You're a Mean One, Matthew Prince, page 29
“We want to do it right and big with our whole families. Getting everyone in one place would be expensive. We’re both old enough to know if we are going to do it at all, we’re going to do it right,” she says.
“If you could have your dream wedding, where would you want to get married?” I ask. My planning brain is turning on. Cogs are spinning. How could I make this happen for her? Especially since I realize she’s spent approximately seventeen years of her life helping to raise me, treating me as if I were her family when her real one was living all over a completely different continent. What a selfless act. This is the best way to repay her for how I’ve acted and how much she’s given me. I’m sure of it.
“I’d get married on the moon if it meant everyone I loved was in the same place,” she says. Her sentimentality gets to me.
“Noted,” I say.
Oksana tenderly pats my cheek. “Now, it’s Christmas Day. Don’t dwell on the darkness too much. Tomorrow, you can confront everything. Tonight, we sing carols.”
She stands and calls the room to attention, moving into the living room where there’s a keyboard in one corner. Oksana used to play the baby grand in the sitting room at the apartment for me when I was young. It always cooled my fervid temper.
Before I know it, I’m joining in the chorus, singing loud and proud for all to hear, unafraid to fly off-key or hit a wrong note. Nobody here is going to judge me. Nobody here cares. Everyone is just happy to be full-bellied and together.
Even if it started off shitty, this is the happiest, merriest Christmas I’ve had in a long while.
Once everyone leaves and I’m curled up on the fold-out, blanket pulled up to my chest, I take out my phone and make a call. The day’s events have caught up to me since I’m finally alone with my thoughts.
“Matthew, dear? It’s late. Are you all right? Merry Christmas,” Grandma says, not an ounce of resentment over me leaving sitting between the notes of her singsong voice. That comforting sound makes the tears come on. “Dear, what’s wrong? You sound upset,” she says. The concern is palpable even through the phone. Even though I put this distance between us again.
“Everything is changing and I can’t make it stop,” I say as if the act of manipulating time and space were ever in my power. “How do I make it stop?” With the phone to my ear, I slide on my shoes and coat, lift open the window, and hop out onto the fire escape. Oksana and Maxim are sleeping, and I don’t want to be a burden. More of a burden, I should say.
“Hold on.” I fumble with the old latch. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry…” I keep saying it on repeat. All those years filtering it from my vocabulary and now I’m a broken record. It doesn’t feel good, but it doesn’t feel bad either.
“What are you apologizing for? Dear, did something happen?” she asks. But where to begin? God, I can’t play her our greatest hits without croaking a full sob.
“I found out about the divorce,” I tell her. “And how Mom leaked the story of my island to cover it up.” The betrayal flashes fresh each time I call it out. “Everything is changing and not for the better.”
Her sigh causes a crackle on my end. “I’m sorry you’re going through that, Matthew.”
“I keep asking myself why. Why did she do it? There’s no real answer.”
“Dear, it makes me sad, but I think your mother only shows you a small sliver of who she really is.” Grandma sniffles. “Your mother has been struggling for a long time now, and she’s gotten very good at hiding it, especially when you were a child and she stepped onto the world’s stage.” A tentative beat goes by. “I don’t say this to excuse her behavior, which angers me more than you can imagine. I say this so you know there’s more to her story than she puts on the page.”
You get that from my side of the family. I slump against the cold railing, letting the biting frost seep through the pair of borrowed sweatpants I’m wearing. The cold is a shocking balm.
“Are you saying what I think you’re saying?” I ask.
She clucks. “I’ve already divulged too much. I know you’re probably not ready right now, but one day, when the time comes, ask her yourself. She may surprise you.” Her tone isn’t convincing even if it is hopeful. “None of this will be easy but Gramps and I will be here for you if you need us.”
I think about what she said. Doors and windows into my life. “Even after I ran off like a scared little boy?” I ask. Shouldn’t that have put a dead bolt in the way?
