Page 34 of The Leaving Kind
Could relief and self-pity coexist? Yes. Yes, they could.
“I’m going to go,” Victor mumbled.
“Want me to call in a few days to check on you?”
“No. I’ll be fine. Assume no news is good news.”
“Okay. I’ll talk to you soon.”
With a sigh, Victor ended the call. Then he blinked away the tears lurking behind his eyes and drew in a deep breath. The sorrow on Sage’s face nearly undid any attempt to pull himself together. Victor shook his head at his son. His full-of-feelings-and-not-afraid-to-show-it boy whom he loved with a ferocity he would never be able to adequately describe. “I’m okay. I’ll will continue to be okay. I’m not dying. Just my career is.”
Sage opened his mouth.
Victor waved him off. “Please don’t say anything. I love you, dear son, and I know you mean well, but I need to sit with this for a while.”
Gaze darting toward the kitchen, Sage failed to hide a wince.
“I promise I won’t drink myself into another coma.” A promise he might have to break. Perhaps he could smoke himself into oblivion, instead.
“Can I say one thing?” Sage asked.
“One thing. And it cannot be about my art or me as an artist.”
Sage would have heard enough of Victor’s side of the call to have put together a fair approximation of what had happened.
“One of the reasons I stopped by today was to check on you. I was worried last week when Mom told me what you’d been doing.” Sage’s brow creased. “It’s been a while since you drank.” He held up one hand. “This isn’t an intervention. I don’t think you have a problem with alcohol. Not much of one, anyway.”
Victor sometimes wondered if he did, though.
“I think it’s more you ...” Sage shifted from foot to foot.
Victor sighed.
Sage got on with it. “I know you prefer not to talk about depression. No one from your generation does. But I’m here and I’ll always be here. I’ll listen or sit with you if you feel you just need to be. I’ll never tell you to smile and bear up. And if you, ah, want”—his fidgets increased—“to talk to someone, I’ll help you find the right person. If you want me to.”
Victor’s first urge was to ask his son to leave. His second was to grab hold of him and use him as a life preserver. The need to be the adult and male warred with the desire to find his robe and a fainting couch. The correct reaction, of course, was to hug his son. To accept his gift.
Victor knew his eyes were shining as he stepped forward and tugged his son into a rough embrace. Oh, his boy. His precious young man. How had he ended up with such perfect children?
Sage hugged him tight, and Victor coughed back a surge of emotion.
“Thank you,” he rasped into Sage’s shoulder. “I actually have a therapist, whom I should probably call for a check-in.” Should but probably wouldn’t.
Sage’s lack of reaction suggested he already knew about the therapist. Then why ...? Victor pulled back and frowned.
“I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to know about that.”
A chuckle worked its way through all the knotted emotion inside Victor’s torso. “Her name is Sahar. Your mother connected me to her when ...” The brief amusement faded. His son might accept that he saw a therapist for his regular bouts of depression, but did he need to know where it all came from? Sage possessed an equanimity of character that tended to indicate he’d never need such help. Hopefully. “When I needed to clarify my thoughts.”
While Sahar was always willing to talk, however, she thought he needed more. A psychiatrist and a prescription. Victor suppressed a frown. He’d managed this long without pills, he could last—
“I’m glad you have someone,” Sage said, interrupting his mental wandering.
Victor initiated another gentle hug. “And I’m glad I have you.”
From the bottom of the stairs, Cam kept his face turned toward the front door. If he didn’t peek into the living room, the dog wouldn’t—
A soft whine emanated from the pile of blankets in front of the couch.