complaining about Mom drinking while on
prescription meds, and Mom complaining about his affair. Or is
it affairs ?
“But they’re okay now?” I inquire.
“Oh, yeah. They sorted through their
problems, and they agreed to be more open about what’s bothering
them. It’s worked so far.”
“Well, that’s good.”
“Who knows, maybe your parents could do the
same.” His mouth curves into an altruistic smile. I know he has
good intentions, but he doesn’t really know the extent of what I’ve
lived with for the past six months: the constant bickering, the
distrust, pieces of small furniture flung across rooms and smashed
against walls.
“I don’t think so,” I say, returning the
same empathetic grin.
He slides one arm around my shoulders and
crushes me against his chest. “Don’t worry about it, then. Whatever
decision your parents make, it doesn’t mean they stopped loving
you, and it sure as hell doesn’t mean it’s your fault.” He releases
his grip. “Okay, now, go get ready. I’ll head over to Bernie’s and
grab us a booth, all right?”
“Sounds great.”
He practically pushes me off the bed and
toward the bathroom.
“I’m going. I’m going.” I chuckle, heading
straight for my closet to find something to wear.
Logan lifts my window, but not before
looking back at me. “See ya in a bit,” he says, with a wink.
I giggle like I’m ten years old. “Bye.”
He shakes his head and has the biggest,
cheesiest grin attached to his face.
After taking a shower and primping myself, I
head downstairs. Just as my foot reaches the bottom step, the front
door opens and Mom enters.
“Oh, hey, honey. Mind helping me?” she
asks.
Damn it. I can’t say no because she’ll guess something’s
going on. Saying yes means I’m delayed from seeing Logan any
longer. I settle on saying, “Maybe.”
“Great.” She actually
looks better than she has in a while; there aren’t gloomy circles
under her eyes, she curled her blonde hair, and— oh, my God! —is that makeup? I feel
bad for advising Logan she’s basically a drunken pill-head, because
the mother I see before me is the mother I remember from when I was
a kid, even as early as one year ago. My happy mother. “Why are you
looking at me like that?” she asks, breaking my train of
thought.
“Oh, I was just . . . um . . .” I firmly
press my lips together. Yeah, I’ve got nothing.
Mom laughs, and the sound is light, airy,
like birds singing in the treetops on a bright, spring morning.
She’s back. My mom is back!
“You look . . . different,” I say.
Her eyebrows shoot up. “Different?”
“In a good way.”
She doesn’t seem convinced, but if the wry
smile at the crook of her mouth means anything, she takes my
compliment to heart. “Flattery doesn’t imply you can evade hauling
in groceries, you know.”
I snort. “Of course not.”
“But nice try,” she says as she passes by me
on her way to the front door.
I reach out and touch her arm. “Mom?”
She stops, staring at my hand and then at
me. “Yes?”
“I meant what I said about you looking
better. I’m glad you aren’t just sitting around.”
Her blue eyes search mine for this new,
unknown form of emotional expression, one which she and I haven’t
experienced together in quite some time. “Well, in that case, thank
you.”
I smile and leave her standing on the foyer
as I head outside. The back hatch on the RAV4 is open, and the rear
is full of sacks taut with produce and canned goods. Normally, Mom
only buys sandwich and junk food. Never before has pasta or fresh
veggies been on the menu.
When Mom returns to help with the rest of
the fare, I wave my hand over the groceries and ask, “What’s all
this?” There’s enough food in here to feed us for weeks.
“You’ll see.”
Oh, I don’t like the sound of that.
With the last of the grocery bags set on the
counter and the RAV4 locked up, Mom and I begin sorting through
what needs to be placed in
prescription meds, and Mom complaining about his affair. Or is
it affairs ?
“But they’re okay now?” I inquire.
“Oh, yeah. They sorted through their
problems, and they agreed to be more open about what’s bothering
them. It’s worked so far.”
“Well, that’s good.”
“Who knows, maybe your parents could do the
same.” His mouth curves into an altruistic smile. I know he has
good intentions, but he doesn’t really know the extent of what I’ve
lived with for the past six months: the constant bickering, the
distrust, pieces of small furniture flung across rooms and smashed
against walls.
“I don’t think so,” I say, returning the
same empathetic grin.
He slides one arm around my shoulders and
crushes me against his chest. “Don’t worry about it, then. Whatever
decision your parents make, it doesn’t mean they stopped loving
you, and it sure as hell doesn’t mean it’s your fault.” He releases
his grip. “Okay, now, go get ready. I’ll head over to Bernie’s and
grab us a booth, all right?”
“Sounds great.”
He practically pushes me off the bed and
toward the bathroom.
“I’m going. I’m going.” I chuckle, heading
straight for my closet to find something to wear.
Logan lifts my window, but not before
looking back at me. “See ya in a bit,” he says, with a wink.
I giggle like I’m ten years old. “Bye.”
He shakes his head and has the biggest,
cheesiest grin attached to his face.
After taking a shower and primping myself, I
head downstairs. Just as my foot reaches the bottom step, the front
door opens and Mom enters.
“Oh, hey, honey. Mind helping me?” she
asks.
Damn it. I can’t say no because she’ll guess something’s
going on. Saying yes means I’m delayed from seeing Logan any
longer. I settle on saying, “Maybe.”
“Great.” She actually
looks better than she has in a while; there aren’t gloomy circles
under her eyes, she curled her blonde hair, and— oh, my God! —is that makeup? I feel
bad for advising Logan she’s basically a drunken pill-head, because
the mother I see before me is the mother I remember from when I was
a kid, even as early as one year ago. My happy mother. “Why are you
looking at me like that?” she asks, breaking my train of
thought.
“Oh, I was just . . . um . . .” I firmly
press my lips together. Yeah, I’ve got nothing.
Mom laughs, and the sound is light, airy,
like birds singing in the treetops on a bright, spring morning.
She’s back. My mom is back!
“You look . . . different,” I say.
Her eyebrows shoot up. “Different?”
“In a good way.”
She doesn’t seem convinced, but if the wry
smile at the crook of her mouth means anything, she takes my
compliment to heart. “Flattery doesn’t imply you can evade hauling
in groceries, you know.”
I snort. “Of course not.”
“But nice try,” she says as she passes by me
on her way to the front door.
I reach out and touch her arm. “Mom?”
She stops, staring at my hand and then at
me. “Yes?”
“I meant what I said about you looking
better. I’m glad you aren’t just sitting around.”
Her blue eyes search mine for this new,
unknown form of emotional expression, one which she and I haven’t
experienced together in quite some time. “Well, in that case, thank
you.”
I smile and leave her standing on the foyer
as I head outside. The back hatch on the RAV4 is open, and the rear
is full of sacks taut with produce and canned goods. Normally, Mom
only buys sandwich and junk food. Never before has pasta or fresh
veggies been on the menu.
When Mom returns to help with the rest of
the fare, I wave my hand over the groceries and ask, “What’s all
this?” There’s enough food in here to feed us for weeks.
“You’ll see.”
Oh, I don’t like the sound of that.
With the last of the grocery bags set on the
counter and the RAV4 locked up, Mom and I begin sorting through
what needs to be placed in
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