Anne
We both looked toward the source of the voice. Dr. Richard Sawyer stood rigidly at the entrance to the room.
My breath hitched. I shot my eyes to Andrew and watched the colour drain from his face.
I could feel the rising tension. It was like a horse galloping towards the edge of a cliff, with no sign of slowing.
Dr. Sawyer walked toward us. Every stride felt like a countdown.
"What did you say, Andrew?" He asked in what I imagined was his version of a casual voice.
Andrew said nothing. He couldn't even look at his father's face. His feet suddenly became very interesting to stare at.
Dr. Sawyer stopped in front of his son.
"Answer me, Andrew!" His voice boomed, making me flinch. If this was what it felt like despite being a bystander, I couldn't begin to imagine what Andrew was going through under his father's scrutinizing stare.
"Andrew." He called out, his voice low and menacing.
To my relief, Andrew looked up. I had been holding my breath, half afraid of what would happen if he didn't.
"I'm pursuing my dreams, Dad," Andrew said, meeting his father's eyes. I could hear the fear in his voice, but I could also see the resolve. I found myself nodding my head.
The room went silent for what felt like ages.
"You still haven't gotten over this mad obsession of yours!" Dr. Sawyer spat.
‘Ouch.’
"It's not a mad obs… "
"Shut up! You chose to waste your life on irrelevant things. Always looking for the easy way out of everything,” he raved.
"Let me make something clear," he said, "there is no easy way to anything. And there is no honour in what you're chasing, son." He said ‘son’ like it tasted wrong in his mouth. "Musicians, artists?” He scrunched up his face in disgust, “That world is full of delinquents, drug addicts, people with nothing to lose. That is no place for a son of mine. I forbid it."
"Dad! Please, just listen… " Andrew's voice cracked, the resolve in his eyes crumbling. My chest clenched watching this heartbreaking scene unfold.
Andrew loved his father so deeply. All he had ever wanted was to be seen by him.
"There's nothing to discuss. We will not speak of this again." Dr. Sawyer turned to leave.
"You don't get to decide my future," Andrew said coldly to his father’s retreating back. His eyes were filled with resentment and pain.
I was already boiling. I had been standing there watching Andrew hold himself together and slowly come apart, and the fury building in me had nowhere left to go.
Andrew had to listen to this nonsense all his life! For what reason?!
Dr. Sawyer turned back. The look on his face could scorch bare skin.
"You're all grown up now," he said, with a scoff. "You can decide for yourself." He paused. "Sometimes I wonder if I was the one who fathered you."
God. He did not just say that.
"You're such a massive disappointment." He turned again to leave.
“No!”
I stepped forward and put myself between them.
"He's not.”
My voice sounded foreign to me. I'd never been this mad, hurt, furious, ever.
Dr. Sawyer turned toward me. His cold stare sweeping over me as though I was a speck of dust that had just appeared from nowhere.
"Excuse me?"
"First off, you wondering whether you fathered your own son was an insult to your wife. She deserved way better than that.”
His eyes darted to someone behind me, probably his wife, who may have entered the room. I couldn't tell. My entirety was fixated on this man. Whatever he did see there made his jaw tighten.
“And your son? He is not a disappointment, Not yet, anyway," I continued, fueled by the rage threatening to burst out of me.
“Who are you?”
“I’m Anne-Marie Scott,” I said, staring at him squarely.
I could see people walking into the room out of the corner of my eye, but I didn't look at them. I didn't care. Dr. Sawyer needed to hear what I had to say.
"Your son is not a disappointment. He will be, though, when he continues on the path you've laid out for him.
He will be when he abandons his music and settles for the 'worthy' job you've decided is good enough." I air-quoted the word and watched his jaw tighten again.
"He will be when that job fires him and he ends up living with you till he clocks forty! That's if he'll make it till then, Dr. Sawyer.”
I saw something flash in his eyes.
“He will be when the depression you've been planting in him for years takes root so deeply that he can't climb out of it.
I stood here and watched you drain the life out of your own son with your words. He's dying inside, not from failure, no! From needing you, wanting your approval. And all you've ever given him are daggers to the heart.
You don't listen to anyone who has tried to show you what you're doing to your family. You are so fixated on what the world sees that you have gone blind to what's standing right in front of you.
Did you know he wrote a song for you? He wrote something for his father, but he can't even play it to you, because he already knows what you'll say.”
I scoffed, "Every day you save strangers, but every other day you kill your son's spirit. With all due respect, sir, he is not a disappointment.”
My voice broke as the tears fell freely from my eyes.
“You are.”
I stopped then, out of breath and shaking.
The room went silent, except for the tiny sobs of Mrs. Sawyer's from somewhere behind me.
I felt it then. The cost of what I'd just done. Every word had come out of a place deep in my chest that had been under pressure for too long, and now my knees were paying the price.
I looked for a chair, a table, anything, but there was nothing.
My legs began to give way as the adrenaline drained out of me all at once.The room began to tilt, taking me down with it.
But I didn't reach the floor. A pair of arms caught me from behind.
I turned, and Vincent was there, looking down at me with the heaviest eyes. He straightened me up, steadied me, and then wrapped his arms around me.
"Thank you, Anny," he whispered from behind me.
I closed my eyes and let the warmth of his voice soothe me. It was exactly what I needed.
When I regained a bit of strength, I turned and looked at Dr. Sawyer. He was now staring at his feet, just as Andrew had done.
‘Andrew?’
I darted my eyes around for him, and saw him on his knees, crying quietly.
Dr. Sawyer finally looked up, his eyes reddened with tears, fury, I couldn't tell. He said nothing. He just walked slowly toward what I assumed was his office, his wife following close behind.
A few moments later, Mrs. Sawyer slipped back out. She went straight to Andrew, bent over him, and pulled him into her arms. Andrew held on and they wept together.
My heart clenched watching them. Every part of me wanted to cross the room and wrap my arms around them both.
"It's okay, baby. It's all over now. Your daddy wants to see you," she said softly.
Andrew tried composing himself enough to stand in between hiccups and sniffles, then walked slowly toward his father's office.
Mrs. Sawyer walked over to where Vincent and I stood.
I was nervous. I had said things in this woman's home, in front of the few people that witnessed it. I did what people would call a public humiliation of her husband. The fact that she had heard every word made it worse.
To my relief, she opened her arms and pulled me into them, pressing her cheek against mine.
"You said what Vincent and I have been saying for years. He needed to hear it from someone else. I am so grateful. Thank you, child," she breathed, hugging me again.
"Vincent, we need to see to the guests," she said softly, then left.
Vincent, who was now holding me close at his side, turned to look at me. Those same emotions I could never quite place were alive in his eyes. I searched them for answers only to get lost in them.
The pressure of his palm on my bare arm deepened, the warmth of it traveling all over my body.
I looked from his eyes, down to his lips, and immediately regretted it, because the ache to close the distance between us was almost unbearable.
‘Help.’