Always Here

My son was killed in a tragic accident last summer. It feels wrong to call it an accident but at the same time I don’t know what it was because I hadn’t been there. It was his stepfather who had called me from the scene, with a rather feigned devastation in his voice. Perhaps it was normal to not care that much. After all, it wasn’t his son. Not really. 

Things haven’t been the same since that horrific day. Ryan was my only child. His biological father died over a decade ago of cancer. I loved him a lot, or I suppose I did. We were so young and dumb, I’m not sure whether either of us had known what love was. I’m still struggling with the idea. 

I met Frank two years ago at a bar that I had been dragged to by my friends because they wanted me to “get out more”. Frank had dark curly hair, a million dollar smile (when he showed it), and often donned a five o’ clock shadow or a scruffy beard. There was no in between. He dressed well, always in a sharp freshly-ironed shirt and a custom dinner jacket. I knew they were custom because he made it a point to mention it in our first conversation and whenever else possible, I noticed. He was the life of the party, in a classy way until he got rowdy. He was confident until he became cocky, and he was brilliant until he started slurring in circles. I hadn’t realized all that at the time. 

My beloved son had never liked him. He had wanted me to leave a few months in after he started catching on to the fact that Frank was “a bloody loser”. I’d been aghast at his reaction. I was so madly infatuated with Frank and had been so lonely that I’d been overly enthusiastic about starting this new little family together. 

One day, I came home to witness a nasty argument between Ryan and Frank. They were both hurling razor-sharp insults at each other and cursing to no end, but what made me bolt from the car was when Frank put his hands around Ryan’s neck and snarled inches from his face, “I’ll kill you, boy.”

I shuddered at the memory. The fight came to an end abruptly, but Frank’s seething rage met me in the bedroom later on. I never told Ryan about anything that happened between us, and I tried to keep as quiet as possible, but my 23-year-old son wasn’t ignorant to the fact that his mother had become an avid make-up wearer out of the blue.

You have to leave him, mom. Don’t throw your life away. Ryan’s ocean blue eyes pleaded with me for the tenth time, or more…I didn’t know, I had lost count. I simply couldn’t. I had tried once, but I had no money. Frank brought in the majority of it through his construction business. He was that guy, the one everyone loved at parties, at conferences…the one no one saw at home. 

Sitting in my dead son’s room, I grasped the bedsheets in both fists in anger, let out a heavy sigh, and began to sob as my fingers uncurled themselves and the unused sheets crumpled underneath my hands. I buried my face in my hands and let myself cry and screamed out, “Ryan, why you? Why?!” 

All of a sudden, an ice-cold breeze caressed my shoulders and back. I sucked my breath in and froze. The feeling only lasted a few moments and then it was warm again. The pain was too overwhelming for me to question it, so I resumed my grieving, more silently now. It had only been two months since my world had been shattered, yet the daily grief had already dried out my tear ducts and made my voice hoarse. 

“Sarah!” Frank’s booming voice jolted me upright and prompted me to wipe my face dry hastily before he could see. “Sarah, why the hell are you up here again?” He didn’t hide the anger in his voice. As he reached the top of the staircase, I could see that he didn’t hide it on his face either. 

I felt myself shaking uncontrollably and whispered, “It’s only been a couple of months, Frank.” 

He grabbed the sides of my arms with both hands. His grip was tight, forceful almost. “You’re never going to move on if you keep crying in this room. It’s about time you start acting like my wife, Sarah. I’m freaking starving and you look like a mess.” His voice was cold and rough, and his words cut like daggers. He didn’t care.

My body shivered involuntarily when the same cold gust enveloped my shoulders once again and lingered around Frank’s tight hands. 

“Why the fuck is it so fucking cold in here?!” Frank yelled and immediately let go of me. I saw that his hands had gone somewhat pale, but I was just happy that they were no longer on me. He glared at me, as if waiting for me to respond. When I simply gazed back, expressionless, he threw his hands up in frustration causing me to flinch. For a moment I saw a glimpse of satisfaction at my fear in his eyes. 

“I need a drink. Get dinner ready,” Frank stated his command coldly and left the room.

I felt my eyes well up with tears again, but I took a few deep breaths and let it pass. I stood up as tall as I could and made my way downstairs to the kitchen. In the living room, I saw Frank sitting across the burning fireplace in his favourite black leather recliner with a bottle of Johnny Walker on the side table along with a whiskey glass. I don’t know why he bothered with the glass. Must look more refined next to the custom jacket, I thought to myself.  

I placed a cast iron pan on the gas stove and turned the dial up, but it wouldn’t light. I felt my eyes scrunch up in wonder. I had just used the stove a few hours ago to make myself a cup of tea. I tried a few more times and even held a barbecue lighter to the burner, but nothing would take. Timidly, I cleared my throat in front of Frank. He glanced up from his phone, pointedly annoyed, and waited. 

“The stove isn’t working, I tried everything,” as soon as I spoke, I knew what was coming. I heard the recliner come down and shut my eyes. 

“You can’t seem to figure anything out, can you?” Frank yelled, a flurry of profanities followed. I kept my eyes shut and pictured myself before I’d met Frank. I was with my baby, Ryan. We were driving along the Californian coast. It was beautiful. I remembered admiring the vastness of the ocean together and how small we were in comparison. You know, I’ll always be here for you, mom. A solitary tear escaped as I reminisced.

