Content Warning: Domestic Abuse (Physical & Emotional), Attempted Suicide, Drugs/Addiction, Racism
How does Olivia explain that September day, only three years after Coyle was born, when she came home early from the gym to see her (now) ex-husband Phil, naked in ecstasy, mouth agape, braying like a donkey, thrusting his tattooed partner Jean in her ass? How does she explain when she threw away the soiled sheets, she broke down in the middle of the driveway, fully sobbing, hands in her face, gloves covered in who knows what liquids, blaming herself for his infidelity? How does she explain how Phil continued to gaslight her afterwards, claiming that this was part of their (open) relationship and that he (the man) should have first say in who and how he gets to fuck, that he had a right to his bodily autonomy (not her), and by God if you didn’t realize that before you married me (like the dumb bitch you are), when I made very clear I was polyamorous, why would you then try to take my son away from me?
How does Olivia explain that she spent months switching therapists, how she drank her feelings, how her sister’s OxyContin nulled the pain, how she spent nights with her best friend Jordan who (somehow) found the kindness to nurse her damaged soul back from the depths? How does she explain that she fell in love with her, got rejected, relapsed into addiction until the money ran dry? How does she even begin to explain that fateful moment she jumped into the Arkansas River, despite her fear of death, despite her desire for love, despite her hatred for her mother for doing the exact same thing? How does she describe the feeling of freefalling; the feeling of remorse, regret, pain; the feeling of guilt that made her realize how much she loved Coyle, how much she cared for his well-being, how much all the decisions she made in the past few months had been selfish? That love, the same love she had forgotten all this time, made her hate herself even more for making such idiotic choices, to damn her only child to the same misery that befell her and Phil and the entire lot of the family, until at last she hit the water and found her will to live.
Maybe all these hopes, these questions, these fears, these lies were something that Olivia told herself to avoid the responsibility of parenting and of facing the harsh reality: no one wanted a former drug addict, single mother still on suicide watch, not even her own son. Yet, when she made that vow, she knew how much she wanted to try to protect him. She needs to save him from not only herself, but his shitty excuse for parents.
Olivia brings Coyle to Daughtry’s on Main. The dining area is barely large enough to hold its three booths. The red upholstery has been picked and peeled by tiny hands; the white threads underneath are like clover patches. The mint-colored walls are plastered in home decorations that only make a parent laugh, like “Please excuse this mess, I’m just a bad housewife!” or “Shit’s Creek Survivor.” A Pepsi fridge sits in the corner, displaying homemade meringue pies. Oliva watches Coyle plop onto the bench across from her, not even bothering to take off his headphones.
How she can feel her emotions rising! Does he remember this place? They say your senses help evoke memories. She hopes he remembers. When he was younger, he begged to have a birthday party here. He invited all his classmates, yet when none of them showed up, the cook (no matter how she tries, she can’t remember his name) came out from the back and told him that this was a magical diner for two. The restaurant wanted to make sure Coyle could have all the free pie to himself and probably sent his friends on another adventure. His entire demeanor changed in an instant. It was the last time she remembers seeing a look of unadulterated joy on his face. She hopes Coyle knows how much this memory means to her.
Yet Coyle doesn’t even pay attention. He stares briefly at the menu, disinterested. How should she know that he’s just being a teenager? How should she try to discipline him? Truth is, Olivia doesn’t know. She barely knows how to discipline herself, but she wants to try. She’s so consumed by her thoughts that she stumbles through her order. Coyle orders his usual, which ignites a spark of hope in Olivia’s heart. Perhaps he does remember.
Olivia isn’t sure how to start. She thinks about starting when Coyle was five. Does he remember Phil’s car accident, windshields smashed, steel splayed like frayed cloth, and how his first instinct was to grab a beer from his trunk before finally grabbing his son from the backseat? Yet she sees a small glass display on a shelf behind him. Stones are useless. She begins to speak.
“Do you remember this place?”
Coyle shrugs. “Vaguely.”
She feels the need to justify herself. “You used to love it when you were younger.”
“Okay.”
Silence. Only the sizzling of the grill.
He breaks the silence first. “I’m not sorry.”
“You’re not?” She feels rage rise, but she tries to calm down.
“It wasn’t even my idea,” he says.
“But you still did it.”
“I was just defending Eric.”
Eric. Olivia hates him. She knows it’s probably wrong to hate a kid, but Eric is a piece of work. First time she meets him, and he says, “This is your crackwhore mom?” He drank the alpha male Kool-Aid. How can his mother stand his behavior? How can she not react when he slaps the asses of his female classmates, or when he pulls out a THC cartridge right in front of her eyes? Hell, Eric needed rehab more than Olivia.
But stones are useless. Olivia wants to be better, wants to give her kid the benefit of the doubt. She breathes. “Give me an explanation. Tell me what happened.”
