Hendrix (Caldwell Brothers)

Two days ago, she went to the hospital for what is probably the last time, but before she did, she told him to leave, and he did without argument. That’s probably the only easy thing he’s ever done for her in their decades together.

Jagger went and found the old man yesterday, told him he needed to come make peace with her. Mom insisted Jagger not do that, and she still doesn’t know he tried. The bastard wouldn’t come, though. His final blow to her, the sick motherfucker.

“Boys,” she croaks out without opening her eyes.

Morrison, my middle brother, immediately jumps to her side, grabbing her skeletal fingers. Jagger, my youngest brother, stands at the end of her hospital bed and reaches out to touch her foot, causing her to wince. I stand at her other side, brushing my hand over her head that is losing the once full locks strand by strand.

“We’re right here, Momma. Your boys are all here,” Morrison informs her.

“The time is coming.” She breathes deeply while the beeping of the machines grows stronger, causing my own heart rate to pick up.

“No … the doctor … he said…” Jagger is choking out his words as he pushes off the end of the bed to pace around and get his emotions under control.

She gasps harshly, and my heart practically stops. “I wanna apologize to you boys. I know it wasn’t easy growing up. Your dad wasn’t a good man, and I should’ve left.”

“Just stop, Mom. It’s okay. There is nothing for you to apologize for.” I continue running my hand across her head, soothing her.

“Be the men I raised you to be. Don’t have a hardened heart to the love I’ve shown you. I was wrong to stay. I was wrong not to give you a good example.” Every word comes out in a struggle and a cough.

I want to tell her love doesn’t exist between a man and a woman. Want, need, passion, lust—those emotions and desires all transpire—but love? Not only no, but hell no. Love is an illusion. It is what mothers feed to their daughters in fairytales to give them hope. It is what men use to trick women into bed. It is far from real.

“Mom, you’re everything good in each of us,” Morrison whispers to her.

“You’re everything good I’ve ever done. Thank you for taking care of me,” she replies in a gargled, strained voice.

“Momma, fuck!” I run my fingers through my short, spiky hair. “You don’t have to fuckin’ thank us. You took care of us our entire lives. Just hang on, Momma. Fight a little more. We’ll get you the best care we can at home.”

“Hendrix, you gotta let me go, son. All of you, it’s time to let me go. Come here and tell me it’s okay. Make it okay, boys. Tell me you will be there for each other. Tell me you’ll find good women and make babies. Carry on my father’s name and give your children what I didn’t give you boys.”

Momma never married Dad. She made sure we all got her last name, not that of our sperm donor. Why she stayed, I will never understand. Although, maybe I’m not meant to.

Beep.

There is a pause, a hesitation.

I drop my head in defeat.

“Promise me, boys. Leave a legacy of good in a world of bad,” her raspy voice croaks out as the tears fall from her still closed eyes.

“Momma…” Morrison pleads.

Beep.

Pause.

Pause.

The next beep should be coming, and it is not.

“Boys,” she whispers.

“Yes, Momma. We’ll stand by each other, and we will be your legacy.” Jagger comes over, not holding back his tears as he squeezes in beside me to hold our mother’s hand.

Beep.

Pause.

Pause.

Pause.

“I love you, boys. I. Love. Each. Of. You.” She never gets above a whisper as we watch the jump in the lines get farther and farther apart.

“I promise you, Momma. Love you,” Morrison says as his tears fall onto her arms.

“Anything for you, Momma,” Jagger chokes out.

No longer able to be strong, I sob as I kiss her forehead that is already growing cold. The gurgling sound coming from her does nothing to silence the beating of my own heart. The pounding that once sounded in rhythm with the machines now loudly resounds through my ears. I feel like my head is going to explode as I give my mother the gift she is asking for.

“We’ll be all right, Momma. It’s okay to let go.” My last sentence is choked out on a whisper, the words barely spoken as she releases us.

Her eyes close, the sounds cease, and everything stills around the four of us.

At three-eighteen p.m. on January twenty-fourth, two thousand twelve, my world stops and tilts on its axis. Will life ever be right again?

Chapter One

When you think of Motor City, you think of poverty, but what Detroit lacks in class and elegance, we make up for in dive bars. You got the Two Way In on Mt. Elliott, Nancy Whiskey on Harrison, Old Miami on Cass, Greenwich Time in Cadillac Square, Kwicky on 8Mile, Marshalls on Jefferson, Jumbo’s on 3rd, The Painted Lady up in Hamtramck, My Dad’s Place on Kercheval, and Caldwell’s on Atwater.