Finding Beauty

We traded places and I stood to the side close to the mirror. Mom said something to herself and shook her head before standing up straight and saying, "I like my hair. . ." but stopped. Her mouth moved as if she wanted to say something, but no sound came out. "I can't do this," she sobbed. "I don't like my hair, or my eyes, or any part of my body really. I can't tell myself I do when I don't." As she cried, I quickly took her into my arms and let her cry into my neck. She wept openly with her arms around my waist while I held her.

A few minutes later, she sniffled and pulled back. "I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't mean to do that. I just don't think I can do this."

"Yes, you can. Listen, this will be more difficult if I'm here. Maybe it's because you feel like you have an audience. I'll leave and you do what you need to do. Remember, it doesn't matter if you believe it at first, just say something positive about everything and start there."

"Can. . . can you give me a head start? Maybe help me out with it?"

"Like what?"

"I mean, can you say something nice about me? Maybe if I hear you do it, I can do it better."

I thought for a moment. "If that's what you want," I whispered. She nodded.

I took my place behind her, looking over her right shoulder. I looked at her in the mirror and began to speak.

"I like your hair. It's soft and stylish and always smells like fruit." She smiled, making me smile. "I like your eyes. They sparkle when you smile and they always look at me with kindness and love. I like your nose. It's a beautiful little nose, feminine and small. I like your. . . I like your mouth. Your lips are beautiful and full. Your smile is amazing and your white teeth shine when you smile that amazing smile. Your ears are perfect and small. I like your skin. It's so smooth and soft with a few light freckles, which give it a youthful appearance.

I like your. . . I like your breasts," I whispered. I could tell her breathing picked up, maybe nerves. "They're full and round, and. . . and soft when we hug." Her nipples were starting to show, poking against her gray t-shirt. I noticed and my voice caught. "I [ahem] I like your breasts. Any man would be lucky to. . . I, uh, I like your waist. Your stomach is gently rounded, but is strong from all your exercise. It's narrow compared to your breasts and your hips. I love your hips. The roundness of them expresses your femininity. I like the way they sway when you walk and the way your full, round butt moves. It looks firm, yet feminine. I like your butt. I like your thighs, so smooth and strong, like pillars of a temple. I like your calves and the way they flex. They are firm and rounded, showing how strong you are from miles and miles and miles of running. And I like your feet, so soft and small. When you paint your toenails, they are even more beautiful. I love when you walk around the house barefoot so I can see your beautiful feet."

"Oh, wow," she breathed.

"Yeah," I whispered. "Wow."

She looked at me in the mirror, and caught me looking at her body, scanning her up and down. When she caught me looking at her nipples, she covered them with her hands. "Thank you, Vince. I think that's enough." She walked away hurriedly.

I cleared my throat. "Yeah, so that's how that's done. Oh, yeah, and when you're alone, you're supposed to do it naked so you see everything and appreciate every part of your body. So, you know, there's that."

"Um, okay. Thank you. I think I need to lie down for a little while. It's been a busy day. I'll make dinner in a couple of hours."

"Oh. Okay." I walked out and her door closed quickly.

I went to my room and realized how excited I got, talking to and about my mother that way. I had always been attracted to her, and found her alluring, but would never have admitted to it. I imagined, for the first time, what it would be like to be with her, to make love to my mother. I stroked myself into a towel, pulled my pants up and fell asleep on my bed.

######

When I woke up I heard the television on and Mom cooking dinner in the kitchen. The washer was going and I noticed that the lid to the hamper was open and that the towel on the floor was gone. Mom was still mom, doing my laundry for me, even at 23 years old. I went to the bathroom and relieved myself before going downstairs.

"Need any help?" I asked as she pulled the bones from a baked chicken.

She didn't even look up. "No, thank you. I can do it."

"Are you sure? I can—"

"I said I've got it!" she snapped. I froze, not sure what to do. After a moment I turned to walk away. I made it three steps. "Vince! Wait!" she said from behind me. I stopped. "I'm sorry. I'm just. . . I don't know," she sighed. I turned around and saw her resting her hands flat on the counter, her head hanging forward.

"Mom," I said, walking toward her, "I really didn't mean to make you uncomfortable. If I crossed a line today, I'm sorry." I rested my hand on her shoulder.

