I UNLOCKED the door and opened it slowly. “Mom?”
The entire apartment was dark. All the shades were drawn in the living room, admitting only dim gray light. I stepped in and quietly closed the door behind me. The place was silent; the only sound I could hear was the muffled music from a radio somewhere in the apartment on the floor above. The blanket I’d placed over Mom was bunched at one end of the sofa, along with the jacket she’d worn last night. A small cardboard box, the flaps half-open on top, had been shoved onto one end of the coffee table.
“Mom, it’s me.” I put my backpack on the floor and then took off my wet jacket and hung it on the doorknob behind me. My hair and jeans were damp, and my muscles ached from the cold. Walking down the hall, I rubbed my hands together, trying to rev up my circulation.
The kitchen was empty. Aside from an open jar of instant Maxwell House on the table next to a mug half-filled with cold black coffee, there was no evidence of Mom’s presence. I turned and continued down the hall to the bedroom. The door was closed. Anxiety rose up my neck like a hot blush as I knocked softly. “Mom?”
Seconds later, with no response, I pushed the door open. Mom lay on the bed, dressed in a brown knee-length wool skirt and a tan blouse, almost lost in the shadows of her room. The black leather lanyard was still around her neck, but her State of Tennessee employee badge was missing. She was staring at the ceiling, as motionless as a mannequin. On the nightstand stood an open bottle of wine next to an empty glass. I saw the residue of a dark red liquid at the bottom of the glass, and a sharp, fruity aroma hung in the air. The anxiety tightened in my throat. Jesus, Mom….
“I went to work, like you wanted.” Mom’s voice was flat, barely above a whisper. She spoke without looking at me. “That was a mistake.”
“What’re you talking about, Mom?”
“When I got to the office today, I was still hungover. I was so hungover, I threw up right in front of a client and almost passed out. My boss wrote me up on the spot, packed all my things in a box, and had the security guard escort me off the premises. He said he didn’t have a choice.”
God. I was suddenly so afraid I stumbled back a step. “Mom….”
She laughed—a quick, harsh sound. “I can’t say that I blame the man. This was, what, the fifth time I’d been drunk on the job? The sixth? How many times could he look the other way? I shouldn’t have listened to you, Brodie. I should have followed my instincts. It would have been better if I’d just stayed home today.”
Guilt ran down my spine like a shiver. I opened my mouth but then pressed my lips together tightly, having no clue what I should say. A sharp pain thudded in my chest, cold and hollow. I turned away, unable to look at Mom now. She’d held that job for fourteen years, almost my entire life.
This was my fault.
I forced myself to turn back to her, gearing up to apologize. Mom stared at the wall behind me, avoiding my eyes, her expression one of anger and shame. “I suppose I was lucky to keep that job as long as I did.”
Covering my face with my hand, I shook my head. “I didn’t mean… this wasn’t supposed to happen. Mom, I’m sorry.”
She didn’t say anything. I pulled my hand down, and Mom looked me in the eyes finally. Her anger sharpened and displaced the shame. She was going to unload on me, and I was going to stand there and take it. It was what I deserved.
“No, you don’t have to apologize,” Mom said. “This was my fault, honey. I did this to myself.”
“Don’t say that.”
“I should say it. It’s the truth.”
Again, I went speechless for a bit, unsure what to expect next from her. “What’re you gonna do?”
She pushed herself up on her elbows, and then she smoothed her hair back from her face with one hand. “I’m going to get up, wash my face, comb my hair, and get into some clean clothes. I must look awful.”
“That’s not what I meant, Mom. What about next month’s rent? Your other bills… how will they get paid?”
“One step at a time, Brodie,” Mom replied, waving me away as she climbed out of bed. “Let me clean myself up so I’ll at least look human.”
I walked up the hall as Mom retreated into her bathroom. I stopped in the kitchen again. It didn’t appear Mom had cooked much of anything today. I looked in the cabinets and refrigerator. Aside from a bag of flour, a half-finished loaf of bread, two cans of tomato soup, a bag of frozen broccoli, a carton with four eggs in it, and a tub of margarine, the shelves were empty. I rubbed a hand over my eyes.
I sat down at the table. It felt as if some dark wave was rushing in on me. Think about something else. Maybe I could study, do my homework. My Spanish teacher said the class should expect the unexpected, which meant there would be a pop quiz at some time this week. Or maybe I could just read. To catch up with Fawn, Abel, and the rest of my new English class, I still had to cover six chapters in the novel Mr. Dakota assigned. There was any number of things I could be doing now, but the reality was that I was too upset to concentrate on schoolwork.
My thoughts shifted to Fawn. I wanted to talk with her, about her upcoming soccer season, schoolwork, the weather—anything that would distract me. She was still in the Drama Club meeting, so calling her was definitely out. Maybe I could meet her at her house when I left Mom’s apartment.
Mom appeared in the kitchen fifteen minutes later, barefoot, dressed in blue jeans and a pullover sweater. She went to the cabinet, grabbed a can of tomato soup, and proceeded to open it.
“Mom,” I said, “you need groceries.”
