Author: Daydreamer Posted: 13 March 2003

Denial

"Naomi!"

That's my son -- always thrilled to see me. I wrap him in my arms and hug him hard.

And then he is there. Blair's roommate. Friend. Partner -- though I try to forget that part as often as I can. It just devastates me to think of my baby boy working with the pigs.

But Jim -- aside from the whole police mentality thing -- Jim is a very attractive man. So I straighten as he approaches, maybe even preen a little, but hey -- you can't blame a girl for trying. And the age difference really isn't all that great. I'd say Jim's about halfway between me and Blair. I mean, I was only sixteen when I had my son -- a mere child myself.

But he's smiling at me, so I smile back and he leans down to kiss my cheek. I think something could happen this time ....

"Hey, Naomi," Jim says, "what brings you by?"

I laugh and his smile gets brighter. No one can resist my laugh. Most men can't resist me -- I was surprised at the restraint Jim had shown the last time I was here. His smile grows and I say, "I'm on my way to Alaska for an environmental thing. We're trying to increase awareness of the rapidly diminishing natural lands and raise funds for education and preservation." It's part of my charm -- I'm always working for a good cause. People have always admired my determination and spirit.

But it seems to confuse Jim, poor man. What could I expect with that stuffy cop attitude? I wonder if he even knows where Alaska is. Oh, well. No bother. It's not his mind I'm interested in.

"Oh," is all he has to say.

But not Blair. Of course Blair will not be limited to a one word answer. He immediately has to show off how much he knows about everything.

"Oh, man, I read about some of that stuff," he says, dragging me into the apartment and over to the couch.

Jim picks up my bags -- such a gentleman -- then sneezes as he brings them into the living room. I wonder if his allergies are acting up?

"Put them in my old room, Jim," Blair orders, and I really have to wonder where my son gets this penchant for feeling he has to know everything, tell everything and be in charge of everything. It's most annoying.

Blair's wraps his arm around me and pulls me tight to his side. Really, it's rather sweet the way he loves me. But he's babbling again, and I look over to see Jim grinning at him. The look on his face is -- unsettling -- and I wonder if I've missed an important vibe here. I turn back to Blair and tune in in time to hear him say, " ... ATVs tearing up the terrain ..."

Jim is still watching Blair with that goofy expression on his face, and I don't like it one bit. Blair waves for Jim to join us, and I speak up. "And the roadless rule is up for reconsideration," I add, glad that there is at least one thing that I know and my know-it-all son does not. "Don't forget that."

"Roadless rule?" Jim asks, sitting in the chair instead of on the couch with us.

"Clinton administration passed it," Blair says before I can get the words out. "Loggers can't go cutting roads throughout all the forests they're destroying."

I bite back my annoyance and smile and try to look proud of my little show-off. And I am proud of him -- I mean, look at how well he's turned out. When I tell people my son is about to become a doctor, they are always telling me what a good job I did to raise him so well, what with me being a single mother and all. Yes, I guess I should be proud -- I really did do well.

"Doesn't that make it hard to get the timber out?" Jim asks, and I wonder if we're going to talk about Alaska all night. Knowing Blair, he probably could.

But since Jim seems interested, I can deal. "Exactly," I say, hearing the word echoed by my son, who immediately begins to laugh. I shoot a glance at Jim, who's looking at Blair and grinning, then I join in the laughter.

Jim looks at me, and I swear I see jealousy in his eyes. He wanted to sit with me on the couch. I bet he wishes he could be here with his arm around me, laughing over silliness. He looks lonely over there, and I make a mental note to see what I can do about that loneliness later.

"Bush's people have been trying to overturn the law since they got in," Blair explains, never one to let a subject go until he's talked it to death. He smiles at Jim, then looks at me and asks, "Are you dealing with the cruise ship dumping?"

Oh, yeah -- you never miss an opportunity to show off what you know, do you, baby? But I smile cheerfully and chirp, "You know it, sweetie." He loves it when I call him that. I've always been able to get him to do anything I want when I call him sweetie. "That's one of the biggies."

"Cruise ship dumping?"

Poor Jim. He sounds even more confused, but before I can begin to explain, Blair jumps in again.

