching TV.”

I fold my arms in front of me and cross my legs. The woman gives me time to search the ceiling for answers.

“He used to be so happy. I made sure of it. I’d cook whatever he wanted and... was always available.”

The woman turns another page and writes more.

“I wasn’t one of those wives who nagged their husbands into doing things around the house, and I never expected him to help me. His job was hard enough. I made sure not to cause him stress when he came home. Not me. I’m a good wife.”

“So, sitting in a chair watching TV is something new for your husband?”

“Oh, he’s been doing that for years. It’s the drinking that’s new. Why would he start after all these years?”

The woman paused writing midsentence. I can’t be completely sure, but I think she mumbled… “beats me.”

Now, I ask you. Is that any way for a therapist to act? Must be her job. Listening to people’s problems all day can be overwhelming. I’ll bring her cookies next time. Cookies always made my son happy. I should double the batch and bring him some, and my husband, too.

The unknown number pops up on my phone again. “Are we through? I need to take this call.”