Like Mother Like Son Ch. 05

Author's Notes: I see some of you have been a little impatient. I have no intention of not finishing the story. The last chapters were not already written like the first several ones, hence the delay. There will be one final chapter after this one to wrap things up.

By the time she had dropped Izzy off with her friends, Claire was nearing the very edge of her tolerance. Her mind was worn and frayed around the edges by a migraine that made that spot behind the back of her eyes feel like it had a throbbing pulse of its own. She pinched the bridge of her nose as she drove through a neighborhood that was even better than the one she called home, with its lush, sprawling lawns and cleverly trimmed hedges. The houses all looked freshly painted and starkly white against the blue sky. The wives were all what she would have expected: not people she had any interest in knowing. They came from those picturesque kind of families that had pained her as a kid.

It had taken only a few moments before she had quickly abandoned her daughter to the throng of children and made it to the door without so much as an explanation. Many of the other mothers had stayed, but she herself felt no guilt about not being involved. There was nothing for her there, and there never would be. It was Izzy's world, and she couldn't decide whether or not to be somewhat proud or more disgusted with what her daughter had chosen for herself.

David would pick Izzy up and play the mother, he always did. He was the sort to easily make conversation with anyone, and he got his own enjoyment out of interacting with Izzy and meeting her friends. He loved kids, and had it been his choice, they might have had more of them. He thrived on the teaching and the playing and the caring. It was yet another trait about the two of them that was glaringly different. She smiled to herself, wondering how he could have ever believed that domesticating her would somehow change her.

She was not motherly, and she never would be. But she had gone through with it all, somehow. She could distinctly recall the horror she felt standing in front of the mirror in the nude, looking down at her growing abdomen and trying to come to terms with the fact that there was a living, breathing, thinking thing inside of her. Even after 19 years, it was hard to look at her son and realize that he was a part of her.

She had done it for David, and still felt bitter and angry about that fact. It was what he had wanted, what he had said would make him happy. Stupidly she had believed that somehow her perpetual discontent would be quelled, that maybe it would impact her, that perhaps there was a chance that she could somehow become vicariously happy through his happiness. In the end, she didn't regret it, which had always been a source of surprise. Despite the fact that it had failed, despite the fact that when she had first held her own child in her arms, she had felt a strange nothingness, she would not take it back. It had taken time, as she knew it would. But in the end she had picked Gabriel.

She had known from the start that he would emulate her, and not because it was his desire, but because it was as much ingrained in him as it had been in her as a child. Izzy was a different animal, more like David. At 5 years old, she hadn't looked up at her own father with barely-disguised dislike. Claire wouldn't have believed it, not in a child so young, but it had been there. She had seen it in Gabriel, and it had frightened and fascinated her.

She had quickly lost hope in Izzy. It hadn't taken long. She knew it was harsh to judge a child, but she hadn't cared. Izzy was the embodiment of what Claire hated, and even with the strong desire she had to crush all the little girl's instincts, she had left her alone. She had done it for David, because after watching the years pass with a son who held him at arms' length and seeing her husband's deep sadness and confusion, he needed the little girl. He needed the frills and the pink and the expensive toys. He needed someone who could love him unconditionally, in a way Claire herself would never be capable. And that was why she had gotten pregnant the second time, even though she hated it, even though she knew she could spare no love. Izzy would not go without, she knew that.

She drove her way up to the gate, waiting a few seconds before it finally admitted her out, back into the familiar. The drive would be a little over an hour, and she did not know whether her showing up at random would be appreciated. Either way, it mattered little. She had always shown up when she felt the need, and there was not much that could deter her. It was hot, but not overly so. She kept the windows rolled down, even when the force of the wind tended to whip the black tendrils of her hair into her field of vision. It was about 45 minutes before she could smell the salt on the air, and that distinct oceanic tang that never ceased to make her heart race. She even imagined she could detect the scent of hot sand, though she knew it was nothing more than her memory rushing into the present.

