something i have been working on for nearly a year

a part I wrote more recently:

"Mom. Did you sleep with Keith Brannigan?" I could have smacked her for that response.

Hit her with the back of my hand, like some belligerent husband.

"Where did that come from?" Her eyes are alert. Her complexion is so pale. I sigh and bury my brow in my opened fist.

"You said. You said, that night. When I took you out. You said."

"Oh God. I did. How much did I drink?"

"Too much."

"Right. Oh, David." She exhales the exhale of a woman in tumult. I wonder if my father's spirit is on the grounds, somewhere, now. "I never, ever wanted to talk about this with you. God knows, with anyone, in my life. Frankly, it's none of your business."

"Mom."

"I talked too much about it in the past. Do you know the kind of Hell I put your father through? Do you know the kind of Hell I went through? I've repressed so much, I'll be forward with you." She's so uncomfortable and I feel deep pangs of regret for making her feel that way. But some of the burden is off my shoulders now. I can sleep somewhat better at night. Somewhat.

"I can surmise."

"It was stupid! So stupid! I had a fight with your father, I went out drinking with, with Keith and Linda, Linda had some kind of emergency with Sarah, it was just us, your father had gone off to Crimshaw's for the night, the house was empty, you were asleep....it didn't last long. Two bodies, seeking comfort. Or mostly me."

"What did Keith need to be comforted by? He just wanted to help."

There is an elongated pause that comes after. What has needed to be said has been said. I can't say she didn't love my dad- that would be stupid of me. I can't say that I forgive her: we are in this strange middle place now. The truth, it has been said, is out there.

"I'm sorry," she finally says in a whisper. I nod.

"I know."

Then, she gets up from the couch. Brushing her jogging pants off, she heads towards me. And she hugs me, then, very tightly that I don't think I will be able to successfully breathe.

"I know that's not all that's bothering you. Call me when you want to talk about that." There are tears on the outskirt of her eyes. I bet she's imagining my dad. I bet she's imagining ten thousand images I cannot name.

And then, she leaves.

The last thought of that evening: when did I become such a wine drinker? I used to hate the stuff. I can still hear her running shoes on the cement outside, ricocheting into space.

(I have no intentions of publishing this novella-thing, ever. it is like my "bastard child.")