Something Missing From My Dresser

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Part 3

This story contains graphic depictions of sex between closely related family members. It is meant only for entertainment and is not meant to be taken seriously. The previous chapters could provide context, but are not required reading to understand this chapter.

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In the dead of the winter with a rattle, a push and low groan the battery light stays on for just a moment before the headlights flicker with life. I've put a lot of miles on my little car, more than I would have thought she could handle, yet she just keeps starting. We're going to need my little car because this tournament is even more important than the last and the last one before that. As a hockey mom, you forget how many tournaments you've seen, you just know that each one is the most important one. To Justin, my son, there is no doubt as to the veracity of this statement. My job is simply getting him there, he lives for the ice but he hates the snow, cold cars and long drives. Helping his mom chip the ice off the windshield may be a bit too much to ask, but considering all this is for him, a good mood should be par for the course.

"Couldn't we take dad's car? This is stupid."

"You don't like my car now?"

"Mom, we can't even fit everything in the trunk."

"Well maybe if you cleaned out your hockey bag every now and then we wouldn't have to smell it for the next three hours."

"How'my gunna do that?"

"Soap? Water? A dry cleaner? You're 18, you're an adult, figure it out."

"Sure Mom, whatever you say. Dad's is warmer too."

"And I'm not driving that monstrosity. He should've never bought an SUV, I didn't agree with it and I'm never going to drive his SUV. You know I work in a clean air emissions lab, you know that, right?"

"So that means you have to drive a crappy car?"

"This crappy car is still the best at limiting carbon monoxide, hydrocarbons and all sorts of particulates......"

He cuts off with a salty tongue. "Mom, who cares? You and the tree huggers?"

Feeling frustrated and more than a little bit insulted I replied. "Well, maybe you should care! What about your kids?"

He looked distantly out the passenger window to indicate this conversation was over. "Hmmph my kids."

"Does your father get the attitude too? Or this is just for me?" I asked rhetorically, not expecting a response. "He probably wouldn't put up with it." I added under my breath.

He never fails to upset me on these drives. It's always the same, I want to have some time for us to relate and maybe get to know each other better, but something always goes wrong. I say the wrong thing, don't get something I clearly should or am just made to feel lame. This time the breaking point was quicker than usual. The thing that bothers me most is that my lameness somehow makes a saint out of his father; the same father too busy to ever take him. My husband's demands at work exclude him from being a chauffeur so that meant four days with mommy dearest.

I'm the one who is up at 6 in the morning, lugging his luggage, chipping ice off my crappy car and warming it up. All I wanted, through all this, is some common ground, perhaps a place where I'm not rebelled against as if I'm his tyrant dictator. Lugging your kids around is truly the most poorly advertised aspect of being a parent. I probably could have driven around the world with the amount of miles I've put into driving to hockey arenas. I'm sure the scenery would have been more pleasing on my world tour; rather than a darkened road framed by the ice bordering my windshield. There's no trophy for this, in fact there is rarely, if ever, a thank-you. His dad just wants to know if they won and if he scored. This is just expected of me and, in truth, I expect it of myself too. I just wish it didn't cause me so much anxiety. He's always so moody; he dumps on me every chance he gets.

With resetting on my mind, I stopped at the drive-thru to get some coffee. I don't know if caffeine even works for me anymore but I'm scared to find out whether or not I can function without.

"Large black!" Turning to my son. "What about you?" He doesn't reply. "Nothing?"

"No cream? No sugar?" Crackles through the speaker.

"No, just black.....and one of those breakfast thingies."

"Mo-om, breakfast sandwiches, they're called breakfast sandwiches and you have to say what kind!" He sighs in frustration at my lameness.

"Well, it's for you, I don't order this stuff."

"Sausage" He said all in one syllable.

"Sausage?" I asked him feeling confused.

"Say, sausage Mom, it's a sausage breakfast sandwich, ok?"

I leaned slightly out the window again. "That's a large black coffee and a sausage sandwich!"

Justin looked at me as if I had just broken all Ten Commandments. "What?" I asked in confusion.

