Sweet Rome

By midday, I was pretty much done. Coach had pushed us all to breaking point, getting us prepped for the game this weekend. Going back to my locker, I grabbed my cell and headphones, needing music for my weights, when a caller flashed on the screen: Momma. I tried to think what the hell she could want. She never talked to me; hell, months could go by and we wouldn’t even have said two words to one another.

The call went off, but when she started to call again, I groaned and answered, “Momma?”

“Rome, I need a favor.” Straight to the point. But at least there was no pretense when it came to her and me. She had no problem with how she treated me, didn’t hide her complete disregard for me as her son.

“Yeah?”

“I need a signed jersey for a charity luncheon I’m hosting tomorrow. I assume you can arrange that?”

“Yeah, I can get it for you. When do you need it by?”

There was a pause, and then she said, “I’m actually going to be at lunch this afternoon. Could you arrange it within the next couple of hours and drop it by?”

“I’m doing weights in the gym now, so that should be okay. Where will you be?”

“Lorenzo’s downtown. Let’s say one thirty?”

“Fine.”

And with that, she cut the line, no good-bye or thanks.

I poured out all the tension in my body through my weights. It was always this way when I spoke to my momma. It was like I had some f**ked-up Stockholm syndrome or something. I had a drive within me that always did what she asked without argument, always striving for her praise. I literally had no memories of her being attentive, of being loving, no memory I could recall where I’d made her proud. All I had were memories of pain, not physical—no, my daddy was the one who used his fists—but the pain of her hostility toward me, her utter disdain that she had me as her son.

Moving to the free weights to do my set of squats, I couldn’t help but remember all the times I’d tried and failed to gain her approval. The earliest memory was Mother’s Day when I was about six. My teacher’d had the class creating cards to give to our mommas after school.

I remember going home, excited, hopeful that what I’d done would make her happy. I searched the house from top to bottom and eventually found her in the parlor at the back of our huge house, drinking again. At the time I didn’t realize my momma was a drunk.

I ran in, proudly showing the red card, a picture of a heart on the front, the message inside reading “I love you so much, Momma.”

I remember her rolling her eyes as I entered the room, asking, “What the hell do you want? I’m busy.”

Walking over, smiling wide, convinced that this would be the day she told me she loved me, I presented her the card—I wanted her to know that I loved her too.

Putting her scotch on the tabletop, she took the card and read the message in silence. I held my breath, my heart beating fast with nerves. But then she lifted her head and began laughing and laughing, and I began to cry as she tore the red card in two, throwing the destroyed message to the floor at my feet. At my tears, she just laughed even harder.

Picking up her drink, she stared out of the window, refusing to meet my eyes, and said, “Don’t ever make me something like that ever again. It’s insulting.”

And I never have. I never cried in front of her again after that day either.

Christ. I was six.

Coach suddenly stood before me and pulled my Beats headphones from my ears. “Enough, Rome. You’re pushing too hard. You don’t want to pick up an injury.”

Throwing the heavy weighted barbell on the floor, I picked up my towel and hit the showers. The team signed the crimson home jersey and I made my way across town.

I couldn’t believe my eyes. As I approached Lorenzo’s restaurant, planning to make this short and sweet, I immediately spotted my momma outside on the terrace. Sitting next to her was Mrs. Blair and friggin’ Shelly on the opposite side, all three of them smiling and laughing—the perfect high society image.

It quickly became apparent that I’d been set up. So, turning slowly, I moved to walk away when I heard, “Rome, where are you going? We’re right here!” Taking a deep breath, I turned around to see my momma on her feet, Shelly and Mrs. Blair smiling brightly my way.

Keep calm. Play it cool. Get through it, I told myself as I took a second deep, relaxing breath. I didn’t want to make a scene, didn’t want to make my momma suspicious.

Waving my hand in acknowledgement, I entered the restaurant, freezing when my momma kissed my cheek for show, Shelly and Mrs. Blair following suit. My momma lived the perfect double life: the quintessential society lady on the outside, f**king nightmare on the inside.