"Oh, yeah," he says, "there's like, tons of waste just dumped off cruise ships every week."

"I can't remember all the numbers," I interject smoothly, gratified when Jim focuses his attention on me, "but I do remember that there's a million gallons of graywater dumped every week, by every ship."

"Graywater."

Jim seems to do that a lot -- just repeat part of a conversation as if he were feeding Blair lines. And he's staring at Blair again. You'd think he sees enough of him -- after all, they live together. And I would think my scenery would be much more interesting to look at.

"Graywater," Blair says, sliding into what I call his teacher voice. He's used it since he was a child, and I'm not the only one it irritates. He comes across as if he thinks he's so much smarter than everyone else, and it used to really bother some of the men I stayed with. I tried to tell Blair not to be like that, but he just can't seem to help it.

"It has solvents and detergents and pesticides in it," he says with a frown, as if the whole concept really bothers him. I mean, really. Alaska is miles away from Washington -- what could he possibly be concerned about?

"Not as bad as the raw sewage they dump, but there's just so much more of it." Blair finishes explaining it all to us, then gets up with a weary sigh. "You want tea, Naomi?" he asks me, and I rise and follow. I can't help the smile that crosses my lips when I realize Jim has risen as well, and he's following me.

But then I watch as my next lover walks over to my son and wraps his arms around his waist. Blair leans back familiarly, then looks over at me where I stand watching the two of them. So that's how it is, is it? Blair gives me that little smile of his, the one he's always used when he wants to get away with something, then shrugs as if to say that what I think doesn't matter. He lets Jim hold him a minute longer, then steps away to start the water for the tea. Jim moves silently back to the living room.

My eyes dart to the room where Jim has placed my bags and I say, "Your old room?"

My son hears the disapproval in my voice and blushes. He's afraid, and well he should be. I couldn't care less about him being gay, I've had female lovers myself, but for him to flaunt it in my face like this -- that he has someone and I don't .... Why does he always do this to me?

I think about how to approach this, looking over to see Jim staring at Blair with worry on his face. The goofy grins of earlier begin to make sense. He thinks he's in love with my child. How little he understands. No one can love Blair for long; he's too -- wearing -- for anyone to last.

Except me, of course. I mean, I'm his mother. I've been there his whole life -- his one constant. I can feel myself shifting into protective mother mode -- I do this well.

"Oh, sweetie," I say as quietly as I can, "are you sure about this?"

"Oh, yeah," Blair says, the defiance back in his voice. He's always been like this. Every time I would have to leave him, he'd get stubborn and whiny and defy me at every turn. Then he'd cry when I'd get back and tell me how everyone was so mean to him. I tried and tried to explain to him he needed to stop being so defiant all the time, but he never listened.

"Absolutely positive," he says looking over at Jim and smiling.

Once again, he's not listening to me. I glance at Jim, and suddenly he's not so attractive anymore. I wonder what made him think he could replace me in my child's life? Well, it won't happen. "I mean, have you processed it, baby? Really worked through everything?" I step forward, and Blair pulls me into his arms.

He's always loved me best.

"I've processed, Naomi," he tells me. "Seems like lately all I've done is process."

Now that sounds like the boy I raised -- always complaining, never happy. He drops his head on my shoulder, needy, clingy, but I lift my hand and pat his back. It's what good mothers do, and I am, of course, a good mother.

"There's been a lot of stuff I've had to process," he whines, and I fight to keep from rolling my eyes. I look over at Jim and see he's still watching Blair -- as if the sun rose and set in Blair -- and that will not do. Blair is here for me -- not for Jim. I'm the one who gave birth to him, wiped his butt, fed him, clothed him, paid for all those damned books. I sacrificed untold relationships for this child, and I'll be damned if I'm going to be pushed aside now.

"Have you really thought about what life with a -- a cop will be like?" I ask, and he pulls away from me, frowning. He seems genuinely confused, and I really wonder why anyone thought he was a genius. The most basic things seem to escape him at times.

"Why would it be any different than it has been since I moved in?" Blair says, that defiance still in his voice. He always feels he has to challenge me and my decisions. "We already lived together, ate together, worked together. We shared rides and expenses and house responsibilities. Jim's had my power of attorney for over a year now, and I have his."