“Scared? Would the Matthew who showed up on my doorstep three weeks ago have voluntarily thrown a charity gala? Put his ego away to connect with a community he didn’t know and wasn’t a part of?”
“Probably not.”
“Look, I’m not saying you were an oaf stomping around all the time before, but you always had your own interest at the front of the line. Something changed for you here. If you feel everyone around you is changing, it’s because you’re changing too. Enough to notice it,” she says.
I wipe my eyes with the back of my sleeve. “I guess you’re right.”
“Oh, I’m a grandmother and grandmothers are always, always, always right. Never forget that,” she says.
“I won’t,” I say, remembering the reason—the real reason, not the selfish one—I did all that work in the first place. “How did we do?”
“We raised a good chunk of change because of you.”
Momentarily, I brighten. Only she doesn’t say more, which makes me fearful.
I hedge, “Enough to save the store?”
“It was a record amount.” It doesn’t come out cheery. It’s a simple fact, which lets me know that the event wasn’t the smashing success it needed to be. “You did your part beautifully. Everyone is still talking about what a perfect evening it was. The money we needed was a long shot. Don’t beat yourself up about it.”
I resist the urge to argue. Instead, I simply thank her for the grace she’s granting me in this moment—letting me know that I can’t harbor hurt over something out of my control.
Maybe I need to apply that lesson to Mom’s lies as well. The one thing I could control was how I responded to Hector as my mental health spun like a top off the table. All the other wreckage was an unavoidable by-product.
I sigh. There’s a beat where I take in the sounds of the cabin. She’s hearing sirens and the rattle of buses down below. We hover in an alternate reality where I didn’t leave with Mom. One where I didn’t go running at the first sign of impending doom.
Trying to be courageous, knowing there’s a bigger apology meant to be made, I ask, “Is Hector in?”
There’s a lengthy pause. Some whispering. “He’s…not, dear. He stepped out for a bit. Or, um, sorry, he’s sleeping.” She’s not accustomed to lies. Even tiny ones. “Would you like me to leave him a message?”
“No, no,” I say, almost too quickly. The mean words I said to him flip inside my mind. I’ve been studying that scene repeatedly. If only I’d thrown out the script, forgotten my lines, been honest about my feelings and heard him out. Too late now.
“If you’re sure,” Grandma says. She’s trying not to sound too dejected.
“I’m sure,” I say. “Everything else okay?”
“Everything is peaches and cream, dear.”
“Good…good. Merry Christmas,” I say.
“Merry Christmas,” she says. “I love you.”
“I love you too.”
Right as I hang up, a snow flurry trickles down from the ashen night sky. I stand there, letting it wash over me, not absolved per se but ready—more than ready—to turn over a new leaf. To care for myself the way I’ve been neglecting for far too long.
With my last iota of energy, I draft a text I should’ve sent ages ago:
Merry Christmas. Sorry to bother you so late but…
I’m ready to talk.
My final Christmas wish whisks out into the universe.
Chapter 39
“You’ve undergone a lot in a short period. It’s valid for you to be feeling very strong feelings right now. It’s a major step that you showed up here today to work through this, and I want you to know that the work will take time, but it will be worth it.”
Work. Hard work. Hard work feeds the soul. Hector is everywhere. Omnipresent after everything. Still infiltrating my life in a positive way.
How do I pay that back in kind?
I guess that’s what I’m here trying to figure out with my therapist, Josiah Barnes, in the Upper West Side office I used to consider a second bedroom. I know the fabric couch by heart. Its cushiest spots; its squishiest pillows. The way the air purifier hums and where to reach for a fidget spinner or a stress toy. The statue of a robin on the shelf across the way that I can fixate on when Josiah’s eye contact becomes too intense, hits too close to the heart of the truth.
I’ve spent hours in here unpacking, tucking hurt into new drawers, reorganizing the closet of my childhood memories. Josiah Barnes has heard it all—from the fallout with Lukas Clifton to the NYU debacle, and now I’m ready to sort through the mess I left behind in Wind River and the new mess I’ve returned home to.
