Fix Me

“Luke never had anything like this, but I did my best to give him everything.”

I smiled at the thought of Luke being little. “I think that’s all that matters.” Luke said nothing. I sensed him near me, but he obviously wasn’t interested in joining the conversation.

“How long are you in town for?” I asked.

“I’m not sure. It was a spur of the moment thing. I missed my son and decided to come and see what kind of life he was creating for himself out here.”

“He’s been a huge help to me,” I told her.

“I’m sure he has.”

“What do you do?” I asked her, trying to keep the conversation flowing.

“Do?” she questioned.

“For fun? For work?”

She let out a long sigh. “I don’t work much these days. I’ve had some health setbacks that have prevented me from holding down a fulltime job. I mostly knit and sell what I make along with little odd jobs here and there.”

That surprised me. “I would love to learn to knit one day.”

“It really is easy once you get the hang of it,” she said. “I would be happy to show you.”

I kept my smile on my face, ignoring the idea she would show me anything. “I would like that,” I answered.

“What about you?” she asked. “What do you do?”

I burst into laughter. “At the moment, nothing. Absolutely nothing.”

“Mom,” Luke groaned.

“It’s a normal question son,” she scolded. “What did you do before your accident?”

I was a little embarrassed to admit I didn’t have a job. “I did a lot of painting and volunteer work.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, I guess I should have realized that people like you don’t work.”

I wasn’t sure if she meant to be rude, but it certainly sounded that way. “My work doesn’t pay,” I said keeping my voice calm. “I volunteer. You’re right, my situation allowed me the freedom not to have to work for a living. I donated my time.”

“I see,” she said, but I knew she didn’t see at all.

The awkward silence in the room that followed made me want to go right back to bed.

Chapter Eighteen

Luke

THE DAY HAD BEEN HELL. I was so glad Bree was gracious enough to tolerate my mother. As per usual, my mom ran hot and cold. One minute she was warm and friendly and the two of them got along great. The next minute, she was being rude and judgmental. By the end of the afternoon, it was obvious her visit had taken a toll on Bree’s good mood.

It was those times when my mother was sweet and gentle and showed her caring side that made it difficult for me to stay mad at her. I always made excuses for her shitty behavior, chalking it up to a side effect of the pain she suffered. It wasn’t until the last year or so that I started to understand the nature of our relationship.

My realization had come on the heels of me treating a woman that had been seriously beaten by her husband. We talked extensively and I started to see similarities between her situation and mine. My mother wasn’t physically abusive, but damn if she didn’t manipulate the hell out of me. It was after that woman came in six months after that first beating, on the edge of death, that I realized I had to get away from my mother.

She wasn’t killing me with violence, but she was slowly killing me with her manipulations. With the way she used me and manipulated me to be her pet. I wasn’t her son. I was her toy. She toyed with my emotions and got a great deal of pleasure watching me try to jump through the many hoops she set before me.

“Thank goodness that’s over,” my mom exclaimed, flopping onto the sofa and throwing her arm across her face.

“What’s over?” I asked.