Oh God -- this is worse than I thought. He's gotten legally entangled with Jim. I wonder if I even have any legal authority over my son anymore, or has Jim stolen it away from me?

I don't know if a direct attack on Jim will work. Blair seems pretty infatuated, so I decide to keep it vague for now. When he sees how much this upsets me, surely he'll realize this is not the thing to do. "But -- Jim," I say, letting my hands express all my frustration and anxiety. Surely Blair can see how much this bothers me?

Jim stiffens and glares at me and I glare back. If he thinks he can just swoop in and take my child, he'd better start thinking again. Blair needs me -- I'm all he has.

But my son is pulling away from me, backing up and pacing in this small cramped kitchen. "And just what's wrong with Jim?" he demands.

I look over and see that Jim is impressed that Blair would defend him. He shouldn't be -- Blair will defend anything.

"He's a cop -- we've established that. But he's been a cop ever since I met him. Why would you think that would make a difference now?"

I just shake my head -- poor, misguided child -- and reach to comfort him, but he rebuffs me. Now I'm getting angry. Since when does he reject me? I am his mother -- the only person who's always been there for him through his whole life. How dare he try and replace me with -- some man he just met a few years ago?

"Is it because he's a guy?" he asks me, and I am amazed that he would even dare to say that to me. "I thought you were more open-minded than that, Naomi."

"Of course it's not that!" I say to him. "You know me better than that!"

He's acting sad now, as if I've disappointed him.

"I thought I did, but I'm beginning to wonder," he says. "What is it exactly that worries you about Jim?"

He's moved to stand beside his -- lover. I can barely get myself to think the word. And really, it's not that he's taken a lover, or even that it's a man. I certainly raised my child to have no inhibitions. But to be so -- committed. Blair should know better. He knows that these things don't last. Nothing lasts. I'm the only constant in his life. I was always there, always having to clean up the messes he made. Always ready to take him and move on when it became untenable for us to stay any longer. How can he even think about having a permanent relationship with anyone but me? He should know it will never work out.

I look at Jim and see that he thinks he's got this all worked out. He thinks he owns my little boy. Well, he'll be surprised that it takes more than a place to stay and a good lay to hang onto a Sandburg. He'll learn. Let's see what he thinks he's getting from his involvement with my son.

"What does he get out of this, Blair?" I ask, using my iciest tone. I want to make sure he is clear that I do not approve of this at all. "You have a place to stay, help with your thesis, an in at the police station. But what does Jim get?"

I step over and circle him, assessing what Jim has to offer. He's definitely well-built, but still....

"He's older than you," I tell my son.

"Some," Blair acknowledges. "So?"

"He's a cop," I try again. Surely that must mean something. Blair was raised to know that the law was the enemy. You don't just go to bed with the enemy. He saw too many of our friends taken down by pigs like Jim.

"Been there, done that."

Now just what does that mean? Has my son completely thrown aside all the values and morals I instilled in him? I lower my voice and try to edge Blair away from Jim, even as I know my next words will show Jim's real self. If Blair can't see him for what he is, if he is so blinded by love, then I will draw the enemy out and make him show himself.

"Blair, he kills people."

I watch Jim as I speak, and I see the fury that flashes over his face. Oh, yes, now my son will see -- now he will remember that he doesn't need anyone other than me. Certainly not a killer like this.

"Only when I have to," Jim snarls, and my breath catches. He leans toward me, and I can't help but take a step back. Perhaps I've made a mistake here. Jim's hands are flexing at his side as if he'd like to wrap them around my throat, and I'm definitely thinking I may have said the wrong thing. But then my son is there. He steps between us and faces this, this, cop that he is involved with. Blair places his hand on Jim's chest, and I see his lips move, but I can't hear what he says. I see the tension ease from Jim's body, but he looks at me without blinking.

I need to push on while I can. "He'll change you, Blair," I say, reaching out to pull him away from this killer. He flinches from my touch, but I ignore it. Blair gets this way when he's upset. Every time I would return from one of my jaunts, he'd be moody and distant at first, and I would have to win him back with kisses and touches and time spent together. I can do this.