Just then, I felt a rough blow on my right cheek and instinctively my hand shot up to caress it. I stared wide-eyed at the ghoul in front of me but didn’t cry. I simply turned and began walking towards the stairs. 

“Where the hell do you think you’re going?” Frank shouted after me but didn’t follow. I maintained my composure and found myself in Ryan’s room once again. 

I sat at his desk this time and noticed something different about it. I had been in his room many times over the past two months but had never seen a notebook there before. It was plain black and just had Ryan’s name printed on the front. My heart swelled with some joy that perhaps I could read some of my sweet boy’s writing, that is, if there was anything inside. 

“I miss you, Ry. Forgive me for this,” I whispered into nothingness before turning the first page. Before I could fully turn it, I felt the same chilly embrace suddenly fill the air around me and linger around my shoulders and neck. I dropped the page corner I had lifted and gasped when I felt an icy cold touch on my forehead, almost like a kiss. It was so brief yet intentional, so frigid yet warm. So familiar. 

The tension in my body dissolved instantly, and my lips quivered as I called out softly, “Ryan? Ryan, is that you?” 

I wasn’t a spiritual person, let alone did I believe in ghosts. But I felt a warmth from this presence that I hadn’t felt in this home since Ryan died. 

Miraculously, the page I had been holding onto, flipped on its own. I was dumbstruck, but I picked up the book and read the note inside. I felt my jaw drop, and had I not been sitting at the desk, my knees would’ve given out. 

The icy presence returned, but this time I could feel arms wrap around me in a tight hug. This time, I could feel the cool kiss on my temple. 

I knew I had to confront Frank about what I’d read, and I knew that I was not alone. A rush of fearlessness swept over me. I hadn’t felt this way since I was twenty years old on the back of my ex-husband’s motorcycle. 

My feet gripped the wooden stairs calmly but with certainty. My hands were sturdy by my side. The shaking had fully dissipated, and I no longer wept. I could hear Frank moving around in the kitchen, the sound of the barbecue lighter being clicked on and off multiple times, and a slew of fucks and damns and bitch sprinkled in between slamming the drawers and banging fists on the countertop. 

I stood in the door frame of the kitchen and must have looked frighteningly intimidating because Frank jumped back at the sight of me. After regaining his balance, he lunged forward in his robe, inches away from my face and spat, “There’s no fucking heat in this house. The stove isn’t working, and the goddamn fireplace went out!”  

I smirked as I took in his rugged appearance. His custom suit was gone and he was in sweatpants and a bathrobe. He looked undeniably wretched, to match his awful personality. It took this kind of revelation to see what my son had seen from the very beginning standing in front of me: a horrendous man. 

“When were you planning on telling me why you were with my son the day he died?” I crossed my arms over my chest and felt stronger than ever. 

Frank looked slightly appalled for a moment before his cheeks burned red with anger, or perhaps fear, “What are you talking about, you crazy woman?!” 

I entered the kitchen and inched closer to him, my face scrunched up in disgust at the stench of alcohol on his breath, and said, “When Ryan warned me that you regularly drove under the influence, I didn’t believe him. I didn’t believe my own son. For you.” 

The satisfaction I felt at Frank’s speechlessness was quite pleasant, but the rage I felt towards him was insurmountable. 

“Are you sure the stove doesn’t work?” I changed the subject abruptly and tilted my head towards it. 

Frank looked astonished at the change in tone but snapped at me, “Of course it doesn’t work.” He placed his right hand directly on the burner and growled at me, “How many times do I have to tell you, you bi –” Frank jolted back from the stove and howled in pain as the burner suddenly turned onto high heat and the flame engulfed the palm of his hand. He leapt at the kitchen sink and helplessly flipped the faucet on and off multiple times, but water wouldn’t come out. 

“Help me, Sarah!” Frank shouted out in pain and looked at me with bloodshot eyes. His right hand was totally burned. It looked awful, so I couldn’t imagine the pain. 

“Try the shower,” I suggested, making no effort to help him. I watched him run up the stairs and heard a blood-curdling scream. A few minutes later he was hurrying down the stairs and his arm was burnt presumably from scalding hot shower water. 

In the time he’d been upstairs I’d grabbed my keys. Normally I’d have felt bad for Frank and would have helped him, but after finding out what had happened to Ryan, my mind was flooded with images of Frank’s car plowing into him and Frank fleeing the scene only to return an hour later when it was too late, to then call the police and me. An accident, he’d said.

A hit and run. A murder. 

“Goodbye, Frank,” I turned the doorknob leading outside and glanced at his now-grotesque hand and stated indifferently, “Sorry about the accident.”

I got in my car and turned the keys with confidence. My shoulders felt lighter, my mind felt freer, and I closed my eyes and remembered that beautiful drive. 

“Let’s take a drive by the coast tomorrow,” I whispered. 

Just then, I heard a loud click and turned to the passenger seat to see that the seatbelt was secured. The cool air tickled my right shoulder and caressed my forearm for a moment.

I smiled to myself as I remembered the words, I’ll always be here for you, Mom.