Mom poured the soup into a pan, dropped the can in the garbage pail, added water to the pan and then placed the soup on the stove to heat it. She took the bag of broccoli from the freezer, tossed it into the microwave oven, set the timer for three minutes, and pressed the Start button. Her face had the statue-like composure of a model strolling along a fashion runway.
“Mom, did you hear me?”
“Yes, I heard you, Brodie, and yes, I know I need groceries. I’ll go to Kroger tomorrow.” She took the bread and the tub of margarine from the refrigerator and placed them on the table.
“Do you have any money? At all?”
“I have money.” She sighed, exhaustion suddenly filling her eyes. “Go home, Brodie. Do your homework. I’ll be fine.”
I didn’t believe that even for a hot second. When I was small, right up to the year I was in fifth grade, Mom had been so amazing. She worked a shift that allowed her to get off in time to pick me up from school. She’d bring me home, cook dinner, and sometimes she even baked honest-to-God homemade cookies for dessert. She majored in theater in college and was a semiprofessional actress for a good while, acting in local stage productions. While she cooked, she’d rehearse her lines with me. I’d loved it when she had roles in Shakespeare plays. That strong, colorful voice of hers speaking in iambic pentameter had been pure music to me. She’d been so full of energy then, always on the move, and it seemed to me she was capable of anything.
I wished that woman was in the kitchen with me now. “Mom, let me help you.”
She stroked my hair and leaned down to kiss the top of my head. “It’s sweet of you to offer, but the best way you can help me right now is to give me some space, honey. I love you, I appreciate you, but I need to be alone for a while. Give me your key.”
“Huh? Why?”
“Because I know you, and I really need for you to stay away.” She held out her hand.
I dug her spare key out of my pocket and dropped it in her palm.
“I’ll give this back when I’m ready. Now go on home. I’ll be in touch with you.”
I didn’t want to leave, but I also didn’t want to make things any more difficult for her than I already had. Reluctantly, I stood up. “Bye, Mom.” I went back to the living room, pulled on my wet jacket, picked up my backpack, and let myself out the front door.
I WALKED aimlessly for a time, hoping to settle my emotions, but waves of remorse kept lashing away at me, the same thoughts running again and again through my mind. I did this to her. I got her fired.
The rain had stopped. The clouds were thickening, however; a major downpour was coming. Gusts of wind whipped around me, chilling my body through my damp clothes, and the sky darkened with the coming of night.
I didn’t want to go home, didn’t want to see my dad. Fawn. I needed her. She should be home now. I could still get there and spend time with her before her parents returned. She wouldn’t be up to hearing me fret about the trouble I had caused my mom, and that was okay by me. It would be enough to just have Fawn hold me, to lie in the tangle of her soft, perfumed sheets, to lose myself in her again.
Head down, shoulders hunched against the wind and the cold, I made my way along the streets, pushing through the descending twilight. Guilty thoughts swarmed in my head like a cloud of gnats. I chewed my lip to keep my teeth from chattering. Cars passed by, tires hissing oily rainwater into a fine spray that misted over the sidewalk, pale headlights cutting through the evening air. There were no other pedestrians, only me. I had never felt so small and invisible.
My mood lightened up a bit when I rounded the corner onto St. Vincent Avenue and spotted the Jensens’ two-story yellow clapboard house. The light was on over the front porch, a beacon so warm and welcoming it got me walking faster.
I ran up the steps and rang the doorbell. “Come on, hurry,” I muttered, trembling, pressing my shoulder against the jamb.
The door swung open. Fawn stood there, her hair tied back, the sexy clothes she’d worn to school replaced with a pair of old jeans and a faded pink University of Mississippi sweatshirt, her mother’s sweatshirt. I expected surprise, happiness, a smile, a kiss, and maybe just a little concern.
What I got was a brief, empty gaze, followed by a frown. “What’re you doing here, Brodie? I thought you had to go to your mom’s.”
“I did,” I replied and then paused, wondering what else I should say. My throat felt dry. I swallowed, suddenly very nervous.
“Well?” Fawn lifted her hand in a floating, casual gesture. “Is she okay?”
“I don’t… uh… she said she’ll be fine.”
“Good. That’s good. But I wasn’t expecting you. You didn’t text or call or anything to say you were coming.”
I shifted uncomfortably. “Yeah, but I’m here now.” I waited for her to step aside and let me in. The evening was growing colder. My head was beginning to spin again, already recycling the self-recriminations I’d lugged from my mom’s apartment. I needed Fawn so badly. “Uh… we still have time to… hang out, whatever, before your parents get back.”
Irritation lit up Fawn’s eyes, a stark flash that was gone an instant later, pressed down and locked away beneath a layer of coolness. “I wasn’t expecting you,” she repeated stiffly. “I made other plans.”
Other plans? I shifted my weight again. Something went tingling through me, a disorienting sense of apprehension and embarrassment. For a moment, it was like looking at a stranger. Was this actually happening?