I’m ready to make this practice permanent again.
“I don’t know how to not feel both hurt and remorseful,” I confess.
“Those things aren’t mutually exclusive,” Josiah says, toying with a silver ball of beads. “We’ve talked previously about your aversion to apologies.”
“I’m a vending machine full of ‘I’m sorry’ these days,” I tell them. “But I don’t think Hector wants to hear one. Not after I ran off and hurt him in a way I knew I could for something he didn’t even do. And I’m not sure my culpable mom would offer another one. The one at the Plaza felt obligatory.”
Josiah lets us sit with that for a moment, knee bouncing before a thoughtful breath. “What would you say to her if she did offer another one?”
Josiah has a way of smacking me with the heavy-hitting questions, even at 10:00 a.m. I may not be caffeinated enough for this, but I guess this is what I’ve always liked about therapy and why I’ve worked with Josiah for so long. Their eyes peel away the bullshit until I have no defensiveness left.
It strikes me that maybe that’s what drew me to Hector. I’m pulled toward people that won’t let my posturing stand in the way of what’s real. I hold on to that revelation for a moment, and answer the question posed. “I’d say I wish she hadn’t done it—either of those things, the leak and the lie—but that I can understand the scared place she had to have been in to have made such drastic decisions.” I swallow hard, shaking my head.
Josiah’s position shifts to something more upright. “Is that a place you’ve been before—that scared, rash place you just described?”
Flickers of the night I bought the island come to mind. The night I tried to escape Wind River. The night of the gala. I’ve cozied up in that dark place many times before, hissed at any sign of light seeping in.
I don’t even hear myself say yes, but I must’ve because Josiah says, “Is it possible your mom might deal with some of what you deal with daily?”
It’s wild that I’d never considered this before. Her buttoned-up public image bled into our home life so young. I was taught to hide my GAD because, maybe, she was hiding hers even better. It’s how she thought she could protect me. It was wrong, but that doesn’t mean it’s without merit.
“Mental illness can run in families,” Josiah adds.
My bobbing head only picks up speed. “You could be right.”
“And let’s imagine for a moment I am. Can we reconsider my previous question?” I’m so wrapped up that I don’t even remember the previous question, so Josiah kindly calls it back. “What would you say to her if she apologized again?”
“I’d say I’m not ready to forgive her just yet, but that I want to.” This might be the biggest realization I’ve come to in this office, which is saying something.
I don’t want to hang on to this burden. It’s only weighing me and my mind down.
They smile. “And what about Hector? Do you think you could find a way to offer a truthful apology to him?”
“Of course,” I say without hesitation. One has been forming for days, though I know it will wither away with time in my notebook. He has no interest in hearing from me. “But him accepting it? That’s another story entirely.”
“Apologies aren’t always about acceptance,” Josiah offers. “Can you elaborate on this fear of rejection?”
“What I said was callous and kind of unforgivable.”
Josiah exhales. “Would you say what your mom did was also quite callous and unforgivable?”
“Maybe,” I say, confused by the string of logic.
“Okay, so by that token, if you could come around to the idea of forgiving her,” Josiah says, about to rock my world with therapeutic reasoning, “don’t you think Hector could do the same?”
I consider this from all its angles, and for the first time since leaving Wind River, the light spectacular spangled throughout my chest buzzes back on. “Do you really believe that’s true?” I ask, allowing hope to visit me once more.
“There’s only one way to know for sure.”
***
Returning to my apartment the next day is a shock to the system.
Christmas has yet to be packed away; garland still gleams on the mantel, and ornaments are still hanging from the going-brittle tree. I let myself believe, if just for a second, that none of the bad stuff transpired.
Footfalls snap me back, and that’s for the best. Fantasy doesn’t hold water when Mom and Dad enter the family room with Sarah Pearson, my erstwhile nemesis, not far behind.