I wrap my arm around him and try to draw him away, and while he doesn't reject my touch, he won't come with me. He's standing there, his hand still pressed to Jim's chest.

I need to remind him of who he is. "You're an innocent, Blair," I tell him. "Incorrupt." I made sure of that. I always kept him sheltered, made sure that he knew there was only me. No matter what happened, we always had each other. "You have a purity that comes from always being protected, always being loved. He'll take that and destroy it." Jim is glaring at me now, but he hasn't moved toward me again. That's interesting, and someday I'll have to spend a little time figuring out how my son has managed to turn this big, strong cop into someone who submits to him. But not now. Now I need to get my son away from him and back with me. "And then, when he loses interest, he'll abandon you."

Blair finally steps away from Jim, and I am just about to gather him to me and race him out of this horrid little apartment when he whirls and says, "Innocent? I'm innocent? Are you shitting me?"

I can't believe he's speaking to me like that. How could he say such a thing to me? Doesn't he know how much his words hurt?

"Do you really think I was always protected? Always loved?" He's raising his voice to me, actually starting to yell at me. "How the hell would you know if I was loved and protected? How the hell would you know? YOU WERE NEVER THERE!"

I have decided that I will not participate in this little scene Blair has created. He's always doing this -- so dramatic. Everything has to be about him. I close my eyes and take a cleansing breath and then begin to center myself. I'm not going to listen.

"Let me tell you about loved and protected," Blair says, his words cutting through my attempts to screen them out. "I was so well-loved that you left me in a park when I was four. You just forgot about me."

How can he even remember that? He was a baby. And really, it's not as if I left him deliberately. I have never known anyone to dredge up the past the way he does.

"And you left me on the beach when I was seven. Do you even remember that?"

My eyes are still closed, and I am chanting in my head. I want to speak, to tell him that yes, I do remember. I remember how he argued with me when it was time to go, and I finally just got tired of it and left. My lesson worked, too. The next time I was ready to leave, there were no arguments. He stuck by my side like glue. But I'm not going to give him the satisfaction of engaging over these little trivialities.

"And what about the time you just drove off and left me in the rest stop on the highway? I was eleven, Naomi, eleven. I was scared shitless. I hid in the men's room all day -- terrified any time someone came in. Let me tell you -- I did not feel loved or protected any of those times."

I refuse to open my eyes, refuse to acknowledge any of this. This is just another example of Blair dragging up the past, being the little drama queen. I smile to myself at my own pun; I am so clever.

"Jim is always there, Naomi. He doesn't forget about me, or leave me on my own. He's steady and dependable and predictable. He's given me a home -- a real home -- where I feel safe and secure, and HE WOULD NEVER ABANDON ME!"

It's obvious he is not going to let this go. So I am going to split. I've had enough of my son's hysterics to last three lifetimes. I had to put up with it when he was a child, but I sure as hell don't have to put up with it now. I open my eyes and look at him. "I can see you're too emotional to deal with this now, sweetie."

I head for the room where Jim put my bags. "I'll just get my stuff and get out of here. I can see you need your space."

"Right, Mom," Blair says.

He knows I hate it when he calls me that. It makes me sound so -- old. I've told him and told him not to call me that, but he keeps doing it anyway. It's always about what he wants.

"By all means, get your shit and run. It's what you do best. But you'll excuse me if I don't wait around this time to watch the big departure. I think I have enough paper kisses to last a lifetime!"

He marches out the front door, and I give a sigh of relief. Now to just get my stuff and get out of here. I'll work on Blair from a distance. I really shouldn't have even worried about Blair being with Jim. He'll never last in a long-term relationship. He doesn't know how.

I'm almost to the door to the room under the stairs when a sound makes me freeze.

"STOP!" Jim roars. "You are not going anywhere."

I'd almost forgotten about him. I look back and see the rage on his face.

"Blair needs some time to process this," I say, trying to appeal to his feeling for my son. I mean, Blair does need to process, and I am just doing what any caring mother would do -- giving her child what he needs.

"Like hell he does," Jim growls at me. "He's been processing for months now, and I think he needs a little closure at this point -- and you're going to give it to him." He points to the couch and orders me to sit.

