hadn’t been forced to go back after my meltdown. My mother told him to hush. “You’re both treated fairly,” she said, “but sometimes people require different things for true fairness.”
Toby didn’t agree. “Aidan’s spoiled,” he said, before running upstairs, stomping all the way. And in a way, he was right. My mom favored me. Anyone could see that if they paid attention. When my mom looked at me, she saw a part of herself. I was hers, I somehow understood, just like the old lady at the library had told her. We saw things through the same eyes.
After my dad came home from work that evening, we sat at the table to eat dinner as usual. Toby talked about the 4-H meeting he’d be attending later that week. He was going to choose a calf from my grandmother’s stock after dinner, would raise it over the course of the next year as a project. I was still too young for 4-H, but the following year I’d get to raise a calf along with him. My dad wanted to see his boys raising cattle. He had hopes that one day we’d work the farm together, just like all of the Lockwood men before him. When he talked like that, though, my mom would shake her head and cast him a glance across the table.
“They aren’t all meant for that” was all she’d say. Then she’d look down at her glass of wine like she could see the future forming in its bloodred liquid.
Sometimes my dad would argue. Sometimes he’d tell her she was just like her father, who Toby and I couldn’t remember because we’d never met him. Our grandparents on our mom’s side had died long before we were born, and even before that, my mom had once told Toby and me—after we asked why the house was full of our dad’s family photos but none of hers—that she and her father had, as she put it, “had a falling-out.” She said she had refused to speak to anyone in her family for nearly thirty years, and from that I learned early in life that my mom was not someone to cross. She could carry a grudge for eternity.
That night, my dad told my mom she was crazy to think she could see our futures spread out before us as if they were maps. “It’s foolish,” he said, “the way you think you can control everything.” I remember thinking how odd it was that he’d accuse her of the very thing she’d just told him he was doing. Trying to decide our futures for us.
My mom didn’t argue. She stopped talking and looked out the nearest window. This was how she’d get whenever she and my dad couldn’t agree on something. And as she peered out the window at what seemed to be something far away, I felt like she might be doing exactly what my dad had said she couldn’t: she was looking at our future selves as they rushed toward us. Here they were, the people we were becoming, about to knock on our front door, hoping they could undo the mistakes we were making at that very moment.
My mom trailed her fork through her mashed potatoes after she turned herself back to the table. She looked up every once in a while to answer a question my dad put to her, or to tell Toby it was his night to do dishes. I could tell she was in one of her moods now, as my dad called those times when she’d turn inward, out of rejection of whatever was going on in front of her, or because something had called her attention away from this world. But later, when I asked her if it was true, if she was in a mood, my mother said my dad didn’t understand everything he was seeing.
“They aren’t ordinary moods,” she said. “They’re moods that come on me when I have a presentiment. A message about something that’s going to happen.” She said that whenever she received one of these, good or bad, she’d always feel a little tired and confused for a while after. When I asked why she’d get tired from that, she said it was from carrying all of those people around with her.
“What people?” I asked.
“The people in the future. You, your daddy, Toby. Everyone in town. And others,”
Toby didn’t agree. “Aidan’s spoiled,” he said, before running upstairs, stomping all the way. And in a way, he was right. My mom favored me. Anyone could see that if they paid attention. When my mom looked at me, she saw a part of herself. I was hers, I somehow understood, just like the old lady at the library had told her. We saw things through the same eyes.
After my dad came home from work that evening, we sat at the table to eat dinner as usual. Toby talked about the 4-H meeting he’d be attending later that week. He was going to choose a calf from my grandmother’s stock after dinner, would raise it over the course of the next year as a project. I was still too young for 4-H, but the following year I’d get to raise a calf along with him. My dad wanted to see his boys raising cattle. He had hopes that one day we’d work the farm together, just like all of the Lockwood men before him. When he talked like that, though, my mom would shake her head and cast him a glance across the table.
“They aren’t all meant for that” was all she’d say. Then she’d look down at her glass of wine like she could see the future forming in its bloodred liquid.
Sometimes my dad would argue. Sometimes he’d tell her she was just like her father, who Toby and I couldn’t remember because we’d never met him. Our grandparents on our mom’s side had died long before we were born, and even before that, my mom had once told Toby and me—after we asked why the house was full of our dad’s family photos but none of hers—that she and her father had, as she put it, “had a falling-out.” She said she had refused to speak to anyone in her family for nearly thirty years, and from that I learned early in life that my mom was not someone to cross. She could carry a grudge for eternity.
That night, my dad told my mom she was crazy to think she could see our futures spread out before us as if they were maps. “It’s foolish,” he said, “the way you think you can control everything.” I remember thinking how odd it was that he’d accuse her of the very thing she’d just told him he was doing. Trying to decide our futures for us.
My mom didn’t argue. She stopped talking and looked out the nearest window. This was how she’d get whenever she and my dad couldn’t agree on something. And as she peered out the window at what seemed to be something far away, I felt like she might be doing exactly what my dad had said she couldn’t: she was looking at our future selves as they rushed toward us. Here they were, the people we were becoming, about to knock on our front door, hoping they could undo the mistakes we were making at that very moment.
My mom trailed her fork through her mashed potatoes after she turned herself back to the table. She looked up every once in a while to answer a question my dad put to her, or to tell Toby it was his night to do dishes. I could tell she was in one of her moods now, as my dad called those times when she’d turn inward, out of rejection of whatever was going on in front of her, or because something had called her attention away from this world. But later, when I asked her if it was true, if she was in a mood, my mother said my dad didn’t understand everything he was seeing.
“They aren’t ordinary moods,” she said. “They’re moods that come on me when I have a presentiment. A message about something that’s going to happen.” She said that whenever she received one of these, good or bad, she’d always feel a little tired and confused for a while after. When I asked why she’d get tired from that, she said it was from carrying all of those people around with her.
“What people?” I asked.
“The people in the future. You, your daddy, Toby. Everyone in town. And others,”
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