Free 7 Days at the Hot Corner by Terry Trueman Page B

lake.
    Where do I even start? With Mom, actually, anyplace will do. I ask, “Have you heard about this stuff with Travis?”
    Mom says, “Yes, your father told me.”
    I ask, “Well?”
    Mom says, “Well, what? I’m sorry, I don’t know what you’re asking me.”
    I ask, “Do you think I live in a fantasyland all the time?”
    Mom says, “Actually, that thought has never occurred to me. Do you?”
    I say, “Travis said so.”
    Mom asks, “But he said that when you two were quarreling, right?”
    â€œYeah,” I answer. “Right before I screamed ‘fuck you’ into his face!”
    â€œScotty!” Mom’s not a big fan of what she calls “the F word.”
    â€œSorry,” I say. “Yeah, we were arguing—he was for sure mad at me.”
    Mom asks, “What else did he say?”
    My palms are sweaty and I feel my heart pounding hard, but I decide to just spit it out. “He said that I treat you and Dad like you’re not great parents because you got divorced—he said it like anybody who knew me would think that I felt that way, and that it’s fuck—sorry … that it’s messed-up that I think that.”
    Mom asks, “Do you feel that way?”
    I answer right away. “No, not at all—I don’t know why he’d think that or why he’d say it.”
    Mom says, “You two were arguing; people say lots of things when they’re angry.”
    I say, “Yeah, and I was being pretty hard on him about the whole ‘gay’ thing—I couldn’t help it.”
    Mom says, “You know, honey, relationships change—people change and our feelings for one another change too, but this tension with Travis shouldn’t be something that ruins your friendship.”
    â€œI know,” I say.
    Mom says, “It sounds like you’ve been under a ton of stress lately.”
    I say “Yeah,” but a thought is growing inside me, something Mom and I have never talked about.
    Without even knowing I’m going to say it, I just blurt out, “Why’d you stop loving Dad?”
    Mom stops washing the dishes and looks at me. “I still love your dad, and I’ll always love him, just not in the ways that let us share our lives together—not like a wife needs to love her husband.”
    I’ve always been confused about how my mom and dad can be so nice to each other, such great friends, but weren’t able to keep our family together.
    I ask, “Why didn’t you and Dad stay together, like Roy and Rita—why couldn’t you do that for me, for our family?” As I hear myself ask this question, I realize it’s something that’s been inside me since I was seven years old, but it’s a little kid’s question and one that Mom just answered—she still loves Dad, just not in the ways that would let them stay married.
    Mom is quiet for a few seconds. Then she says, “Your dad and I love each other as friends; we were in love once, but our ways of loving each other changed.”
    I remember, now, something Dad once told me back when he and Mom first split up. I was seven then, and Dad was tucking me into bed at our apartment, the first place we lived after he moved out. I asked him, “Can’t you two get back together?”
    â€œSorry, buddy,” Dad explained, “it doesn’t work that way.”
    â€œCan’t you make her love you?” I asked. (Hey, cut me some slack, I was only seven.)
    Dad answered, “You can’t make somebody love you, Scotty. Love has to be felt and then given—it’s a gift, not something you can demand.”
    When I looked at Dad that night, I saw tears in his eyes—I knew how sad he was, how hurt he felt. Thinking back on it now, remembering how sad my dad was, I know that’s the reason he and I have never talked about it since—I’ve