While I’m still not feeling the warm fuzzies when it comes to any of them, if I’m going to make amends the right way, I’m going to need their help. It’s the least they can supply when they tipped my life into utter turmoil.
Granted, I did that to their lives first with my frivolity—I see that clearly now—so I’ve prepared a proper apology.
The assembled perch themselves across from me, all on a strict time crunch. Dad needs to return to the office—he rarely takes lunch breaks as it is, the workflow never letting up. Mom has an important meeting about her musical later today. The fact that they both took my request seriously and showed up—punctually even—is a wonder that I’m thankful for.
Sarah crosses her legs on the couch, tablet at the ready, eyes sharp like I’ve inconvenienced her. Like she hasn’t been inconveniencing me my whole life.
I clear my throat and set my coffee down. Oksana has laid out a spread. Her presence in the kitchen radiates an aura of support. Whichever way this goes, I know someone will be there to comfort me unconditionally.
“Thank you all for coming. I won’t take up too much of your time. However, I want to start by apologizing.” I wait for Dad to interject about how apologies show weakness, and Princes are too strong for that. The way he remains silent lets me know he’s here to listen. And he’s only checked his watch once since sitting down, so score for me.
“I’m sorry for lashing out and buying the island. It was selfish. The music festival I wanted to throw there was about me creating something that set me apart from the two of you.” Everyone shifts slightly at that. I had a feeling they would. We never discuss the massive shadow they cast over me and my life. “I’ve never not known this spotlight, and the truth is I’ve never quite known what to do with it. So I abused it, and abusing it for so long got me into a lot of trouble.”
“I’ll say,” Sarah mutters. It’s clear she thinks it’s funny, and I’m more than satisfied when no one laughs.
Ignoring her crack, I say, “It was wrong of me in every conceivable way. I know you had to work hard to fix another of my big mistakes. All those actions came from a scared, defensive place of panic.” I hope my word choice makes clear to Mom that we frequent the same shadowy corners of our minds. The chemicals a little funky and the decision-making centers a little out of sorts, but that’s okay. That’s our normal.
“That’s very mature of you, Matthew,” Mom says. Her tic is turned up all the way, fingers tugging on the edge of her blouse.
I can’t go back and be kinder, gentler, and more understanding with her, but I can make a choice to do that going forward. “While my apology holds, it doesn’t negate the fact that you all hurt me. Deeply. Even if I understand why you did it, my feelings are valid, and I need you to acknowledge that.”
Dad bristles in his chair, clearly uncomfortable. I wish frank discussions didn’t make him prickly—evidenced by his red neck and the sheen of sweat across his forehead. If we’d talk about my mental health more openly, or at all, really, we wouldn’t be this on edge sharing our feelings.
“Acknowledged,” Mom says.
“Ditto,” Dad adds warily. A notification chimes in on his phone. He ignores it. That earns a smile. If he were anyone else, it wouldn’t. But he’s him, and I’m going to learn to accept that.
Just as I hope they can learn to accept me. Hidden parts too.
“Good, because…I have a generalized anxiety disorder. I know you all know this. Maybe in less certain, less clinical terms, but for some reason we don’t talk about it,” I say, allowing my pent-up frustration to roll through my sternum and pass. “I’m not ashamed of it—not anymore, anyway—and I don’t want it to be some big secret hanging over me.”
Naming it forces Krampus to lose some of his power; he shrinks in size and retracts his claws. The immeasurable weight of stigma falls off my shoulders.
I angle in toward Sarah, steeling myself for her icy-blue eyes beneath blunter-than-blunt bangs. I will not let her steamroll my life for salability any longer. “Since I can’t shut off the spotlight, I want to talk about this publicly—help other people feel less alone. I want to get involved with organizations that uplift queer people who need mental health support and amplify less privileged voices. I’m done pretending having all this means I can just lean on it forever.”