When she came up over the rise, she could see the ocean off to her left, and an expanse of rough, pebbled beach intermittently covered with patches of textured sand. The tide was high, and the white water that tipped the rolling waves was enough to make her stare off at it for longer than she should have. The sun was beating down on the green-blue water, making it glimmer ominously. She had always hated being in the water, but looking at it was something else entirely. Something about it was captivating. It was at times, calm and inviting, the thin facade of welcome at odds with its true, violent nature. She knew all too well what it felt like to be swallowed whole by such an unstoppable force, how water could choke your lungs with a terrible burn while all the while it pulled you further and further from the safety of the surface. She knew that was why he had chosen to live here; such a cruel force of nature was something that drew him in as much as it did her.

The road became bumpy and uneven. Plumes of dust spiraled out behind her car, making it impossible to see the way back. The house was 15 minutes into the rough road, passed the few vacation homes. There were many trees, probably not indigenous, but old and gnarled and strong just the same. The atmosphere was foreboding. The shade from the branches combined with the seawater to make it damp and cooler than the main road had been. When she came up on the house, she felt as she always did: strangely numb. She parked next to an old pickup covered in rust and peeling, cream-colored paint. He was home.

She stared up at the two storey house with its high windows and water-damaged siding. The steps creaked, and she kept her hand away from the splintered, rotting railing, as she made her way to the front door. Everything was dilapidated and old, and she knew it had nothing to do with a lack of money. The doorknob felt cold but familiar in her hand, and for a split second, she considered going back home, as she always did. It was not fear that drove her away, but something else, something dark and insidious that wound its way through her gut and up into her heart, where it stayed until she was back on her own doorstep. She pushed her key in, and wrenched the old door open.

The place smelled musty, like old books, with cool, clammy air that was something she always associated as being a part of living by the sea.

"Gabriel?" she called, walking into the living room.

It felt cold and empty as it always did, as though there were not someone living there daily. The furniture looked more like refuse than anything useable. Even the leather couch in the corner was torn in several places, and the rug was threadbare. There were a few hints of personalization, things that a normal onlooker would have believed came from the man himself, but none of it could be farther from the truth. The few things he had, she had given him, and she knew all too well that the items he truly held precious were not anywhere for unfamiliar eyes to see.

She went further into the house, until she was in the kitchen. He was standing with his back to her, in front of windows that were nearly floor to ceiling. They were the only addition he'd added to the home in the ten years he had been living there. The moth-eaten drapes were pulled back, leaving nothing but a view of the distant ocean and its crashing waves. His hair was a shock of white, and thinned slightly at the temples. It had become fine-stranded with age, to the point that it seemed delicate.

She moved to stand next to him, and they stayed there for a time, saying nothing. He looked even older than the last time she'd seen him, as though the time alone had not been kind to him. He had always been reclusive, but had become even further introverted in his later years. His face was lined and weather-beaten, and a thin, hairline scar ran from his lower left cheek down to the underside of his jaw. He was cleanly shaven as he had always been, and he smelled of the tea tree oil he liberally used to part his hair. He was short, only an inch or so taller than Claire herself, with thin-fingered, almost feminine hands and a slight build. His eyes, however, were what had always set him apart. They were dark, so deep brown that they seemed to be void of an iris. It was a trait she had inherited. Her own father had been blue-eyed and fair haired, and she had been glad to not have taken after him. Ironic that David looked so much like him, or maybe it wasn't so ironic. Her jaw tightened uncomfortably, making that aching pulse return behind her eyes with a sick vengeance.

Gabriel finally moved from the window, seemingly breaking the trance. He went into the kitchen, his movements clean and precise, contradictory to his withering body. He was thin to the point of malnourishment, but he had always been, and she had never before seen him without sunken cheeks and eyes that seemed to recede into his skull far more than was normal. She pulled herself from the window as well, and settled into one of the chairs at the battered table without invitation. They did not speak, as it wasn't necessary. Their strange exchange was one that had been happening for years, to the point that it was little more than a routine. When he finally sat across from her, he had brought a carafe of strong coffee with him, and gracefully placed a cup and saucer in front of her. The china was chipped and scratched, but it was the same set he had used for as long as she could remember.

