Fly Away

The answering machine light blinked on – a rare thing for this family with limited social connections. Most of the time, we get hung-up calls on the machine with long, blazing beeping protesting over the detesting screening device. I curiously, for caution’s sake too, played the message. It was from the renter telling the college son that the apartment he applied for has been rented to someone.

Since the discovery of the betrayal, his roommates’ deserting him, he has had no choice but to look for lodging for the upcoming year. Of 3 prospects, this one ranked top in both location and accommodations. The phone message officially put a dead end to this quest. With 2 weeks left for his current lease, he is back to square one.

Another strike, or rejection, for him – how ironic and yet predictable, I thought to myself. My mind raced crazily with mixed emotions. I have wanted him to move back home, but somehow I did not feel like celebrating. The right answer, for me at least, when it’s not what he wants, does not feel good. As any mother with a built-in desire for her children’s happiness, I ached for his sake.

I thought of that evening barely a week ago when I ached yet for a totally different reason. He was leaving after the dinner. We had driven over the bridge to hunt for that “Diners, drive-ins and Dives” recommended fried chicken. The drive was long and the food turned out to be a let-down. Oddly, no one seemed to mind except me. Somewhere during that disappointing dinner the subject of his next year’s where-about was brought up. I motioned that he should move back home. It seemed like a perfect solution for a desperate situation – he has less than 2 weeks left on his current lease with no prospect for new housing. There would be no headache for another move and/or temporary furnishing for the new place. The arguments were sound, enthusiastic and yet not at all well received. My perfect solution was met with anything but perfect response: a stone-cold rejection without a word. Soon enough the contagious silence passed though the kitchen and I too became one of the afflicted – dejected and quiet. The disappointment was too intense that I turned about to clean the after-dinner mess. Behind me across the kitchen he stood with the persistent silence. He was ready to leave now. He managed to say good-bye. The strained “I am going to go” was met with not so much a muttered “ok” from the mother. I heard the door open and he was gone. The shameful realization of his wound, though incurred by his first wounding me, hit me straight through my core. My hurt, though grave, was not greater than my guilt. I dropped the dishes and ran after him before he made to his car door. “Give your mother a hug”, I called out. He turned and accepted my non-spoken apology by offering his hug. I could feel the slight softening through the stiffened back. He was returning his non-spoken “thank you”.

It has been almost 4 years since he moved out. Ironically the few miles of distance might as well be a half-world of separation between us. I can count how many times he has been back. He was no more typical son than I am any typical mother, and yet the maternal instinct inside would occasionally surface to haunt me when colleagues or friends’ children come back for the holidays and breaks and ours chooses to stay away despite of all beckoning. I remember the initial taste of liberation when he first moved out – it was a much needed relief for all of us after all the windstorm of his existence. When he finally moved to a 12-month leased apartment, our last remnant of him finally dwindled to Christmas, New years and maybe Easter. Even that, they are always limited to over-nighter visits.

How long does it take to forget 18 years of damage? Not long enough. The side effect of any absence is nostalgia – bitter sweet, subtle yet persistent remembrance of a past disguised in a veil that softens even the worst tormenting ghost. All that screaming, fighting and tears seem to have subsided to the background, and the buried glimpse of joy starts twinkling and teasing me in the form of the 2-year-old: content, curious and bright. Our most hopeful future of him ironically may well be my worst fear that he could be gone, forever. Pain does not feel good, but the absence of pain is worse. After all, can a mother ever stop her beating heart for her child? Even when that beating sometimes breaks her heart in pieces, it at least serves as the evidence of her love. For a mother, a painful existence is better than a faint memory.

And let’s not forget the past regret so haunting that she would trade anything for a do-over. If he’d come back to stay for yet a little while before he leaves, mayhap I could finally redeem myself from all this guilt? Unlike me, he has forgiven and forgotten and all ready to take on a brave new world. As much as I realize his lack of attachment is part of him, it hurts no less to see this fledgling so eager to fly away without even a second of hesitation while I look on with all the fear for the evil ahead of him. Awkward and ill-equipped, he is, after all, invincible in his mind only. Let-go is only bearable when it is not completely literal or devoid of prosperity. For us, it is both. I wonder if these burning tears are more for the physical alienation or the invisible one. Would I hurt less if I were sure he’d hurt a little bit from leaving me? Above all, is there ever a happy ending for these two extreme opposites: the unattached for the clinging, sensible for the sensitive and the forgetful for the nostalgic?