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“Are you sure about this, Mom?”
She pauses, the pill bottles halfway open in her hands. She lowers them and eyes him with something like caution. Maybe even a little bit of distrust, which hurts him, because she’s meant to trust him. What has he done wrong?
Well. The question is, what will he do wrong. Because he knows what she’ll say next, and he knows that the right answer will never be his answer. He can never give her the right answer. No matter how much he might want to.
“What, you think it’s a bad idea?” she asks.
He stares at her. Then he looks down at the pills, thinking. Thinking as much as something like him can.
He wants her to stay on the pills. They don’t work for her, not in this arrangement, but they guarantee the pattern of highs and lows that he feeds on. He knows that if she keeps the pills, that means she has to keep him. She hasn’t found a way yet to cope without him.
But if she’s off the pills…wouldn’t that mean she’d overcompensate? She’d try to keep things the same as they are, but she wouldn’t be used to doing everything without the same prescriptions. And she would lean on him even more.
Technically, there’s a third option here. An option that includes him the least. An option that means he backs off and lets her have space. But he pushes that away the moment it crosses his mind.
She needs him. She has to need him. Because he needs her. What is he, without her?
He swallows. A pit opens in his stomach as he says, “I think it’s a great idea.” He looks back up at Mom. He knows he has her again, and he knows that he shouldn’t. “Yeah. I think you’re brave.”
She laughs to herself like she doesn’t believe him, fiddling with the cap of the bottle in her hand. She bites her lip. “And what will your father think?”
He senses her apprehension. Her fear. She’s still on the cusp of this; she’s handing him the opportunity to steer her in a different direction. Some part of her knows that the advice he gives her isn’t good. That he leaves out bits and pieces so he can remain alongside her. She’s aware of that, and usually she lets him do it without comment, but this time she’s waiting for him to disagree with her. To finally give her the right piece of advice, even if it doesn’t include him. Maybe especially if it doesn’t include him.
Hesitation rises in his chest to match his mother’s, but he shoves it down. It’s painful to ignore it, and one side of him screams. The side that wants to leave forever, to move on, to be released from this—that side curls around its stomach and bites its tongue hard enough to draw blood. The side that doesn’t care props its elbows on the kitchen counter, leans forward, and smiles reassuringly. He has her completely with that smile. And he knows it.
“Nothing,” he tells her. He says it conspiratorally. He fiddles with his hands. “If he doesn’t know.”
A corner of Mom’s mouth quirks up. She pauses like she’s considering it, but he’s already convinced her. In a few swift movements, she uncaps all of her prescriptions and pours their contents down the sink, washing them down with water from the faucet.
You should go. You’ve done what you need to do.
He doesn’t go. He lingers. He waits for the reality of Mom’s decision—of his decision—to set in. It always takes a moment. Mom swipes her hair out of her face, her gaze drifts back to the sink, and she lets out a shaky sigh. Her eyes clear.
“Oh,” she breathes.
He doesn’t like to admit it, but this is always his favorite part of these exchanges. The part where he’s reeling her in again is a close second, but the moment of clarity after he’s gotten her to rely on him is forever his favorite. She’s the most vulnerable, the most prone to reaching out for him. He laps it up like a dog each time. He lets her take hold of his arms and hands, caress his face, ask him questions. And he forgets for a while that he’s not alive. He gets to play at being her son. He answers her questions softly and traces the bones in her hand and rests his head on top of hers. He doesn’t mind how wrong the touch feels, then. He’s shivering and a bit nauseous from it, but that doesn’t matter, because he has her.
(He might also be nauseous because he knows he should take the opportunity to leave. But, well. It’s rare that he really listens to that part of himself.)
“You’re okay, Mom,” he says gently, stepping around the counter. Mom’s eyes remain on the sink, and she doesn’t reach for his hand the way she always does. That scares him. He takes her hand first, makes her look at him. You have me. That’s all we need.
She squeezes his hand, but she doesn’t take her eyes off the sink. “I should…” She trails off. Shakes her head. Tries again. “I think I should tell him. I think we need to talk—”
“It’s our secret.”
That comes out too sharp, and he doesn’t realize it until Mom turns to stare at him with wide eyes. He winces inwardly and tries to soften his tone. “It’s between you and me, Mom. You don’t have to tell Dad unless it gets bad. Right?”
She thinks about it. She’s silent for a moment too long. She shouldn’t be taking this long to listen to him. He’s used to her agreeing almost instantly. He squeezes her hand a little harder, slides onto the counter next to her to remind her of his presence. Their shoulders bump. He wants to vomit.
“...I guess so,” she whispers. She nods. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.” He smiles at her, and that’s all it takes. She smiles back, nudging him lightly. “He wouldn’t mind, if it’s going well. I don’t have to tell him everything.”
“That’s why you have me,” he says. She laughs softly, but his skin is crawling. The pain in his gut turns up several degrees. He feels like he’s being ripped apart. It must show in his eyes for a second, because Mom’s own flicker with concern. He steels himself.
She agrees with me, he tells himself. She wouldn’t agree if she wasn’t supposed to. If it wasn’t right.
She agrees because she doesn’t know she can tell you no, the traitorous part of him shoots back. She’s used to you taking everything. You’ve taught her to welcome that.
She knows she can tell me no, he argues. The feeling that settles in his chest tells him that’s a lie. And I don’t—I don’t take everything.
You take what you want. He feels Mom’s arm draping over his shoulder, pulling him into her side. She rubs his arm, shakes him a bit, asks if he’s okay. He nods to her silently. Which is everything.
He shuts his eyes and pretends the good side of him doesn’t exist. He shoves it into a compartment in the back of his mind and locks it. He lets his mother run her fingers through his hair and talk to him like he’s real.