Mom comes home for lunch on Monday and catches me in the act. “What are you doing?”
I drop the fiery stick and watch it fizzle on the floor. Mom rushes over and switches off the gas burner.
“What are you doing?” she asks again. Her voice is calm, but there’s an edge to it.
“Nothing.” I eye the evidence on the stove.
Mom follows my gaze. The marshmallows, the open box of toothpicks. Charred sticks and glommed goo all over the burners.
Yeah, Mom. This is how I spend my days. Roasting mini marshmallows.
She looks at me like she doesn’t know me. I should introduce myself: Nicholas Nathaniel Thomas Tyler. Boy Genius. Solid Waste King. Carbon-based wastoid. Mom steps back, steps away. “I forgot some papers.” She clunks her briefcase atop the table and runs upstairs. My eyes focus on the briefcase, the monogram: EAT. I have an irresistible urge to take a knife and gouge into the leather: ME. Or hack at it until it’s shredded. Mom returns and flips open the lid. She shoves her papers inside.
I touch her back.
She flinches and holds her heart. “You startled me.”
“Mom,” I say. “We need to talk.”
She looks at me. Then looks away. “Not now, Nick. I’m right in the middle of this court case and I have to get back to work.”
“You always say that.”
She frowns. “No, I don’t. I just can’t do this right now.”
She knows I want to talk about Jo.
She lifts her briefcase. “I have to go. We’ll discuss it tonight.”
“No, we won’t,” I say. “You never want to talk about Jo.”
“You’re right,” she says sharply. “I’m tired of talking about Jo. I’m sick of you always bringing her up in every conversation. And I’m tired of you moping around here like your life is over.” Her cell rings, and she opens her briefcase again. She retrieves the silver bullet. “Oh yeah, hi, Zim. I found the deposition. Sorry. I’m on my way back now. What?”
I stare at her as she’s talking. She either sees or senses me and moves away into the living room. I follow. She averts her eyes and finishes her conversation, “. . . petition the court. Worse case scenario, I know.” She listens. “I know!” She closes the phone. “Find something to do,” she says without looking at me. “Paint your room. Go to the public pool. There’s plenty to do around here.” She heads out.
“There’s nothing to do,” I say at her back. She opens the door. I yell, “There’s nothing for me here. I hate it here.”
She whirls around and clubs me. I don’t know if she was turning and I was closing in, or if she hit me intentionally. She gasps, and her briefcase falls from her hand. With both hands she clamps onto the sides of my face. “Nick, God.” She threads her arms around me and pulls me close. “I’m sorry.”
My bones are rubber. I’m useless.
“Oh baby . . .” Her arms squeeze the life out of me. What’s left of it. “I’m so sorry,” she says in my ear. “I didn’t mean to . . .” Her teeth chatter like she’s freezing. “Nick. Honey.”
She’s talking to a zombie, to a mummy, to a corpse. When she finally realizes it, she releases me and backs away. Our eyes meet and hold.
Mom’s eyes change from liquid to solid. She bends to retrieve her briefcase and says, “I have to go. I promise we’ll talk tonight.”
I’ve got my CD player on with the bass amped up, the balance skewed to the right speaker only. It sends concentrated surges of shock waves through my ear, neck, head. I feel . . . drugged. Separated from reality.
Mom barges in. What happened to privacy prevails? “Nick, for God’s sake. Turn that down.”
I stretch out a hand and punch off my player.
“Thank you,” she says.
I flop over onto my stomach, away from her. Vibrations from the bass continue for a moment, then shock. The shock of silence. I shift my head only enough to watch her. She’s looming over my fish tank, where another killifish went belly-up.
Mom’s focus scatters. “What happened at lunch today . . .” She swallows hard. “I’m under a lot of pressure at work. We have this trial coming up —
“No.” She stops herself. “That’s no excuse. I’m sorry. It isn’t you. You know I’d never hit you.”
Never, Mom? Never?
“I’d never hurt you.” Her knees buckle, and she perches on my mattress. Her hand lifts to touch my head, but I cower. I cover my face with my arms. She makes the right decision and moves her hand away.
“I wanted to say I’m sorry. Again. I’m sorry about everything.” She stands.
Everything, Mom? Everything?
After she leaves, an hour later, two hours, I’m still wondering, Everything, Mom? Does that include having me?