Another Last Time

Falling Man  oil on canvas by  Miriam Feldman

Falling Man oil on canvas by Miriam Feldman

Once again, I glue myself to a promise I cannot keep.

I picked him up today to go to the market. His turquoise t-shirt is filthy. Same brown pants, New Balance tennis shoes (like his father’s) and weirdly stretched out hoodie that is about a foot longer on the right side where he carries his cigarettes and keys. Today, his appearance makes me angry at the world.

He’s sluggish and uncommunicative. He doesn’t answer when I talk to him. He is pushing his right leg against the passenger door with a force that I fear will send it flying open as we drive.

He keeps asking to go to McDonalds. I surrender the car radio to him, put on my earbuds and try to drown out the eighties music rotation where he stays stuck, never to move forward. 

At the market he stands in front of the endless cereal aisle endlessly. “Nick, just pick one!” I bark as a fellow shopper glares at me because I sound so mean.  He decides he doesn’t want cereal and we move to the frozen entrée labyrinth where I know my head will explode. We argue about decaf verses caffeinated coffee until I give in. I put my foot down at stevia rather than the horse-feed size bag of white sugar he wants. I distract him with the promise of fresh berries and send him outside to smoke while I get in line and pretend I’m like everyone else. I see the lady from the cereal aisle and she rolls her eyes.

Walking out of the store he is nowhere to be found. I’m used to that. I schlep everything to the car and load it myself. My phone rings. “Hey, Ma, where are you?”

“I’m at the car, Nick, perfect timing as usual,” sarcastic and resentful. “Please get over here so we can go. I have things to do beside cart you all over town.”

“Well, just come pick me up at the entrance. I’ll be over here.”

The thing opens up inside me that I try so hard to keep locked up.

In the car I rant at him. I criticize him for eating unhealthy food, drinking too much coffee, needing to lose weight, manage his life, get a job (for God’s sake…what is wrong with me?). Out of the corner of my eye I see he’s pressing his arm as well as his leg against the car door. He doesn’t say a word.

By the time we arrive at his apartment I full-on hate myself. The groceries are in the back seat, in the trunk are two chairs I bought for him at the Goodwill. He opens the car door before I have come to a full stop, grabs his bags from the back seat and turns. I yell, “Hey, wait, what about the nice chairs I got you?”

He says angrily that he doesn’t want the chairs and walks away. It was a yell. He rarely raises his voice.

I pull out of the lot and park on the side of the road where I cry uncontrollably for a while. Once again, I’ve lost my composure and taken my twisted, fucked-up anger out on the person who deserves it least. I make a vow to myself that this is the last time.

Fifteen minutes later I return to his apartment. It is hard to juggle the two chairs along with the McDonalds bag and large caramel frappe. He opens his door and says “Hi, Ma, ooh you brought me McDonalds?”

“Yeah, and look, don’t you think these chairs will look great at your table?”

As he dives into the food I begin my rehearsed speech. “Nick, I owe you an apology. I really lost it, I guess I’m pretty stressed out. I didn’t mean those things. I love you very much. I’m so sorry I was mean.”

When he finishes eating I clear it up. “Really, Nickboy, you understand that sometimes I just get overwhelmed. You didn’t deserve that. I’m really so, so sorry,” I’m choking back tears now.

He smiles at me and says, “You know, Mom, I really don’t even remember what you’re talking about.”

Two week old Nick

Two week old Nick