He shook his head, gave me the customary roll of the eyes and sighed again. "Just never mind."

We rolled up to the window, where the cute girl serving us didn't look nearly as frustrated with my inept ordering abilities. Very cheerfully, she chimed, "So this is one black coffee and the sausage and egg breakfast sandwich. That will be $6.08." At least someone looked happy to be up before six in the morning.

I felt the caffeine that morning, there's no doubt about that. My first sips of hot coffee are usually cautious, but I wanted a jolt and a jolt I got with a reckless gulp. In the spirit of starting all over again, I hit that reset button. Sure, I felt belittled, under-appreciated and generally stepped on, but I wanted this to be friendly. When I take my daughter on long rides, she teaches me new pop songs, before long, we're signing along and talking about boys. Not that I expected that, but I wanted him to at least see me as a person, maybe even someone he could be friends with.

I couldn't think of anything else to say, so I said. "Well, she was cute, right?"

"Huh?" He clearly hadn't made the same commitment to the blank slate that I had.

"The girl at the donut place."

Without taking the time to stop chewing, he answered. "Huh? Didn't notice."

Attempting to be a little bit playful, I continued. "Oh come on? You had to have noticed. She looked about your age....cute smile......blonde hair...."

"So? What's the difference? She wasn't even, nevermind." He snapped.

"I thought she was looking at you, that's all. We can go back? Get her number?" I said with the tone of a mock suggestion.

"No, she wasn't! She was just trying to be nice to a clueless customer. Just stop it, ok? It's stupid!"

I took another gulp of coffee and stared straight ahead at the still darkened road. Attempt number two had failed and left me feeling heavy. I could feel my hips press into the seat as my shoulders sagged. I should have never brought up a girl. Girls have always been a sore spot with Justin, I just thought with getting a bit older he might be willing to open up a bit more about it. He's not the most popular kid in school by any stretch, but he does have his group of friends and they wouldn't be considered the uncool kids either. He's shy around girls, but I don't see why he takes such offence to talking about them, I know he's attracted to them. She was a pretty girl; he could have just admitted it. I wasn't really going to make him talk to her.

In the car, he had brought a device that was full of all sorts of music, most of which I had little to no understanding of, but I wanted to try to be hip.

"Let's listen to some music!" I tried to sound enthusiastic.

"Intentions meet wall." I thought. Any time I expressed interest in one of his bands or songs he would sigh and change the song. It wasn't long until melodies were replaced by hardcore rap that was as clumsy as it was vulgar.

"Why do they have to call women hoes and bitches like that?"

With a dismissive shake of the head. "It's just the way the music is."

I playfully reminded him. "You know your mom is from the 80's and I know what rap is all about and that this isn't it. They can make fun rap and socially conscious rap too, not all about killing people and their bitches."

He snorted. The notion that his mom ever listened to rap seemed almost funny to him in a mean spirited way. He shrugged off my contribution as clueless. Well, that was another fail for me. I wanted to relate to him and nothing was working. I was hoping this one time I could breach the wall between us for long enough to have some sort if adult conversation. After letting him cool off for about an hour, while listening to all sorts of methods for killing people, maiming people and creative uses for F and N words, I reminded him. "Justin, honey, you know you can talk to me about stuff, right?"

"Whatever Mom."

He's a good looking guy; he lacks confidence, but not looks. Rather tall for his age, but lanky too and standing up straight wouldn't hurt. I'd almost given up correcting posture. There are certainly more satisfying ways to turn your hair grey out there than that battle. His bone structure he took from me; I was a complete stick in high school as well. A bit of acne didn't take away from his handsome face. My attempts to introduce him to a bit of make-up were met with a short temper, nevertheless it isn't unsightly. With luck on his side, he got my full brown hair, and like mine, it curls at the ends if he grows it out. Unlike my grey eyes, his eyes are deep brown. They are his most striking facial feature; very expressive. He avoids making eye contact with me as if in an attempt to shut me out from his feelings.

"We talked about this." I say in exasperation.

"Talked about what?" He said darkly while picking at the panel of the car door.