Coyle obliges. The horrifying truth: it’s the same story she knows. Instead of helping to decorate the halls for Art Club, Coyle and Eric and his whole lot decide to take the white sheets of butcher paper and make Ku Klux Klan outfits, complete with the cross in black markers. It’s Eric’s idea. They crown him Grand Wizard for his brilliant plan. They make shitty racist comments in passing period, hooting and hollering at every kid with a tinge of melanin. One girl, Nevaeh, has enough, punches Eric in the face. (Olivia can’t help but experience schadenfreude.) Seeing this, Coyle grabs her by her box braids, drags her into the boy’s bathroom, records a video on Snapchat. Olivia remembers listening as her son slews slurs that she didn’t even know. The video makes its circuit before all thirteen (including Neveah) are suspended.
Poor Neveah. The girl always had a massive crush on her son. Rich caramel skin. Brown curls. Gap in her teeth. Cute. Neveah was one of the few hopes Olivia had for Coyle. Maybe they could have grown up and escaped into the suburbs, away from their trailer park camps and discount McMansions. Maybe they could travel to one of the coasts, live happy lives and have a family where the parents didn’t fight and argue and cry and scream until lungs burn and fists fly. Maybe they could live the life she couldn’t.
Not maybe, now. Never.
How does Olivia look at Neveah’s parents in the eyes? God, the shame. Hello Mr. and Mrs. Williams, sorry my son called your daughter every single slur in the alphabet. I’m not a racist, I just raised one. My bad!
How does she explain how nauseated her son has made her? How does she explain that she doesn’t even recognize the Stranger across from her? Oh God, she thinks, I’ve raised a monster. How have I raised a monster? Where did I go wrong?
There are a few places that come to mind.
“I was just defending Eric, Mom,” he repeats. As if that justifies everything. Thank God he was just defending his piece of shit friend. “She started it.”
“It doesn’t matter who started it,” Olivia says calmly. “What matters is your reaction and what you’ve done. Why did you think any of that behavior would be okay?”
“Dad thought it was funny.”
Of course. Why should she expect Phil to actually discipline his son? Not like he doesn’t use the same language. Probably where he got his vocab too.
She feels about ready to explode. Grinds her teeth together. Wants to slap her own son. It’s too late to save him. It’s not right, but it’s how she feels. She has to take a breath before continuing.
“I don’t care about what Phil thinks,” she says, “I care about what you think. And you should think better than that racist shit.”
Coyle flutters his eyelids. So he does know better. It’s a tell from when he was younger, when he had some decency in him. He takes a sip of his water but says nothing. She continues.
“You know she likes you?” she says. She almost puts it in the past tense. “Why did you grab her hair?” When Coyle doesn’t respond, she presses, “You know you should never touch a woman’s hair without her permission.”
“She’s been a bitch to me,” he says. Olivia flinches at his tone. It sounds too familiar. “She’s hated Eric ever since we became friends, and she’s been spouting that woke feminist shit at me about how Eric’s a bad person. I’m not a bad person.”
“But you donned a KKK suit and yelled slurs at everyone.”
“I’m not racist, Mom,” Coyle snaps, slamming his fist on the table. “I told you: it was just a joke.”
“And you think a joke means wearing hate symbols and yelling slurs?!” Olivia feels her voice rising. Her volume is loud, her face is red. She comes back down to an inside level. “You’re lucky you’re not a senior. Eric and the rest of his friends aren’t graduating next week. You’re just getting suspended.”
“So?”
“So?!” Olivia can’t imagine how their parents must feel. Working for thirteen years only to fuck it up at the end because of your hatred. Maybe they’re the reason their kid is racist. Racists breed racists, after all. Or maybe those parents are just like her, trying to understand their kid’s hate. Or maybe she’s trying too hard to be Pollyanna.
Hate. God, that feeling of hatred that pools in the alcove of your inner soul until it overflows into the basin of your body and cascades into every crease, curve, crevasse. How could she describe the concrete marks on her own soul from her own self-inflicted wounds? How can she explain to Coyle he’s worth so much more than those surface level of emotions he’s subscribed himself to? How can she explain his fear?
She again breathes and speaks: “We’ve worked so hard to get you here. I don’t want you to throw it all away just because you’re afraid.”
“Afraid?” Coyle snorts. “Afraid of what?”
“You’re afraid that you’re not a man,” she says. When he raises his eyes, she realizes she’s struck something. “You’re afraid that you’re not enough for the world, for Eric, for your father.” For me. “Instead of trying to figure it out, you’re relying on whatever emotions you can find. You’re not racist, I know that. But the difference between thought and action is what—”
“I’m sorry,” Coyle interjects. “You’re lecturing me on actions? How about the druggie of a mother I have and how she’s more interested in fentanyl than me?”
“I’ve never taken fentany—“
“So that’s what you latch on to?” he cracks a smile. Olivia recognizes the trap too late. “You don’t even want to defend me, do you? It’s all about you, isn’t it? Making you feel better, so you don’t have to take the disappointment of your shitty excuse of parenting.”