I stand there in shock. I can't believe he just pointed at the couch and told me to sit like I was some trained dog. I am not going to move. But then he's just -- there. I didn't even see him move across the room. His hand is on my arm and he's moving me forward, very gently, but it's clear that I am going to go and sit down. How can my son love a bully like this? I collapse onto the couch and have to fight to keep from crying. I can't believe I am being treated this way.

"Stay there." Jim is still growling, and I have to wonder for a moment about his totem. He roars, he growls, he snarls, and I'm willing to bet he purrs when he's content. A cat of some kind -- big. A lion, maybe, or something sleeker. A cheetah, or a panther.

He darts into the room under the stairs, Blair's old room, and comes back out with a box which he passes to me.

"What's this?" I ask, not sure I want to know.

"Pieces of your son's past," Jim says accusingly. "And we're going to talk about it."

"I don't have anything to say to you," I tell him, but I can't resist looking in the box, and it takes me a minute to realize what it holds. Doesn't Jim realize that the contents of this box alone prove that Blair belongs to me and to no one else?

"I have to go talk to Blair," Jim tells me. "He's my priority right now. But you," he pauses, and I look up to meet his eyes, "I want to talk to you as well. So you're going to wait here for me, do you understand?"

I've really had enough of this. My aura is disheveled and my energy is drained. Goodness knows what's happening to my karma with all this negativity. "I don't have to let you talk to me that way," I tell him as I try to get up, but he is like a wall, solid and unmoving. "You can't keep me here," I say, hoping that he is still rational enough to realize the truth of my words.

"No," he says, agreeing with me.

I sigh in relief.

"I can't. But Blair can. And despite everything you did to him, all that you let happen to him, I think you love him."

Well, of course I love him. He's my son. What is this man talking about? "I do," I tell him in a quiet voice.

"Well, you know what? So do I. So you're going to sit right here on your ass and wait for me while I go and check on him and make sure he's all right."

I will not be threatened. "I can't deal with this right now," I say. "I need to keep my energy positive for the upcoming journey."

He's staring down at me, and I think I've just realized how dangerous he can be. "Naomi," he says, "I believe you when you say you love him, but you are one selfish, self-centered, egotistical bitch. It's always about you, isn't it?"

I can't believe he would say such things to me. I don't care how big or how dangerous he is. I jump to my feet and shove him hard and watch as he stumbles backwards. "How dare you? You say you love Blair but then you speak to me like that. How dare you?"

Jim just shrugs. "One doesn't have anything to do with the other in my book."

Maybe he needs a new book. And maybe.... A thought occurs to me. I wonder what Blair would think of his lover if Jim were to lose it and hit me? I narrow my eyes and look at him. "And what about my son's book? Do you think he would feel the same way?"

"Not really," Jim says as if I don't matter, "and frankly, that's the only reason I haven't knocked you into the middle of next week for the way you treat him. For the things you let happen to him when he was young and defenseless and totally dependent on you."

He's glaring at me now, giving new meaning to the term 'if looks could kill.' I am shocked. I honestly can not believe he is speaking to me this way. What is he accusing me of? And what business is it of his, anyway?

"What's that supposed to mean?" I demand. "I love him. I've always loved him. He's always come first." Maybe it's time to let Jim know just exactly what he's getting in my son. "Why do you think I'm not in a long-term, committed relationship?"

"Don't start that crap," he says, walking away from me. "Blair doesn't have anything to do with your inability to commit. If anything, he's the first victim of it."

Victim? Blair -- a victim? How can he even say that? He wasn't the one saddled with a kid at sixteen, having to drag him everywhere, never being able to do anything without thinking about 'what will I do with Blair?' I'm moving before I think and my hand is up, ready to slap him for his liberties, but he intercepts me in midair. I struggle against him for a moment, and then he releases me.

"I always had to put Blair first."

"Like you put him first when you lived with Don?"

I can feel the blood drain from my face, and I feel faint. I can't believe Blair would drag this up, that he would try and turn Jim against me like this. How could he do this to me? When I realized Don had actually hurt my son, when I realized he might turn on me, I did what any mother would do to protect her child. "I took him and we left," I tell him as honestly as I can.

Jim looks appalled as he tells me, "It went on the whole time, Naomi. The whole time. He used to hide in the closet under the stairs. He lived in terror and he hated it there."