"That we can't do that stuff again. You know that right?"

"What stuff?" The last syllable is stressed as the panel is freed from the door.

"Justin stop it! Ruining my car isn't going to help so knock it off! This instant!"

"Why should I?" He picks up his gaze and I can feel his distain acutely.

"Because I'm your mother and I'm telling you to knock it off, so knock it off." The silence is deafening. I soften my tone, "Look, honey, I know what happened happened but we talked about this."

"No Mom, you talked about this, you talked about it, not me."

"So what then?" I wanted to cry. "Honey, I don't know what to say."

"Mom, I'm horny." I could feel the pain in his voice.

"What about girls from your school?"

"No."

"No, what?"

"Mom, why are we talking about girls from my school?"

"Because we can't be doing that again."

"So you didn't like it? What? I wasn't good enough?"

"Did I say that? Why would you ask that? That is so insulting, stop being a fucking baby about it! I don't owe that to you!" In the moment I was angry, I hate when a man whines and blackmails with insecurity. The fact my own son was trying to do it to me had me seeing red. We had sex that one time and it seems that one time was a mistake. I thought it would build him up and give him the courage to approach girls. Instead he was using it as emotional blackmail. I took a deep breath and tried to reset my aggression. "Honey, please don't be like that. Have some confidence......believe what I say when I say it."

The rest of the drive was as frosty as the air outside. I wasn't being unfair, what did he think was going to happen? I couldn't be his girlfriend. Is that what he expected? It started with my panties and ended when I gave into him on a whim as far as I was concerned. He already got more than he could have ever expected and he still expected more. My mind retreated to reflection on what led me to the incestous relationship I shared with my son.

My name wasn't always "Mom", in a different life I went by Michelle, to some I still do, but mostly I answer to the call of "Mom". That is my identity, and not one I resent. I love being a mom and I love being his mother, what happened between us makes that so difficult to define now. At 44 years of age, my million motherly tasks plus my day job hadn't worn heavily on my looks. I loved seeing people's reaction of true surprise when questioned about my age. I was active with the kids and somewhere in that tornado I found time to chase my own athletic glory in the form of rec mixed soccer. By glory, I mean the one goal I scored when the ball hit me in the head and ended up in the net. It's not like either of my kids ever came to watch me play anyways. I also keep fit with yoga and regular visits to the gym once it became clear I could kick no more. When not busy with all that, being hockey mom extraordinaire never let me catch my breath.

We arrived at the motel with just enough time to check in, drop the luggage and look around before his first game. The drab and less than luxurious room would be home for the next three nights. The tournament runs from Friday through Sunday, but I hate driving at night after a long day so we typically stay the extra night. The room is clean enough and has all that we're going to need, two beds, a shower and a TV. I brought a few things to read, but I can never concentrate on reading with him in the room, so the bookmarks usually don't get lost.

These hockey gatherings are burning infernos of macho aggression, intimidation and bellicosity, and that's just the other moms. The young men on the ice make them boiling cauldrons of bursting testosterone. I'm not really your typical hockey mom, I don't yell at the coach, I don't argue with the other parents and I only watch the games with semi-interest. As such, I never made many friends or enemies in the peanut gallery. I watch when Justin is on the ice, but I can't really follow what's going on, or what everyone gets so worked up about. Seriously, it's almost as if they all expect their kids to be on their way to the NHL. I feel so bad for some of the boys who are just there to play hockey. I just want my son to have fun, get in shape and stay engaged with something he loves. He really does live for this stuff; a win or a loss can severely alter his mood. I try to rationalize his quick temper with me as nerves and angst for the game he has trouble expressing.

His transition from sluggish to animated is one of the genuinely remarkable changes in nature. No matter how many times I bear witness, it never ceases to amaze me. He goes into the dressing room a literal foot dragger and emerges with powerful strides once metal touches ice. I feel an intense measure of pride from watching his slouched posture turned upright. He wasn't the best player on the team, but certainly not the worst. He played safe, not gambling or taking risks. It could be to his credit sometimes, but also hold him back a bit at others. He was never as aggressive as the other boys were, but his height made him hard to push around. When tempers flared, he would generally avoid the action.