He folded himself into a chair, and drew his cup close, dark eyes distant but searching. He took a drink, smiling over his cup at her with crooked, yellow teeth. His skin seemed to be overly-stretched atop his skull, as though it was being pulled back. The shadows beneath his hollowed-out eyes made his face appear to be nothing more than a skull. He was a grotesque parody of a human being.

"You look terrible," she commented, leaning into her chair with an air of indifference. "Even worse than usual."

There was a wet huff. He cleared his throat, and her eyes fell to his hands, which were covered in a crisscross of white scars and the telltale wrinkles of old age.

She decided to start, unperturbed by his silence. "I would have called, but you don't have a phone."

"Don't lie," he said unkindly, no longer baring his teeth in a poor imitation of a grin. His lips were thin and papery and stuck to his eyeteeth. At one point in his life, he had been what many would have considered attractive in a cultured sort of way, but the veneer of age had washed away all illusions. He bore the marks of a bitter, cynical man, with sharp lines between his narrow brows. "You come when you like." He took a swig of coffee, seemingly considering the taste as he swirled it around his shallow cup. "Far be it for me to stop you." The last statement seemed to be something of a challenge, as he leveled his eyes at her.

"It's not as though you're busy," she returned, pointedly glancing about his dingy kitchen.

There was an intake of breath, one she'd come to associate with his displeasure. "What do you want? An apology for before?" he accused her, voice slightly gravelly, as though he had only just woken up.

"Hardly. I came for advice," she admitted, tracing the lip of her cup with a fingernail.

"Advice? You mean you want to hear my opinion and then ignore it?" he asked, a hint of humor to his voice. "Not about the boy?"

"No."

"He would behave better if you had taken a belt to him like I told you." His eyes seemed to glint strangely at his own words, and he gave her a tightlipped smile that was somehow worse than his grin.

"I think I know how to raise him, thank you," she said more harshly than she intended. "No, this isn't about Gabriel."

"So quick to jump to his defense," the old man mused.

She ignored his jibe, though it left a bad taste in her mouth nonetheless. "Do you believe there is ever reason to sensor yourself?"

"In what manner?"

"Any."

"I've told you all about there being a time and place," Gabriel stated.

"I mean in private."

There was a bark of a laugh. "You know exactly what I think of that."

"'If no one sees it, it didn't happen', you mean?"

There was a grunt of approval. The man pulled a worn pack of cigarettes from his pocket, then pounded them into his palm. He offered her one, but she shook her head. "Suit yourself. Makes you die faster," he commented, before lighting up with a relish.

"It doesn't seem to be working as you've intended," she observed.

He blew a puff of smoke into her face and relaxed further into his chair, eyes glittering in an unsettling way. "You're only yourself in private," he began. "In life, all of us are nothing more than actors playing a part. If you can't be true to yourself behind closed doors, then you are either a masochist or a coward."

He inhaled again, and she watched the end of the cigarette blaze orange. She could tell he was not finished, so she waited, watching the way he watched her.

"There is something to be said for those out in the open," Gabriel continued, "however, being so blatant about desires can ironically keep you from what you want the most." He tapped some ash onto the tabletop, which was scarred with black burns. He leaned over the table slightly, as though he were about to impart a secret. His voice was low and tinged with smoke, "In this world, it pays to be a deceitful bastard. I would hope that you would know that by now."

It was her turn to laugh, though it was tainted with vitriol. "You say that as though you don't know me."

"Do I?" he asked, seemingly finding his own question to be funny. The corners of his eyes crinkled even further.

"Ha ha," she mocked. "We're in private. I can be what I want to be, as you've just said."

"No my dear," he countered. "I'm not stupid enough to think you're honest with anyone, even yourself." He could see the anger flash behind her eyes, but he pressed on, "If you know you want something, you take it. Consequences only come to those who are too foolish to avoid them."

