“Yes. Your assumption is correct,” I added
“Okay, dear, I'll call you later then. Goodbye for now.” She then hung up.
“Was that my mother?” he asked, not too pleased.
“That's why you’re the astute business man,” I smiled.
“It’s not funny, Addie.” He stood up from the coffee table and paced.
“Daimon—”
“Don’t!” He pointed at me.
“Look, I realized yesterday how much I missed my mom and how much I'd give anything to have her back. I'm not saying have a close relationship with her. I'm saying just go and see her, maybe have dinner together. Not all the time, but maybe twice a year. Daimon, she's your mother,” I pleaded.
Daimon brought his hands to his waist and let out a heavy sigh. “She’s an alcoholic. I don't want you to see her like that,” he hissed.
My heart hurt knowing what I had done yesterday might have triggered bad memories. “Daimon, it’s you who doesn't want to see her like that.” I put my phone down and walked up to him. “I’ll be there, with you. I won't let anything happen that makes you uncomfortable.” I reached for his hand and held it.
****
I watched as Daimon paced the lobby of an Art Deco building on Park Avenue. The lobby was chic with its clean lines of basic white and black with splashes of vivid colors, most of which came from the elaborate flower arrangements that were placed on various round mirrored tables.
“Daimon, don't you think it's better to call her before we came here?” I asked. Once I told Daimon I would go with him to see his mother, he begrudgingly dragged his feet but made sure he pulled me with him. We stood in the lobby of her building while Daimon tried to calm himself down.
“No. I know her. If I called, she would have left. This way I know she's here,” he said annoyed.
“How do you know she's here?” I looked at him skeptically.
“Because she rarely leaves her penthouse.” He looked at the elevator and proceeded to walk over.
“Call her, please,” I insisted.
“Fine.” He reached in his back pocket and took out his phone.
“Yes. I’m downstairs. I'm coming up now,” he barked on the phone. “Yes! Now!” He hung up and pressed the call button for the elevator.
“What did she say?” I asked.
“Nothing.”
He went quiet after that. I stood beside him, watching him from the corner of my eye. Daimon was unnerved. I wondered if I had pushed him into something he might not be ready for. But it was his mother, and for some reason, I couldn't shake the feeling he wanted her in his life. The elevator stopped and opened up to a long corridor. I saw the door with the number PH400. Daimon walked to it but stopped and turned his head slightly, making sure I was next to him. He rang the bell and we waited. After a few moments passed and no one answered, Daimon pressed the keypad.
“You know your mother's key code?”
“It's my birthday,” he said quietly.
The door beeped open and Daimon stepped inside. His mother ran out with her hair and makeup all done up. Her face lit up the moment she saw him. Her stunning blue eyes sparkled with such happiness that I couldn't help but feel some jealously.
“Daimon.” She smiled.
“Hi,” he said coldly.
“Addie.” She turned to me and hugged me. The smell of alcohol had overpowered the perfume she had just sprayed herself with.
“Come, come inside.” She gestured for us to enter. The penthouse was just like the lobby downstairs, mimicking the black and white with the sharp contrasting colors of various accent pieces. A large mirrored wall made the space look twice the size, while grey couches faced each other and the large gourmet kitchen. A small baby grand piano was positioned in the back room. He was more like his mother than he knew.
I turned my gaze back to Daimon and watched carefully as he remained silent and watched his mother as she tried to offer us coffee or tea. Her movements were exaggerated and her words slightly slurred. Daimon simply watched her.
“Coffee would be great,” I said, answering for the both of us.
I still didn't feel quite right from the previous day, but Daimon made sure I ate before we left. Thankfully, my stomach had settled but was still a bit off. Daimon's eyes drifted the moment his mother’s back turned and she made coffee for us. I followed his line of vision. There behind the couch facing us, were four open bottles of scotch. I reached out, took Daimon's hand into mine and held onto it, his eyes never leaving the bottles.
“I’m glad you two decided to visit,” she shouted from the kitchen. Daimon’s body grew ridged.
“You should thank Addie,” Daimon responded bitterly.
His mother stopped for a mere moment, her body seemed to sag as she continued to gently place the elegant black painted coffee cups down on a tray.