A crowd stood in the hallway waiting for their triumphant return to shoes. The fathers wait with bated breath to further coach on points the coaches clearly missed. A few parents hovered near the door anxiously for their first crack at the coach, mainly with ice time or some other bone of fairness to pick. The less obnoxious stood in their little social circles, which include the girlfriends and siblings. Some of the girls looked so pretty; they clearly put a lot of effort into looking good for the occasion and it's easy to tell them apart from the sisters. I always notice some other girls slyly hoping to nap one of the single guys. I try to stay as inconspicuous as possible and watch the menagerie, but Justin always spots me before any stray young lady can swoop in.

"Mom! Did you see I scored a goal!" As if the world has flipped on its axis, he looked for approval from the same woman too lame for words hours earlier.

"Honey, it was fantastic! So exciting when you got close to the net, I almost died!"

"Yeah well it's no big deal anyways, they were the worst team and we barely beat them. Doubt we have a chance tomorrow. I should have scored more really." He moved quickly into pity.

"Well you still won, right?"

"You don't get it Mom; they were the worst team, tomorrow we face the best; we're going to get killed."

"I think you can win, you played really good today." I said with a bit less exuberance than before, but I really didn't see any reason they couldn't win.

"I guess we could." He agreed but looked unconvinced. He looked very attractive with the sweat still in his hair and his loose white t-shirt clinging to his tall slender frame.

"Ok, well, do you want to go out with your team?" They usually have a celebration if they win.

"Aren't you coming Mom?"

I didn't want to let him down, but I don't fit in with the other parents and he always seems embarrassed of me. "I can pick you up after? I don't really drink beer and they always want me to." Not to mention I don't really like getting hit on by other parents.

"Nah, it's ok, I don't really want to go anyways, and I need to take a shower." He never showered at the games. It's not really highly unusual, some boys do and some don't. He was just a bit shy.

"Why don't you shower in the change room?" I figured he should just get over it.

"The floor is dirty in there. I don't like it." He made a seemingly well-rehearsed excuse.

"Well, I can drive you to the restaurant after.......looks like there'll be girls there." I gave him a little wink.

I must have said the wrong thing, because the slouch returned to his shoulders. "Nah, it's ok, I'm sort of tired from all the driving and the game."

"Well, maybe we can watch a movie at the motel? It's still a bit early." I offered him something a bit more comforting and in line with some of our shared introverted tendencies.

"Yeah, for sure" He looked relieved that I wasn't going to pressure him into going. I feel bad when pressuring him, but I'm just trying to break him out of his shell a bit, not make him feel bad about himself. It wasn't easy for me to break out of mine, but I had more fun once I did.

Returning to the motel, I felt better than I had earlier in the day. He really has this effect on me that pushes my emotions every which way. One moment he's treating me like a throw away and the next I'm the most important person in his world. One thing that never changes is that he is the most important person in my world. He has the ability to really hurt my feelings or make me feel good about myself in equal measure. On some level, he knows it too.

I'm not sure how to say this without sounding harsh, but he will always be number one for me. Ahead of my husband and, if being completely honest, ahead of my daughter too. It's not that I don't love my daughter, I obviously do, it's just that I get the feeling that she would be ok without me, but he really needs me. More than that, we have an unspoken connection which is impossible to describe.

Relationship between mothers and sons, especially the first-born, are often the most complicated of family relationships. Despite his treatment of me sometimes, I know that he's intensely protective of me; it's obvious in his body language where ever we go. He starves for my attention and acts out worst usually in the absence of it. Whether the attention is positive or negative doesn't seem to matter as long at the emotion is felt intensely. No matter how much I nag him, correct his behaviour or yell at him in frustration I never feel less love for him. If he were to take up serial killing, I would be the mother in the courtroom every day and visiting every chance in jail. Hyperbole, but the point is not, the point being that we don't always have to like each other to have this intense loving connection. My love is blind of his behaviour.