every day. She’s the one that screamed crazy, made up words and threw cooking utensils out into the yard for absolutely no reason. She locked me in my bedroom on more than one occasion, not him, and told me not to come out until it was, safe.
That last word surprises me. Safe. I wonder why I chose it. It certainly doesn’t make sense but now that I think back, I’m sure that was the word she used. She’d said it enough times but I wonder why I’m only now recalling that fact.
I glare at the computer screen and start to question if there’s any truth to the description of my father. And if there is, how did I miss it? And why hadn’t Mom ever told anyone?
I find a small reference to me at the bottom of the post. My name is highlighted as a link and underneath, it says, “only son”. There’s a sour feeling in the pit of my stomach now. I don’t want to click the link. If I do, I might find a similar article about me, and how I had been a suspect in the murder case. It might even name me as another contributor to my mother’s insanity.
Curiosity wins though, and I click on my name. Instead of finding a derogatory write up, I’m taken to a page with nothing but an “unknown error” message. As I stare at the blank page, I think, that pretty much sums up what she thought of me.
Nothing.
I close the laptop. I’ve had enough history for the day.
Doubt creeps up inside of me as I sit there, letting everything sink in—about decisions I’ve made, about my father. Mostly about Mom. But what could this blogger know? They weren’t there, I was.
My stomach grumbles and I’m reminded that I’m still hungry, so I head out to find a place to eat, grateful for the distraction. I need to get over what I’ve just read and have to stop myself from writing a comment on this ridiculous blog about how they’re tarnishing the memory of a man who was probably the only reason Mom didn’t lose her mind sooner.
I quietly make my way downstairs, opting out of the group breakfast again. I’m not in the mood for crowds. As I exit the B&B, the cold air hits me like an unexpected wave on the beach. The jolt of the change in temperature from inside out alerts me that I’ve forgotten my jacket.
Dammit.
Instead of rushing back inside for it, I stand there and take a deep breath of the cold, October, Massachusetts air into my lungs. While I’m letting it out, I take in the colors of the trees that line the property. The golds and maroons and fiery oranges always add a warm vibrancy to the Northeast that directly contradicts the cold weather this time of year. As a kid, I remember I used to rake the leaves as they fell, then run and jump into the middle of the piles I would leave behind. I smile at the memory but it’s gone as I recall the raised voices I could hear just inside the house as I bagged the leaves. Dad always left shortly after fights with Mom. Sometimes he’d come back the same day, sometimes not.
I push the memory down and take a moment to wonder where I can go this time of day that would be the most productive. I’m very aware that my choices are limited here, considering the early morning, but I figure that maybe I could make another attempt at visiting my mother’s old house.
“Looks like you’re trying awful hard to think, Mr. Stone.”
“Holy.”
Finn laughs at the fact she just scared the living shit out of me. For the second time.
“I’m fine, Finn, how’re you today?” I ask. “And what are you doing here?”
She shrugs, twisting her mouth up just enough to remind me of how difficult it is to concentrate on why I’m here when she’s around.
“Just thought we’d get an early start, is all.”
I’m confused for a few seconds but then I remember.
Right.
Our agreement.
I should tell her I can’t make it today.
I should get a good starting point on my story.
I should, but I won’t.
“But if you don’t want to,” Finn starts, letting her last word linger.
I shake my
That last word surprises me. Safe. I wonder why I chose it. It certainly doesn’t make sense but now that I think back, I’m sure that was the word she used. She’d said it enough times but I wonder why I’m only now recalling that fact.
I glare at the computer screen and start to question if there’s any truth to the description of my father. And if there is, how did I miss it? And why hadn’t Mom ever told anyone?
I find a small reference to me at the bottom of the post. My name is highlighted as a link and underneath, it says, “only son”. There’s a sour feeling in the pit of my stomach now. I don’t want to click the link. If I do, I might find a similar article about me, and how I had been a suspect in the murder case. It might even name me as another contributor to my mother’s insanity.
Curiosity wins though, and I click on my name. Instead of finding a derogatory write up, I’m taken to a page with nothing but an “unknown error” message. As I stare at the blank page, I think, that pretty much sums up what she thought of me.
Nothing.
I close the laptop. I’ve had enough history for the day.
Doubt creeps up inside of me as I sit there, letting everything sink in—about decisions I’ve made, about my father. Mostly about Mom. But what could this blogger know? They weren’t there, I was.
My stomach grumbles and I’m reminded that I’m still hungry, so I head out to find a place to eat, grateful for the distraction. I need to get over what I’ve just read and have to stop myself from writing a comment on this ridiculous blog about how they’re tarnishing the memory of a man who was probably the only reason Mom didn’t lose her mind sooner.
I quietly make my way downstairs, opting out of the group breakfast again. I’m not in the mood for crowds. As I exit the B&B, the cold air hits me like an unexpected wave on the beach. The jolt of the change in temperature from inside out alerts me that I’ve forgotten my jacket.
Dammit.
Instead of rushing back inside for it, I stand there and take a deep breath of the cold, October, Massachusetts air into my lungs. While I’m letting it out, I take in the colors of the trees that line the property. The golds and maroons and fiery oranges always add a warm vibrancy to the Northeast that directly contradicts the cold weather this time of year. As a kid, I remember I used to rake the leaves as they fell, then run and jump into the middle of the piles I would leave behind. I smile at the memory but it’s gone as I recall the raised voices I could hear just inside the house as I bagged the leaves. Dad always left shortly after fights with Mom. Sometimes he’d come back the same day, sometimes not.
I push the memory down and take a moment to wonder where I can go this time of day that would be the most productive. I’m very aware that my choices are limited here, considering the early morning, but I figure that maybe I could make another attempt at visiting my mother’s old house.
“Looks like you’re trying awful hard to think, Mr. Stone.”
“Holy.”
Finn laughs at the fact she just scared the living shit out of me. For the second time.
“I’m fine, Finn, how’re you today?” I ask. “And what are you doing here?”
She shrugs, twisting her mouth up just enough to remind me of how difficult it is to concentrate on why I’m here when she’s around.
“Just thought we’d get an early start, is all.”
I’m confused for a few seconds but then I remember.
Right.
Our agreement.
I should tell her I can’t make it today.
I should get a good starting point on my story.
I should, but I won’t.
“But if you don’t want to,” Finn starts, letting her last word linger.
I shake my
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