...‖ Her gaze clicked to her drink and she swallowed. ―I wasn‘t thinking,‖
she said again.
―It‘s okay,‖ I said for want of anything better. Her words weren‘t slurred. Maybe she hadn‘t drunk much. Maybe she‘d been so tired, she‘d fallen asleep right here at the kitchen table. Maybe pigs could fly.
We all stood there a second and then Mr. Anderson said, ―Mrs. Lord, you look pretty beat. Have you had anything to eat? When did you get home?‖
―Nine, I think. I don‘t remember. I went out with Nate . . . Mr. Bartholomew for a few drinks and then we . . . I came home.‖ She ran a hand over her lips. She looked at the kitchen, maybe seeing it for the first time. ―I was just going to sit and collect my thoughts. I guess I fell asleep.‖
And in all that time—having drinks with Nate, the ride home, walking into an empty house, pouring out her vodka— she hadn‘t once thought of me. ―Where‘s Dad?‖ I asked.
―He left a voice mail. He‘s covering for Dr. Kirby and was just going into the OR.‖
I‘d spoken to the page operator and that, I knew, was wrong. Before I could say anything, Mr. Anderson put in, ―Well, that‘s all good then. Tell you what, Mrs. Lord, why don‘t you get cleaned up and we‘ll make tea and maybe some sandwiches? You‘ll feel better.‖ He put his hand on my mother‘s elbow and gently got her on her feet. ―Jenna, you want to help your mom? Maybe turn on the shower?‖
I knew what he wanted me to do. ―Sure. Thanks.‖
He did me the favor of not smiling. ―No problem.‖
―I‘m so sorry, honey,‖ Mom said as we went upstairs. Her breath was sour. ―I didn‘t mean to embarrass you. It was just . . . Things aren‘t getting better at the store and . . .‖
―Oh, Mom. I was just scared something had happened. And you didn‘t answer your cell. Why? Is the battery dead?‖
―Yes,‖ Mom said, after a moment. ―That must be it.‖
b
When I got back to the kitchen, Mr. Anderson was loading the last of the dirty dishes into the dishwasher. ―Hey,‖ he said, then tilted his head at the Stoli, now capped.
―Where should I put that?‖
―In the trash?‖ I was almost too exhausted to be embarrassed. I hugged myself and shivered. The house felt chilly, but I always got cold when I was tired. ―Mr. Anderson, you should go home. I‘m sorry about my mom—‖
―Stop.‖ He put a light hand on my shoulder and squeezed. ―Lots of families have problems. Now . . . you like tuna fish?‖
I pulled out bread and opened cans. Mr. Anderson chopped celery. Overhead, water gurgled through pipes as Mom showered. As I spooned in mayonnaise, he said, ―You know, my dad was a drunk. The worst kind. He‘d get nasty, then drink some more and get violent. When I was young, I called the police more than once. He only stopped because I got old enough and strong enough to beat the crap out of him.‖
My gaze went to the kitchen wall my father had cratered a month before. The drywall was patched and the wall repaired, but I still saw the hole every day. ―I‘m not that strong,‖ I said, stirring in mayo.
―I don‘t know about that. You could‘ve had a meltdown, but you didn‘t. You took care of your mother, and that‘s probably more than she‘s done for you, lately. Just remember, though, that no matter how bad it may seem now, you‘ll be gone in a couple of years. You‘ll go to college and . . . No, wait, try this.‖ He shook several squirts of soy sauce into the tuna fish. ―Go on, stir it in.... Don‘t give me that look. It‘s really good. Trust me, Jenna.‖
―Oh, Mr. Anderson, I . . .‖ My throat clogged. ―I never... I ...‖
―Hey, Jenna, it‘s okay,‖ he said. ―Just because your mom has a problem doesn‘t mean I think you‘re a horrible person. I‘m not thinking what a loser you are. I‘m thinking that you‘re a brave, smart, tough girl who‘s doing the best she can under really crummy
she said again.
