items back inside.
Warren hurried over. “Let me help you with that.”
“I don’t need your help!” I said. “I don’t need it at all! You’ve done enough!”
He knelt beside me anyway, and we both grabbed for
I scrambled to my feet, stood, rubbing my wrist.
“Are you hurt?” Warren asked.
“A scratch. It’s nothing.”
Warren stood up, “Let me take a look.”
“It’s fine.”
He reached for my hand. “Seriously, Patrick, let me—”
I pulled it away. “I
“But you could…you know you could.”
“It’s not that deep,” I said, turning toward the door, anxious to get out of this house and away from Warren.
“Patrick!” he shouted to me, “Wait a minute!”
“No
“But…”
“I said,
He started to say something else, but I didn’t hear it; I was already out the door. Walking away. Done.
Finally. Once and for all.
Inside the car, I immediately reached into my shirt pocket, then panicked. I’d left my pen and pad at the hotel.
Breathing heavily now, sweat crawling down the back of my neck, I began rifling through the glove compartment like a madman looking for a fix. Found an old map and a broken pencil, the point flattened. With shaky hands I scrawled
I closed my eyes and dropped my head onto the steering wheel, keeping it there for a long time.
If I never saw Black Lake again, it would be too soon.
Chapter Three
From my earliest memories, my mother’s moments of affection were as fleeting as they were inconsistent. Not many encouraging smiles or gentle touches, and the ones she gave often felt flat and shallow. She carried herself as if to discourage human contact, if not block it entirely. When I was young, I’d often grab for her hand as we walked, but she’d quickly pull it out of reach; the reaction seemed almost instinctual, like flinching from a blow or pulling a finger from a hot flame. Even as we moved through stores or crowded streets, I’d often find myself several feet behind, chasing after her, trying to keep up.
Once before bedtime in a half knee-jerk, half desperate bid for affection, I threw my arms around her; but I might as well have been reaching around a giant boulder, hard and cold. Her entire body grew stiff and unyielding, and she turned her head away.
Feeling rejected and confused, I pulled back and gazed at her.
“I have a cold,” she said, rising and moving quickly toward the door, cool and detached. Then she turned off the light and left my room.
I don’t think I understood her rejection or its impact on me at the time. I thought all mothers kept their affection under lock and key. In my world, it was normal to want love and not get it, no different from wanting a toy in a store and being told we couldn’t afford it. My mother didn’t indulge in affection because emotionally, she was bankrupt.
But as I grew older and watched other kids and their parents, I began realizing my world was terribly out of whack. Of course, knowing this, I did what any kid would do: I blamed myself, often wondering what it was about me she found so appalling.
Then, one day I got my answer.
We were driving home from church. Something had gotten under her skin—as was often the case—and for most of the day, her mood veered between silent sulking one moment and angry ranting the next.
“I hate it when you comb your hair like that,” she said with a snarl, alternating her glance between the road and me. “That part in the middle.
“What’s wrong with it?” I asked, now studying my reflection in the side view mirror.
She gave a flip laugh that pushed my question into the category of preposterous. “You look like a horse’s ass, that’s what’s wrong with it.”
The comment stung, and tears filled my eyes. I know she saw them, but she didn’t appear the least bit concerned.
We drove on in silence for a while, the tears streaming down my face. And then I had to know. “Why don’t you love me?” I practically blurted the words out through my sobs.
“What?”
“Love me,” I said. “How come you can’t?”
She fell silent for a moment, keeping her attention on the road, then let out an exasperated sigh.
“Because, Patrick…quite simply, you can be rather unlovable.”
Chapter Four
On the plane trip home, my mind kept drifting back to the fight with Warren. I was pissed at myself for letting him get to me. I shouldn’t have. I mean, I’d hoped to make a clean break, but cutting off my nose wasn’t part of the plan. Still, all bets were off the moment he started singing my mother’s praises. She was my hot button, and he’d pushed it.
If I didn’t know it then, I certainly did now: returning to Black Lake was a huge mistake.
Luckily, for me, I lived several thousand miles away. And my mother was dead. She couldn’t hurt me anymore. Maybe now I could finally bury the past with her and move on, let Warren go as well.
After taking a cab from the Oakland Airport to my apartment in Hayward, I let my suitcase drop to the floor and took in my surroundings. Desolation greeted me, followed by wretched despair—my two closest companions these days. There’s something about returning home from a trip that draws one’s innermost feelings of isolation and loneliness to the surface, makes an empty apartment seem emptier.
I’d been single for a couple of years now but was still reeling from the effects. I suppose it takes time. Samantha and I were together for nearly three years, and while I wouldn’t consider it a nasty break-up, it wasn’t the friendliest, either. I blame myself for that. I was neglectful, took her for granted, gave more attention to crime reporting than her. I’ve been working for
It all came to a head on New Years Eve. I’d promised Sam a long overdue evening out; we’d ring in the New
