Chapter Twenty-Three

Max prowled around his apartment restlessly, bored out of his mind and irritated because of it. He kept reaching for his cell to call Erin - find out where she was - but stopped himself every time. They weren't an item anymore. He wasn't supposed to call.

He'd grown curious the night before, his overworked brain overthinking yet again as he lost himself in the works of Mozart and Beethoven. He'd killed the headlights as he drove down her street later, frowning when he found her house and porch dark. She'd been out.

And she still wasn't back as of ten o'clock this morning, judging by the newspaper still sitting on her driveway.

Max's jaw clicked as he tried not to think about where she was. It didn't take a genius to figure out where a woman with a rockstar boyfriend could be all night. The thought made him sick.

This Bon Jovi dude was forcefully reminding him more and more of his cursed stepfather - the arrogant sonuvabitch who thought all women were fair game and personal territory.

Max's mother had been no exception.

After Lewis strolled into their lives, his mother changed. Max would lay in bed every night, listening to the sounds coming from the room next door. His mother’s heavy breathing, punctured by loud groans and the occasional cry, shortly followed by a guttural sigh.

His stomach roiled at the thought of what Lewis did to her, of what she let him do to her. Blinded by attraction, both to his looks and his money, she didn’t realize that he didn’t truly love her.

Max hated trying to sleep next door to them every night. He even invested in some earplugs, but could never fully drown his mother’s cries out.

Eventually, he learned to ignore them. They were so routine he could almost fall asleep to them as a lullaby.

Which made it easier for him to notice when something was different. One particularly quiet evening, his mother went up to bed early, complaining of a headache. Max went to bed shortly after, leaving Lewis downstairs in front of the TV.

Max was awakened later by the sounds of his mother’s cries, but not with pleasure. They were tinged with pain, more like yelps than orgasmic groans. A loud scream sounded, stifled quickly by a violent “Shut up!”, and then his mother’s voice, “Please, stop, you’re hurting me…”

Max jumped out of bed and rushed to their bedroom, only to find the door shut and locked. He knocked sharply, but no one came to the door. Instead, Lewis yelled at him to go back to bed. Insisted everything was fine. Max could hear his mother inside, whimpering.

The next morning, his mother stepped gingerly, wincing every time she sat down or bent over. She wore a baggy blouse, but when she reached up for something in the kitchen that afternoon, Max caught sight of her upper arms. The marks were shaped like large fingertips, colored a ghastly greenish blue.

“Mama, are you okay?” Max had asked, pointing to the bruises.

His mother quickly covered them back up and offered him a smile. “I’m fine, baby, just clumsy, that’s all.”

That night, the sounds of pleasure were back.

***

Later that year, Lewis died. Max had vivid memories of that day: the vacant look on his mother’s face, the hushed tones of the officers and the coroner, the blanketed stretcher they wheeled out with Lewis’ body.

And then, the pitiful sobbing of his mother after everyone had left. “What will we do without him?” she hiccupped.

“He left everything to you,” Max had said plainly. “We have plenty of money.”

His mother had stared at him, obviously confused at his apparent oblivion to what she meant.

Lewis had been out that night, enjoying several tankards of his favorite liquor with his drinking buddies at the bar. Despite his riches, he was an empty man and found shallow solace in their company.

He’d come home late, which was why he was surprised to find the mousy-haired boy still awake, stirring a pot of coffee. “What are you doing up?” he grunted. “Shouldn’t you be in bed?”

“I made you coffee,” Max said quietly, handing him a mug. Lewis seemed taken aback.

“Uh, thanks,” he muttered, taking the mug. “Now go to bed.”

Max did as he was told, and Lewis finished off the coffee quickly before following suit.

The next morning, however, he didn’t wake up.

The officers didn’t ask many questions; the coroner had examined his body and reported a dangerously high blood alcohol level, which left little to speculation. Lewis had died of heart failure in his sleep. Anyone could see that was easily attributed to the drinking.

In the end, it was ruled an unfortunate accident, and no further investigation was required.

Max tolerated the incoherent wailing of his mother for nearly a week, offering a sympathetic pat on the arm every now and then. He stood grimly at the funeral, nodding solemnly when others expressed their sorrow at his and his mother’s loss. He said nothing when his teachers offered a grace period on his assignments, telling him to take as much time as he needed.

But when he came home in the afternoon, he locked himself in his bedroom and dumped his backpack in the corner. The empty aspirin bottle rolled out from the front pocket, where it had been hidden among crumpled papers and broken pencils.

Max eyed it satisfactorily, a smile creeping around the edges of his pale mouth. He'd get rid of it in the morning, when he passed the dumpsters on his way to school. But for now, he sort of wanted to hold onto it. Like a souvenir of a job well done.

In his silent apartment, Max paced more furiously in circles, reminded that people often have to do things that are unpleasant, but necessary. Erin’s mistake would cost her, but he knew she couldn’t help it. And he understood. He forgave her for what she’d done.

How could he not?

Thursday, May 28, 2009