Blindness by Ginger Scott

talking to me, instead just moving
to the fridge and pulling out a packet of sandwich meat before
moving on to the pantry to look for bread. He’s making a
sandwich— unbelievable ! I haven’t seen him in days, and then
he shows up, just in time to save me from what I’m sure he’ll say
is the storm of the century, and all he can do now is slap some ham
on wheat?
    I’m livid.
    “Uh, hello?” I say, waving my hand in his
line of sight. I’m being a child, but I don’t care. He stops what
he’s doing and looks me in the eyes because of it, and I feel
satisfied.
    “You’re welcome,” he says, then turns his
attention back to his food.
    I stand there next to him, my mouth open, and
my fingers digging into the counter to prevent me from shoving him
off balance. I don’t know what it is about him that makes me want
to shake him. And I hate that he feels vindicated, like I needed
his help in any way. I’m about to scream from the pressure building
inside me when Shelly slides into the kitchen—just in time to halt
what I’m sure was going to be a string of choice words.
    “Codes, honey, come here. Give mommy a hug,”
she says, her words barely coherent. She’s hammered—and it’s not
the kind of drunk I’ve seen at the bars near Western, or the kind
of drunk Trevor gets after a night out celebrating. It’s not even
the kind of drunk I hear some nights on the phone with Aunt
Caroline.
    I know I’m staring at her, and I’m sure my
face is full of pity. She’s wobbling on her feet as she teeters to
the fridge, opening it up and leaning her full body inside, like
she’s looking for something in the back of a closet. I look back to
Cody, waiting for him to do something, but he’s just eating his
sandwich. What is it with people in this house pretending
everything’s okay?
    No longer able to take it, I decide to try to
get Shelly to open up, thinking maybe if Cody hears the state his
mother is in, he’ll feel compelled to do something about it. “Hey,
Shelly? When’s Jim coming back?” I ask, hoping she understood
me.
    It takes her four attempts to set the bottle
of wine flat along the counter, each time leaning it crooked and
watching it slide sideways. I’m about to ask her again, when Cody
interrupts.
    “You know he’s up there fucking her, don’t
you?” he says, and I’m immediately speechless, trying to replay his
words again to be sure I heard them right. Cody doesn’t say
anything more, just continues to eat his sandwich while his mother
purses her lips, her eyes bloodshot, but wide.
    “Don’t you dare speak about your father that
way!” she yells, this time her words perfectly clear. She slaps
Cody as she says it, and the popping sound reverberates throughout
the empty house. His cheek is red, and she’s looking at it, almost
like she’s proud of her work—a half-smirk on her face, but her eyes
still void of emotion.
    Cody drops his sandwich from his hands, and
pushes the plate forward until it falls into the sink. He doesn’t
even acknowledge her standing there, her body shaking, as he
leaves. “He’s not my father, and you’re pathetic,” he says, his
voice flat.
    The door slams to a close behind him, and I’m
left alone with Shelly. I don’t know what to say, what to do. I
expect her to begin sobbing, but she doesn’t. Instead, she clutches
the bottle in her hands and turns her body away from me, muttering
incoherently under her breath as she goes back to her room. I’m
invisible.
    I move to the window and can see Cody
climbing the stairs up to the carriage house—the harsh rain pelting
him. I don’t even stop to think before I grab the sweater I have
hanging near the back door and run after him. I catch him just as
he’s closing his door, and I push my way inside behind him.
    Cody’s place is small. There’s a tight living
room with an old sofa, some TV trays, and a galley kitchen to the
side. I notice Cody’s laundry is piled on the floor next to the
stacked washer