―It‘s okay,‖ I said for want of anything better. Her words weren‘t slurred. Maybe she hadn‘t drunk much. Maybe she‘d been so tired, she‘d fallen asleep right here at the kitchen table. Maybe pigs could fly.
We all stood there a second and then Mr. Anderson said, ―Mrs. Lord, you look pretty beat. Have you had anything to eat? When did you get home?‖
―Nine, I think. I don‘t remember. I went out with Nate . . . Mr. Bartholomew for a few drinks and then we . . . I came home.‖ She ran a hand over her lips. She looked at the kitchen, maybe seeing it for the first time. ―I was just going to sit and collect my thoughts. I guess I fell asleep.‖
And in all that time—having drinks with Nate, the ride home, walking into an empty house, pouring out her vodka— she hadn‘t once thought of me. ―Where‘s Dad?‖ I asked.
―He left a voice mail. He‘s covering for Dr. Kirby and was just going into the OR.‖
I‘d spoken to the page operator and that, I knew, was wrong. Before I could say anything, Mr. Anderson put in, ―Well, that‘s all good then. Tell you what, Mrs. Lord, why don‘t you get cleaned up and we‘ll make tea and maybe some sandwiches? You‘ll feel better.‖ He put his hand on my mother‘s elbow and gently got her on her feet. ―Jenna, you want to help your mom? Maybe turn on the shower?‖
I knew what he wanted me to do. ―Sure. Thanks.‖
He did me the favor of not smiling. ―No problem.‖
―I‘m so sorry, honey,‖ Mom said as we went upstairs. Her breath was sour. ―I didn‘t mean to embarrass you. It was just . . . Things aren‘t getting better at the store and . . .‖
―Oh, Mom. I was just scared something had happened. And you didn‘t answer your cell. Why? Is the battery dead?‖
―Yes,‖ Mom said, after a moment. ―That must be it.‖
b
When I got back to the kitchen, Mr. Anderson was loading the last of the dirty dishes into the dishwasher. ―Hey,‖ he said, then tilted his head at the Stoli, now capped.
―Where should I put that?‖
―In the trash?‖ I was almost too exhausted to be embarrassed. I hugged myself and shivered. The house felt chilly, but I always got cold when I was tired. ―Mr. Anderson, you should go home. I‘m sorry about my mom—‖
―Stop.‖ He put a light hand on my shoulder and squeezed. ―Lots of families have problems. Now . . . you like tuna fish?‖
I pulled out bread and opened cans. Mr. Anderson chopped celery. Overhead, water gurgled through pipes as Mom showered. As I spooned in mayonnaise, he said, ―You know, my dad was a drunk. The worst kind. He‘d get nasty, then drink some more and get violent. When I was young, I called the police more than once. He only stopped because I got old enough and strong enough to beat the crap out of him.‖
My gaze went to the kitchen wall my father had cratered a month before. The drywall was patched and the wall repaired, but I still saw the hole every day. ―I‘m not that strong,‖ I said, stirring in mayo.
―I don‘t know about that. You could‘ve had a meltdown, but you didn‘t. You took care of your mother, and that‘s probably more than she‘s done for you, lately. Just remember, though, that no matter how bad it may seem now, you‘ll be gone in a couple of years. You‘ll go to college and . . . No, wait, try this.‖ He shook several squirts of soy sauce into the tuna fish. ―Go on, stir it in.... Don‘t give me that look. It‘s really good. Trust me, Jenna.‖
―Oh, Mr. Anderson, I . . .‖ My throat clogged. ―I never... I ...‖
―Hey, Jenna, it‘s okay,‖ he said. ―Just because your mom has a problem doesn‘t mean I think you‘re a horrible person. I‘m not thinking what a loser you are. I‘m thinking that you‘re a brave, smart, tough girl who‘s doing the best she can under really crummy
Similar Books
