Sweet Ache

But I know I can’t. There is nothing I can do to help the war inside him that’s written all over his countenance besides stand right here, offering silent support. He closes his eyes for a brief moment before turning to walk over to where a woman sits looking out a window with her back to us.

“Hi, Momma,” Hawke says, cautiously lowering to his knees beside her. His words float calmly out into the stillness of the room and break my heart. Despite his warm greeting, Helen continues to stare afar as Hawke looks up to her, eyes searching, body language wary.

Everything in my body constricts in despair with the revelation that Helen is his mother. And in his short life, not only has he had to deal with the death of his father but also with whatever ails his mother. And then it all makes sense, the concert to benefit Alzheimer’s. How could I have not connected the dots sooner?

“How are you doing today? It’s nice and sunny out. Do you want to go for a walk through the grounds?” A lump forms in my throat at the hope in his voice and yet she just sits there stoic and silent. I can feel every part of him willing her to respond, to take notice of him, like a little boy seeking attention or approval, and it kills me. The sight of my bad-boy, good-hearted rocker on his knees and the anguished rawness in his voice make me want to wrap my arms around him and take it all away. “I’d like to take you outside, like when we were little and you’d take us to the park to watch the kites fly.”

“I used to like the red ones best.” The sound of her unemotional voice startles me but the look on Hawke’s face has me wiping the tears away before they can fall.

“Yes, and we’d lay on the grass for hours and watch them in the sky above us,” he says eagerly despite the melancholy tinge to his voice. He grasps desperately for a connection with her and yet she says nothing more despite his unwavering attention.

I’m scared to breathe, afraid to move so that I don’t disturb them because even though I don’t know specifics, I can tell that Helen’s reaction has given Hawkin something to hold on to.

“Mom, I brought someone for you to meet,” he says, glancing my way, anxiety etched in his features. “She’s my friend,” he explains with a pause to see if it will garner a reaction, without avail. “Her name is Quinlan.”

Helen’s head turns slowly toward him so that I finally get a glimpse of her. She has pale but beautiful skin; her dark hair is pulled back from her face so it’s more than obvious from their profiles that they are related. Hawkin’s eyes hold hers, his face mesmerized with hope, but I notice the fisting and releasing of her hands. My heart begins to beat faster as unease begins to fill me.

“How dare you bring one of your dirty, filthy, home-wrecking whores into my house, Joshua?” she snarls at Hawkin. I watch her words hit him with more force than a knockout punch. His eyes widen and then blink rapidly and his mouth falls lax as he tries to digest them. At first I think his reaction is a result of her calling him his dad’s name, but the more I watch the shock, hurt, and disbelief play over his features, I realize that it’s so much more than that.

He’s realizing the man he’s idolized, the man he’s lived his life to make proud, is a man he didn’t really know at all.

“Were you trying to prove a point?” Her even voice begins to rise in pitch and emotion with each passing second and yet Hawke sits there in a shell-shocked state. “You think I don’t notice the lipstick on your shirt collars, the late nights where you put them before us?” She’s yelling now, starting to rise from her chair, and it’s such a poignant image and yet so very wrong at the same time: the mother standing tall looking down to the little boy looking up to her from his knees.

And I don’t know if Hawkin isn’t moving because he wants her to finish what she’s saying, complete the story that he’s never heard before, or because he’s frozen by the truths. Regardless, everything about him—his posture, his expression, the muscles lax in his body—says he’s defeated, weary from the unfounded battle he’s been waging.

“How dare you flaunt her in front of me!” she shouts even louder, hand flashing out, and the sound of the slap connecting with his cheek echoes off the sterile walls of the room. “Get out!” she yells, trying to pull Hawkin to his feet, aggressive hands digging into his shoulders with force. “Get out! We’re done!” she screams again, fists beginning to connect with Hawkin’s torso as he stands and tries to grab her wrists. “You just lost your boys. I’m telling them tomorrow and then I want you and your whores out of our lives forever!” The anguish in her voice sends shivers down my spine. Having been cheated on myself, my heart clenches for the injustice done to her, the desperation she must have endured, and the panic she must have felt knowing she was about to raise two boys on her own.

I have to look away though. I can’t handle the sight of Hawkin standing there taking the rage meant for the man he’s held on a pedestal. The look on his face will forever be etched in my mind, his pain raw, his disbelief palpable, his agony unrelenting. It breaks something inside me and if this is how I feel just watching it all unfold, I can only imagine what it’s doing to him.

I glance at the door beside me; tears I didn’t even realize were falling down my face blur my vision because there’s nothing I can do to help with the hurt now, the devastation I can see in him.

“Mom! It’s me, Hawkin. Mom!” he says over and over, finally snapping back to the here and now, her fists reinforcing the pain her words just created. “Mom,” he says, his voice breaking, and I hear the sob catch in his throat as helplessness sets in.