"It's not you, Vince," she said. Looking up at me, her eyes were red. She rested a hand on my hand on her shoulder. "It felt so nice to hear someone say those things about me today, and I got carried away. I shouldn't have let it get to me like that."

"It's okay, Mom. Do. . . do you want to talk about it?"

"I don't know. Maybe. Why don't you get us something stiff to drink while I get this chicken finished up?"

I fixed us both a couple of Jack and Coke's and took them into the living room. A minute later, I heard the glass casserole dish slide across the oven rack before the door closed and Mom set the timer. She walked in, still in her short shorts and gray t-shirt, wiping her hands on a kitchen towel. Reaching for the drink, she said, "Thank you, sweetie." She sat down on the couch and took a sip before resting her elbows on her knees. With her head hanging down and her eyes still closed, she asked, "Did you mean all those things you said about me this afternoon?"

I nodded. "Yeah, Mom. I did."

"Where do you get off?" she asked angrily, sitting up and looking at me with fire in her eyes. "I'm your mother, dammit!"

"I know," I sighed.

"Is this some sick fetish? You need to get this under control!"

I stood up suddenly, yelling, "I've been controlling it for ten fucking years! Don't tell me to get it under control!"

Her eyes were as big as saucers and the color drained from her face as she looked up at me. "Oh, Vincent," she said quietly, shaking her head.

I paced the living room. "I'm sorry, Mom, I really am." I took a gulp of my drink. "I never meant for this to come out. I never wanted to look at you this way and I don't know how to turn it off. I tried all through high school and I thought I would just lose interest. When I got to college I figured that if I got a girlfriend my feelings for you would realign the right way, but it never happened." I sighed and stopped, closing my eyes so I wouldn't have to see her face. "I think the reason I like bigger girls is because I'm attracted to you." She didn't say anything. I opened my eyes to see her looking at the floor between her feet, her right knee dancing nervously.

"Maybe it would be best if you got that apartment," she said quietly. She stood and walked up the stairs and closed her bedroom door. I dropped onto the couch before tipping my glass back and swallowing the rest of the liquid comfort. As I replayed the events of the day, I heard the oven timer beep and I went into the kitchen. I got out two bowls and scooped some of Mom's casserole into each one. I walked up the stairs with a bowl and spoon and a glass of tea.

Stopping outside her door I called out quietly. "Mom? I brought you some dinner." No answer. "I'll just leave it outside your door. I love you, Mom. I'm sorry." She had never failed to answer me, no matter how upset she was. This was new.

I was scared.

I finished my dinner and cleaned the kitchen. No stirring from upstairs. I sighed, picked up my laptop and took it up to my room. Her bowl and glass were still full. She hadn't eaten anything. I didn't know if I should leave it for her, but I also knew that her casserole was no good cold, even she thought so. I placed my computer on my desk and walked to her door. As I bent down to pick up her dishes, I heard her talking quietly.

". . . likes my skin, even the freckles. Vincent likes my. . . my son likes my breasts. He says they are soft when we. . . when we hug. Oh, God, what's wrong with me? Okay, breathe." I could hear her do her deep breathing exercises to calm down. Then she cleared her throat. "My son likes my stomach and my hips. He likes the way my butt moves. He likes my thighs and my calves and my feet. Dammit, Claire. He's still your son."

What the hell was going on? I wanted to knock and ask, but this was her time. Alone. Especially if she was trying to settle down from the mess I had caused. I picked up the dishes and took them down to the kitchen before emptying them into the garbage disposal and putting them into the dishwasher.

I walked back to my room, tempted to listen in again, but I thought better of it. After closing my door I stripped to my underwear and started watching a movie on the streaming service, but I fell asleep within the hour.

######

"Vince?" I heard, feeling a hand on my shoulder, shaking me awake. "Vincent, honey? Wake up."

"Mom? What time is it?"

"It's just after 11. We need to talk, sweetie. About earlier."

"Yeah, okay," I said, sitting up.

"Put something on and come downstairs. I'll make coffee." With that she got up and left my room.

I went to the bathroom, splashed water on my face to wake up, and went back to my room to put on some lounge pants and a t-shirt. By the time I got down to the kitchen, Mom had already made our coffee and was sitting at the kitchen table. I sat down across from her and took a sip from my favorite mug.