Olivia tries to take control back. “This isn’t about me,” she says. “This is about you! This is about you acting like—”
“Stop deflecting!” Coyle snaps. “You’re the only person here who cares about what happened that day. Dad doesn’t even care!”
“Well, he should.”
“Well he doesn’t. Maybe I care about the opinion of the parent who doesn’t jump off bridges!”
It stings. Olivia is about to retort when it connects in her head. Phil used to do this all the time. He was always such a great gaslighter. No matter how many times she tried to penetrate his thick skull, he would always deflect it back on her. Coyle was truly his son. There was no way for her to win. He would never listen as long as they kept arguing.
Olivia takes a long look at the stranger in her Baby’s skin. No, she realizes. Not her Baby. The Teenager was a person, independent of her aspirations. The Teenager had grown up without his mother; the Teenager had endured her most vulnerable episodes; the Teenager idolized his father and friend for the laconic reason that she couldn’t be someone to idolize; the Teenager committed a hate crime and assaulted his friend. Her dreams for the Baby withered long before the Teenager put on that paper mask in school. She was just never there to witness it.
The Teenager is still her son; the Baby is still a stranger. These are not contradictory statements. After all, she was a stranger to herself for many years.
If there’s one thing she’s learned during her recovery, it’s the unforgivable. Should he ever forgive her? No. Was he innocent? Hell no. Coyle rejected innocence, just like her, just like Phil. The shroud of naivety is a self-defense mechanism that he chooses over facing the consequences of whom he’s become. She too blamed everyone else for her failings, yet it wasn’t until she leapt that she managed to finally confront herself.
If she was wrong about herself, Coyle was wrong about himself. She had to try.
“I love you, son,” Olivia says. Coyle rolls his eyes, but she locks in on his irises. When he realizes it, he can’t keep her gaze. “I love you more than anything in the world. And I kept failing you. I let myself fail you. I wasn’t better than my worst instincts, and here you are, at the precipice ready to jump after me. Yes, I did jump. Yes, I did drugs. I did those things because I hated everything that my life had become until I remembered you.”
Coyle’s face is flushed now. The hostess returns with their food. They wait until she’s gone. Olivia knows she must keep going.
“That’s why you mean so much to me,” she continues. “And when I see you fall down this dark path, I want to help you because I’ve been down here much longer than you. You’ve chosen to find meaning in the places you shouldn’t. And I keep trying to act like you’re not a different person than I know. For all my love, I’ve stopped knowing who you’ve become. I only know you’re better than who you are now. Loving you lifted me out; love can lift you out of this too. But you must be willing to change.”
She nearly swallows her last words, but she pushes forward, voice shaking. “I release you. Don’t be your father. Don’t be me. Be better.”
The first wet mark hits her arm. The tears follow the curves of her laugh lines. Meanwhile, Coyle is unreadable. He pokes at his burger with his finger, takes out the toothpick on top. He doesn’t say a word for a good minute.
He finally mutters, “I want to go to Dad’s this weekend.”
“Okay,” Olivia nods. He needs time to think it out. It’s not Phil’s week, but she understands. “Send him a text, and I’ll drop you off after you pack.”
They eat in silence.
#
When Olivia drops him off, she doesn’t know that Coyle will stumble into his first domestic dispute. His mind did everything to suppress the memories before the divorce, yet this is the first he will remember. Coyle will go through those doors and see Jean throw ceramic coaster after coaster at Phil. Coyle doesn’t know that this is the third time Phil has cheated on Jean; however, it is the first she’s uncovered. He will learn of the countless infidelities, how Phil loves the cat and mouse game, how many children Phil has out of wedlock. Phil will laugh as Coyle tries to comfort Jean, tell his son to not worry about some whore whose fucked half the county. He will not ask why his son cares about his stepmother.
Coyle will learn what it’s like to punch an adult square in his jaw, feel the vibration of bone against bone. He will tuck his thumb in his knuckles, not knowing that he breaks it until after the fight. He will smell the Bud Light on his father’s breath; see the look of surprise, then anger, grow on his face; taste the blood in his own mouth as his father picks up a coaster and strikes back. It will shatter on his face. Jean will scream, Coyle will be on the floor, Phil will lean against the wall. Even Phil will be shocked at what he has done. He will stand there, awestruck. Jean will scream at him to leave. He will oblige, but not before grabbing a beer from the fridge and slamming the door nearly off its hinges.
All Olivia knows is that when she races back, Coyle is in tears. She unbuckles her seatbelt and runs towards him. He collapses on the driveway, sobbing. He mutters apologies to Phil, apologies to Neveah, apologies to her. Olivia retains some snippets of what has happened based on his broken thumb and bruised face, but she doesn’t judge. Instead, she embraces her son. He reciprocates.
The lampposts flicker on by the time his eyes run dry. The air is dry, yet the ground is cool. The streets are clear; it is only the two of them. As far as they are concerned, it is only the two of them.
Maybe in the past, she would have been too self-absorbed to care. Yet, in this present moment, she understands one thing.
She has her son back.
END