I do not understand what he is so upset about. Blair was so little -- how could what happened that long ago have any importance now? "He was just a baby," I remind him. Surely he must understand that a child that young wouldn't have clear memories? And a child like Blair? Always imagining, always elaborating. I could never tell when he was telling the truth and when he was making up stories. "I'd always given him a lot of freedom and Don insisted on more rules. It was a difficult adjustment for Blair."

"The man beat him, Naomi!"

He looks incensed, as if I had done something wrong. "Don't be ridiculous," I say to him. "I would never let anyone hurt Blair."

He's ranting now, pacing back and forth as if something had happened to him instead of to a four-year-old child who's a grown man now.

"How would you know? You were never there! You left him in parks and on beaches and at rest stops on the highway. You left him with people you didn't even know. You never even called to check on him while you were off chasing the obsession of the month. How the hell would you know if someone hurt him?"

How can he think so poorly of me? I raised Blair by myself. I was alone -- a single mother. And he's turned out so well. I did a wonderful job raising him. Ask anyone -- they'll tell you what a good mother I am. "I -- I was careful. I only left him with people I could trust. He was my child!"

"Exactly!" he crows in triumph as if I am the dim-witted student who has finally solved the problem. I have no idea what he means.

"He was your child and you were responsible for him. And you abdicated your responsibility any time you damn well felt like it. You dare say I would abandon him? You abandoned him all the time -- his whole childhood is one long series of abandonments!"

How can he keep saying these things to me? Doesn't he realize how sensitive I am? Why is he making me defend myself? I was the one who had to live with Blair, had to put up with his books and his stories and his flights of fantasy. How can he fault me for needing a break? I was just a kid myself! "I made sure he was safe. I would never let anyone hurt him." I hate that he has made me uncertain over decisions I made years ago. What right does he have?

"Don beat him," Jim says again. "He was four fucking years old and that bastard beat him!" His hand is fisted and as his arm comes up, I think for a moment he is going to hit me. But then, he turns at the last minute and slams his hand into the brick wall. "He has scars, Naomi," he says, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Scars. On his back, on his buttocks, on his legs."

I can't believe this. How could that have happened? "No ..." I whimper painfully. "No ...."

"Yes."

I have to get out of here. I can not deal with this now. I look at the room where my bags sit and begin to edge in that direction.

"Don't even think about it," Jim threatens. "You may run from me now, but I swear to you, Naomi, if you do, I will hunt you down and drag you back, kicking and screaming if need be, but you will come back. You weren't there for him then, but you are going to be here for him now. He loves you. He needs you. And for just this little while, just this once, you will be the kind of mother that he needs."

Fine. If that's what he wants, I can do that, and then I'll get out of here. "I hear you," I murmur, nodding.

"No, I don't think you do," he says, and the ice in his voice makes me look up. "But, by God, you will."

He's almost at the door when something occurs to me. This calm of his is infuriating, the way he acts like everything revolves around Blair. Maybe he needs a little shaking up. "Jim?" I say, in my sweet and confused voice.

He stops and looks at me. "I never knew you were gay."

Bingo! He's pissed. I swallow my smile and drop my head as I finger through the old tissues in this box of Blair's. I'm hoping I look very intent on my task.

"Oh, for God's sake, Naomi," he snaps at me. "This is not a gay thing. It's not even a bi thing."

He pauses, and I wonder how he thinks he can live in a homosexual relationship with my son, when he can't even admit it to himself.

"It's a Blair thing," he says at last, and I almost laugh. "Just Blair."

It suddenly hits me that he really loves Blair -- that he's committed to my son heart and soul, and it saddens me. I nod, letting him know I heard him.

"Stay here, Naomi," he says more gently. "I really need to check on him."

I nod again and realize I'm jealous. Why is it that I was the one who made all the sacrifices, put up with all the shit for all those years, and Blair is the one who gets happily ever after? It makes me cry. I reach into the box to grab a tissue, but Jim passes me some.

"Don't get his kisses wet," he says, so I nod and use what he hands me.

He's gone -- out the door to check on my son, and, once again, I am left alone.

And this time, I don't even have Blair to go back to.