Mom bent down to kiss his cheek in the hospital's waiting room. "I'm sorry I have to go, honey," she said. "People depend on me."
Scrubbed linoleum, indifferent light between blank walls and smell of antibacterial cleaners numbed him so much, he didn't laugh at her face, but peered into it with rounded eyes. The depth of her self-absorption! What, the nation wouldn't survive without her articles on throw pillows and ranking perennial choices for curb appeal?
"But, dad?" he whispered. "What if he—"
"He will pull through, honey. And he'll get good care," she replied, then her voice rang. "He always does. I'll call you from New York as soon as I can."
She kissed him again. This time he flinched. It finally sank in that she would actually hop on the plane and leave.
"I'll call," she repeated and sauntered out of their lives. Harris has no idea if she did. As soon as he got over his shock, he blocked her number.
***
The memory nearly cuts off the flow of air to Harris' lungs. "How, how could a decent human being leave after you'd been sacrificed?"
Without as much as a disappointed shake of his head, Sarkisian Senior wheels himself to the kitchenette.
"Sacrificed... so there wouldn't be a scratch... A single scratch on her!"
Dad gathers the shards of the broken wineglass from the sink into a towel, as if Harris isn't choking on his words by the window. He looks so awkward at it...
Harris gulps air, steadying himself, then closes the distance in three steps—walking is easy when one has legs. "Here, let me—"
Dad has done a stellar job already.
"I'm glad that she didn't stay." Dad's throat, covered with graying stubble, bobs. "What kind of man wants duty, pity, and sacrifice from a woman? It's not me, and not you. Not back then. Not now. Never, Harris, never!"
"You have no idea what I want, do you?"
A shrug lifts Sarkisian Senior's shoulders under a thread-bare t-shirt. "How can I? You won't tell me. But it's okay... Find whatever joy you need, son. Happiness."
"I'll be happy when—" When?
"Aha." A tiny nod underscores the saintly look Sarkisian Senior has been developing lately, with his tan skin stretched over his skull, retreating curls, soulful eyes and deepening laugh-lines. "Aha. Call mom. Talk to her at last. Not for me, Harris. For yourself."
"I don't need to." Harris stares at the backsplash, then pokes it with his finger. The insulation is peeling off. If he doesn't reseal it, the mold will start growing. Maybe after the next shift? "I'm happy with the way things are, Dad."
Sarkisian Senior puts his hands up. "I don't disagree, but let me play devil's advocate for a second here. Would a happy man waste wine—not the best wine, mind you—but, anyway, would a happy man fling glassware at the mere suggestion of calling his mother?"
Harris squints at the TV in the kitchen's corner as a culprit. Has dad added shrink DIY talk-shows to his binge-list of true crime serials? And, speaking of shrinks, an actual specialist says dad needs patience and time to heal. Lots and lots of time. If they keep arguing about mom, it might not happen at all, but Harris can't, just can't forgive and forget. Who would? No, seriously, who would?
God. What a mess!
Right now, that pool of calm he experienced with the girl on the balcony would have been very welcome. He'd dip into it and the de-escalating words would spill from his mouth. But he'll never see the angel girl again. He's on his own here, playing a game of psychological chess: thinking five steps ahead, feints and masterstroke moves.
YOU ARE READING
Ablaze
Mystery / Thriller||Love Triangle between a Firefighter, an Arsonist and an Heiress ♡|| Deeply wounded by his mother's betrayal, Harris, a Milwaukee firefighter, doesn't accept human failings, including his own. That's until he saves a redhead from a burning hotel...