"First of all," she said, "I want to apologize for my reaction earlier. I think I was out of line."

"It's okay," I said. "I shouldn't have—"

"Yes, you should have." I didn't understand. "I have always told you that I wanted you to be honest with me. I wanted to know what was going on. So then you tell me something big that you've been struggling with for half your life, and I react out of anger, as if it was a personal offense to me. I know, sweetie, that this has nothing to do with me. I mean, it does, but it's not about something you are doing to me or against me; it's just how you feel."

I nodded. "Mom, I don't want this to come between us. I don't want this to be a problem. I may always be attracted to you like I have been, but I've had it under control for this long, and I can continue to control it. Maybe I'll outgrow it in time."

"Or maybe you won't." She peered at me over her mug.

"So, what now?"

"Now we talk." She took a deep breath. "You've been very honest with me and I think it's time I'm honest with you. I've known for a long time, how you feel about me."

"You have?"

She held up a hand to silence me. "The reason I got so angry this afternoon is that I felt like the foundation of our relationship cracked." I shook my head to signal that I didn't understand. "I've known how you feel for at least five years, since your graduation party at least. But you never said anything. You never acted on it. It allowed me to keep the illusion that you didn't feel that way, that we were safe. Now, however, we aren't safe. Our relationship can't be what it was."

"Why not, Mom? What's not safe? So you know; so what?"

"So, now I have to fight for both of us, and I don't think I'm strong enough."

"Fight for both of us? I don't understand."

"So far, I've only been fighting myself. As long as I could pretend you weren't interested in me. . . that way, then I could fight the temptation raging inside me. Now that I know for certain how you feel, then my own temptation is stronger."

Suddenly, a light bulb came on.

"Mom? You mean you've. . . for me?"

She hung her head. "I'm sorry, Vince. It's wrong on so many levels. When I told you to get yourself under control, I wasn't just talking to you; I was talking to myself. So now that we both know, maybe we can work together to fight, you know? We can overcome this vile temptation, watching each other's back."

"Why?" I asked.

"Vince, don't," she said, shaking her head enthusiastically. "Don't even think about it. This is wrong and we have to stand together against it. Tomorrow I will help you find an apartment. As my son I want you to stay here with me, but the risk is too great now. We can't stay here together, not now at least." With that, she stood and took her cup to the sink.

I stood up, too. "Wait, can we talk about this?"

She walked past as she said, "We just did. I'll see you in the morning."

She walked out on me and I began to cry.

######

I don't know if Mom slept that night, but I didn't. Even when I tried to think of Mom and I in a romantic situation, it was different. Before today, when I had fantasized about seeing Mom in her swimsuit, or looking down her shirt when she bent over, or rubbing up against me as we decorated the Christmas tree, it would sometimes lead to a kiss between us. I never got farther than that, wracked with guilt at what I was thinking, but I was somehow still okay with thoughts of kissing her and maybe copping a feel. When I would fantasize about her, she would smirk when she caught me looking, or maybe wink at me. That night I had a familiar fantasy of looking down her shirt when she bent over, catching a glimpse of her deep cleavage. This time when she caught me, however, she quickly stood up, grasping the neck of her shirt and asked me what the hell I thought I was doing. Then she stormed out of the room.

Dammit, I thought, why did I have to go and screw everything up? Maybe Mom was right. Maybe I needed a place of my own, a place away from her.

I finally dozed off into a fitful sleep, although it wasn't until almost 5am. When I got out of bed at 6:30, the sun starting to peek over the neighbor's roof, I stumbled downstairs. I was surprised to see Mom at the table already, still in her bathrobe, her hair a sexy mess. Her left hand was wrapped around her coffee mug and with her right, she circled another ad in the paper, which was spread out on the table.

She looked up at me and muttered, "Good morning."

"Yeah," I mumbled. I fixed a bowl of cereal and sat down across from her. She didn't acknowledge me a second time. I dropped my spoon in the bowl, causing a splash of milk to land on the paper, the table, and my arm. "Are we really doing this, Mom?"

"Yes, Vince, we are," she said as she calmly blotted the milk droplets on the paper with a napkin.

"This is insane," I said. "Can't we please talk about this and come up with a workable solution? Please?"

"Go ahead," she challenged. "Tell me how we're going to work through this living under the same roof, knowing how we both feel. Lay it out, Vince."