"Is that what they told you?" she questioned, her tone incredulous and scornful at the same time.

"No one had to tell me anything," he returned, jaw tightening. "Any animal worth his mettle knows."

"I don't think I've ever seen you deny yourself, or even lie about what you've wanted. You never bothered to cover up anything," she said, visiting their former conversation.

"And you can see where it has gotten me. I live on memories, nothing more," he answered, his accent thicker than usual. The utterance seemed to make him nostalgic, his eyes becoming glassy and unfocused. He twisted a battered skull ring around his forefinger absently.

"Because you have chosen to," she asserted. "You have had every opportunity to live, but you stay holed up here. You have no one to blame but yourself." she finished angrily.

"Don't be foolish girl. I can't live the life I want! It's over! That world is dead and gone to me now. I have no interest in," he gestured outwardly with his hands, "whatever this is."

She scoffed. "Yes, you just have the worst possible life, and there couldn't be anything outside these walls that means anything. Don't give me your bullshit diatribe; I'm sick to death of hearing it," she said sharply, daring him to say something.

His eyes had gone even darker and his lips were nothing more than a thin slash across his face. "You know nothing. You're just a stupid little girl, as you always were. You can't even begin to understand what's been lost to me. So don't start thinking you can come into my home whenever you please and berate me like I'm that boy of yours. I've seen more than you will ever see, and if you think you know evil, you're terribly mistaken."

"Oh, I know it," she breathed, for once not looking him in the eyes.

He laughed disbelievingly and finished up his coffee, setting his cup down with more force than was necessary. "Tell me about him."

She looked up at her grandfather, teeth set on edge. "He's fine."

"He get that knife I sent him?"

"He was impressed with it," she admitted, though her eyes remained hardened.

Gabriel smiled in that way of his. "Good, good." He watched for a moment, as though considering his next words. "I'm surprised you're back so soon," he added conversationally, though it was truly anything but.

"I always come back," she responded flatly, though there was something lying dormant under her cooled exterior that Gabriel could easily sense.

"When do I get to see him?"

"Never," she whispered, gaze falling to the old man's ring again.

"I hardly think you're in a position to stop me."

"Oh, but I am. I'm his mother. You're nothing but a forgotten relative."

Her words stung, causing him to straighten in his chair like an adder drawing itself up for a fight. "I know where you live, and if I wish to see him, I will."

"You don't want to start this with me again."

"But I do. He's my grandchild. I couldn't give a flying fuck about the girl."

"You didn't seem so disappointed with me," she pointed out, knowing she was setting herself up for his harsh words. She didn't care. She wanted to rile him. They had been playing the game for too long, and she knew that after all of the years of it, she no longer had the upper hand.

"If I were your father, I would have put a pillow over your mouth when you were an infant. You know exactly what I think of women. You were lucky to be old enough to fend for yourself or I would have left you to those disgraceful people you call family." He looked almost amused, though again she could hear his accent creeping into his words, a sure sign that there was more to what he was saying than he was letting on.

"You did such an exemplary job," she commented, laughing darkly. "I'm as much of a misogynist as you, despite all evidence to the contrary," she finished, gesturing to her body.

He smiled genuinely for once, and poured her more coffee. "It's been years, Claire. It's my right to see him."

She sobered at his words, eyes narrowing. This argument was nearly as old as her son was. She knew the time was coming when she would no longer be able to keep him away. He did have the right; she had accepted that, however she had decided long ago to postpone their meeting one another as long as she was able. That way her son's namesake would have less of a hold, less of an influence. She wanted her son to remember her words before his grandfather's. Gabriel Sr. was hardly the person to have around impressionable children, particularly with her son having a penchant for making the wrong choices.

There was a deafening silence, wherein they both eyed each other, Claire wearily, and Gabriel with a somewhat smug expression. He knew he was finally going to win the argument, and he was gloating about it in that underhanded way of his.