The Last Fray

I watch her across the kitchen island, the way her wrist twists as she pours wine into a glass she doesn't need. The bottle is three-quarters empty. It's her third one this week.

"Mom."

She doesn't look up. "Don't start."

"You're not supposed to drink on those meds."

She laughs. It's a hollow sound, like something rattling in an empty room. "Since when do you care about what I'm supposed to do?"

I don't have an answer for that. She's right. I've been gone four years. College, then a job in the city, then more reasons not to come back. But here I am. Standing in the kitchen of the house I grew up in, watching my mother drink herself numb because my father left her for a woman ten years younger.

"You look like him," she says. She's not looking at me. She's looking through me. "Standing there with that judgment in your jaw. Same way he'd stand. Same goddamn look."

"I'm not him."

"No. You're not." She sets the glass down. Her fingers linger on the stem. "You're worse. At least he had the decency to leave."

The words hit like a slap. I feel them settle into my chest, hot and wrong. But I don't leave. I don't know why. Maybe because she's the only family I have left. Maybe because some part of me still believes I can fix her.

She's forty-seven. She looks older. The kind of older that comes from grief and cheap wine and nights spent staring at ceilings. Her hair is still blonde, but the roots show gray now. Her eyes are the same blue they've always been, but they're duller. Like someone turned down the brightness.

"I'm going to bed," she says. She doesn't move.

"Mom."

"What?"

I want to say something that matters. Something that cuts through the fog. But I don't have the words. I never do with her.

"Nothing. Goodnight."

She picks up her glass and walks past me. Her shoulder brushes mine. It's the closest we've been in years. I smell her perfume. Something floral. Something she's worn since I was a kid. It doesn't match her anymore. Nothing matches her anymore.

I hear her footsteps on the stairs. The creak of the third step from the top. The same creak I used to avoid when I'd sneak out as a teenager. The house remembers everything.

I pour the rest of the wine down the sink. It swirls pink and angry before disappearing. I rinse the glass and leave it in the rack. Then I go to my room.

My childhood bedroom. It's exactly the same. The same blue walls. The same posters I never took down. The same bed I lost my virginity in, with a girl whose name I barely remember. The same closet where I used to hide from my father's moods.

I lie down and stare at the ceiling.

I don't sleep.

At some point, I hear her. Footsteps in the hall. The bathroom door opening. The toilet flushing. The sink running. Then quiet.

Then her door opens again.

Then footsteps. Coming down the hall. Toward my room.

I don't move. I don't breathe.

The door opens. She's standing in the doorway. Backlit by the hall light. She's wearing a thin robe. White. It hangs open at the top. I can see the curve of her collarbone. The hollow of her throat.

"Can't sleep," she says.

"Me neither."

She doesn't ask if she can come in. She just does. She walks to the edge of my bed and sits down. The mattress dips. I can feel the warmth of her through the sheets.

"I used to do this when you were little," she says. "When you had nightmares. I'd sit here and rub your back until you fell asleep."

"I remember."

"Your father never did that. Never got up with you. Never once."

"I know."

She turns to look at me. Her eyes are wet. Not crying. Just wet. Like the tears are waiting for permission.

"I'm so lonely," she says. "I don't know how to be alone. I've never been alone. And now I'm forty-seven and I'm alone and I don't know what to do with my hands."

I reach out. I don't think about it. My hand finds hers. Her fingers are cold. They wrap around mine like she's drowning.

"I'm here," I say.

"For how long?"

"I don't know."

She nods. She doesn't let go of my hand. She shifts closer. I can smell the wine on her breath. The perfume. Something else. Something older. Something that smells like home.

"You're all I have," she says.

"You have yourself."

"I don't want myself. I never wanted myself." She laughs again. That hollow sound. "I wanted him. I wanted you. I wanted someone to need me."

"I need you."

She looks at me. Really looks. Her eyes search mine for something. I don't know if she finds it.

"Do you?"

"Yes."

She's quiet for a long time. The house settles around us. The old pipes groan. The wind presses against the window.

Then she moves.

She leans in. Her forehead touches mine. Her breath is warm on my lips. Her hand tightens around mine.

"Don't leave me," she whispers.

"I won't."

She kisses me.

It's soft at first. A question. Her lips are dry and taste like wine and regret. I should pull away. I know I should pull away. But I don't. I don't move. I don't breathe. I let her kiss me.

She pulls back. Her eyes are wide. Scared. Hopeful.

"I'm sorry," she says. "I shouldn't have."

"Then why did you?"

"Because I'm selfish. Because I'm broken. Because I don't know how else to feel alive."

I should tell her to leave. I should tell her this is wrong. I should be the one who says no.

But I'm not.

I'm the one who reaches up and cups her face. I'm the one who pulls her back down. I'm the one who kisses her this time.

She makes a sound. A small sound. A sound I've never heard her make. It's not a cry. It's not a moan. It's something in between. Something raw.

Her robe falls open. I can see everything. Her body is softer than I imagined. Realer. She has stretch marks on her stomach. A scar on her side from a surgery I don't remember. Her breasts are full and heavy and they fall to the sides as she leans over me.

She's not young. She's not perfect. She's my mother.

And I want her.

I want her in a way I don't understand. In a way that terrifies me. In a way that feels like falling.

She pulls my shirt over my head. Her hands are on my chest. Cold fingers tracing lines. Mapping me.

"You look so much like him," she says again. But this time it doesn't sound like an accusation. It sounds like surrender.

"I'm not him."

"I know."

She kisses my neck. My collarbone. My chest. Each kiss is slow. Deliberate. Like she's memorizing me.

I stop thinking.

I stop thinking about what this means. About what happens tomorrow. About the line we're crossing.

I just feel.

Her mouth on my skin. Her hands in my hair. Her breath against my ear.

"Tell me I'm not a monster," she whispers.

I don't answer.

I can't.

Because I don't know what she is. I don't know what I am. I don't know what we're becoming.

But I know I'm not going to stop.

And neither is she.