"I. . . well, we. . ." I stammered before sighing, exasperated. "I don't know just yet, but we can work together, Mom, you said so yourself."

"This," she said, stabbing the paper with her finger, "This is working together. This is how we fight it." Her eyes were filling with tears and her voice was angry. "I don't see any other way. You can't stay here."

"Fuck it!" I said, shoving my bowl away and standing up. "I'll find my own damned place!" I stormed out and up to my room. I threw on some shorts, a t-shirt and a ball cap. I bounded down the stairs and headed to the front door.

"Vince, wait!" I heard. Mom continued to call me, her voice frantic and I caught her out of the corner of my eye, as she rushed toward me. "Vincent! VINCENT!!"

The door slammed behind me. The morning was quiet outside the house, despite the storm that had been brewing inside it. I jetted out of my driveway, my Civic squealing on the pavement as I slammed on the brakes and jammed it into first. I stopped at the gas station on the corner and grabbed every copy of the apartment finders I could get my hands on. Sitting in the parking lot of the local park, I circled apartments that might work and dog-eared the pages. By 8:30 I was driving from complex to complex, meeting with property managers and looking at the model apartments. I ate lunch while I drove, afraid to stop and sit down for a few minutes. By four o'clock I was wiped out mentally and emotionally.

Over the course of the day, my phone rang several times, at least twice every hour, usually three times. I had a series of missed calls and new texts. I hadn't even bothered to take out my phone and look at it. It wasn't important either way. When it rang, I would just hit ignore and keep doing what I was doing: driving, touring the apartment, listening to the agent. Actually, by 10:30 I had just set it on silent so I wouldn't even know. Now I was back in the car, trying to decide where to go for the evening. I looked at my phone and picked it up out of the cup holder.

There were only four texts from Mom. All of them essentially said the same thing: She was sorry and I needed to answer my phone. I cursed under my breath and called her. It didn't even get to the second ring.

"Vincent?" she said, excitedly.

"Yeah." I was still plenty hot under the collar and didn't feel like doing this.

She sighed, "I'm so glad you called."

"You told me to. What do you want?"

"Please come home. We can talk, work this out."

"No, Mom, we can't."

"We can, Vincent! I know we can," she began to choke up. "Please come home."

I sat silently, reconciling my pride with my true desire. Was I hesitant to go home just to piss her off? To say I'd won? Or was I just that angry? I wanted more than anything to be home with her, at least for now, but I couldn't afford to be jerked around, begged to come home, only to be told tomorrow that I needed to move out.

"Where are we going with this?" I asked. "I need to know where I'm sleeping."

"Here," she said. "With me. I mean, I want you home with me."

"I don't know, Mom." I was calm and confused. I really didn't know what to do. I knew I'd messed up big time. "Maybe it really would be better for me to find somewhere else to be."

It was quiet for a moment before Mom spoke again. "No, Vincent, it's not. This is your home. I overreacted and, rather than finding my own strength, I put the responsibility on you to change. I need to be strong here. We can work through this here. If you want to move out, I understand. You're a grown man and it's expected that you have your own place. I don't want you to feel pressured to stay here. I just don't want you to move out because I told you to. I want you to know that there will always be a place here for you. For tonight, however, won't you please come home?"

I thought about it for a minute. Mom was very good not to push me for an answer as I processed through it. "Okay. I'm coming home."

"Thank you, Vincent," she said. I could hear her smile through the phone.

"I love you, Mom."

"I know. And I love you, too, baby doll."

I hung up the phone and drove home.

As soon as I pulled into the driveway, Mom was on the front porch, beaming. "Hi, Mom," I said as I walked up the sidewalk. As soon as stepped onto the porch I said, "I'm sorry I—"

My words were cut off by my mother's sobbing hug. I wrapped my arms around her tightly as she squeezed my neck in her own embrace. "Vincent! No no no. Shhh. No apologies. You didn't do anything wrong, baby." She pulled away and stroked my hair with a gentle smile. "Come inside. Would you like a drink?"

I sighed with a smile. "That would be great." I dragged in behind her and closed the door. I plopped onto the couch and listened to Mom mixing me a Margarita before mixing one for herself. She handed it to me and sat on the coffee table, facing me. The margarita was good. "Mm, thank you. This is really good."