“Fawn? Come on. She’s my mother. Don’t be mad because I—”
“I’m not angry.” But she was. I could see it in her hard, unblinking eyes, in the pugnacious jut of her small, delicately rounded chin. “I’m in the middle of something else now, and I can’t put that on hold just because you changed your mind and decided to pop in after all.”
“Look, we don’t have to… we can just watch a movie or something. Or I can do my homework while you finish whatever you’re doing. I just… I just want to be here.”
She was shaking her head before I even finished speaking. “This isn’t a good time, Brodie. You can’t stay. I’ll see you tomorrow.” With that, she stepped back inside and shut the door.
I kept standing there, staring at the blank tan wood panels, trying to figure out what the hell had just happened. Shit. I didn’t want to go home, didn’t want to see my dad, and now things had gone all bizarro with Fawn. That kept me rooted to the spot. Abel was the only other person I trusted as much as I trusted Fawn, but he was at his father’s coffee shop now, working his part-time job. He didn’t have time to talk. Maybe I should go to the coffee shop anyway. Abel wouldn’t be able to hang out with me or anything, but I could nurse a cup of hot chocolate for a while, at least, and chase the chill out of me.
My phone shimmied. Maybe it was Fawn. Eagerly, I dragged the phone from my pocket and saw a text message from Dad.
Dinner almost ready. Where r u?
My throat seemed to close up. I’d forgotten to tell Dad I planned to hang with Fawn after school. Apropos, I guess, considering how things turned out.
Then I started feeling like an idiot, standing on the Jensens’ porch when I wasn’t wanted there. I got this mad urge to scream, but I didn’t. After hesitating a second or two, I texted Dad back.
On my way.
I shoved the phone back into my pocket, stepped off the Jensens’ porch, and slowly began the walk home.
WHEN I stepped through the door, the house was warm, the air filled with the aroma of spaghetti sauce and garlic bread. I headed for my room, eager to change clothes, but my dad—alerted by the sounds of my entry—walked in from the kitchen, moving between me and the door to the hall.
Dad was smiling. “Made your favorite today, lasagna and—” He stopped in the middle of the living room; his smile dropped. “Your clothes are soaked.”
Shivering, putting my head down, I ducked around him. “I’m gonna grab a quick shower,” I mumbled as I hurried into the hall.
After tossing my leaden backpack on the floor beside my bed, I stripped myself down. I hung my jacket on the doorknob of the closet to dry and tossed the rest of my clothes onto the floor near my desk. Rain pattered against the roof and windows, quickly growing into a loud thrum as the downpour began. In the bathroom, I made the shower as hot as I could stand it and allowed myself five minutes under the blessedly massaging spray. I wanted to stay longer—like forever—but the coming confrontation would be dreadful enough without making my dad even angrier by keeping him waiting. I toweled myself down quickly, pulled on my pajamas, and made my way to the dining room.
Dad sat at the head of the table, over a plate of lasagna and salad and garlic bread. A similar setting awaited me at the opposite end of the table. Dad hadn’t touched his food. He looked pissed. He was working a crossword puzzle on his tablet.
After he told Mom to get gone, after he found her an apartment she could afford and packed her things and moved her out of the house, he signed up for a gym membership and downloaded puzzle apps. Just last week, I overheard Dad telling one of his friends that the year since the divorce had made him stronger and smarter. My dad believed working the body and mind was therapeutic, although he hadn’t worked his body as much as he’d implied to his friend.
And no amount of therapy was going to change the fact that he was cold enough to kick his wife out of the house.
Our house had been a happier place once. I remembered how Dad—before alcohol took control of Mom’s life—would sometimes stop whatever he was doing when Mom walked into a room, put his arms around her, and dance her across the floor to the tunes he hummed in his head. Mom would smile up at him in this total bliss-out. Those moments stuck in my head, my first images of two people in love. When I was a lot younger, Dad would take me and Abel to the movies, and after we got back home, he would retell the plot, casting Abe and me in key roles and making us laugh our asses off. That was the dad I wanted now.
I sat down at the table, picked up my fork, and dug into my salad. My family had never been big on saying grace before we ate; we were good and proper heathens. I was tired all the way down to my bones, as if some massive chain had been wrapped around my body. I didn’t want to face my pissed-off father. I didn’t want to eat. I wanted to retreat to my room, do my homework. And then bury myself under my blankets. And maybe cry.
Jeez.
“Where were you?” Dad asked quietly without looking up from the tablet. “Your school is barely ten minutes away. There’s no way in hell walking in a drizzle for ten minutes would have completely soaked your clothes that way. So where were you?”
I figured there was no point in lying or stalling. Dad already knew. “I went over to Mom’s, okay?”
“You have regular visitation with her on weekends. What was it this time?” Dad firmly put the tablet aside, raising his head to look at me. I was surprised to see more sadness than anger in his eyes. “Did you have to cook for her? Clean up after her? Did she throw up all over herself again?”
I looked down at my plate, shifting the salad around with my fork. Shut up. Please just shut up.
“It’s not your job to fix her, Brodie. That’s something she’s going to have to do on her own. Believe me, I tried to make things right. I tried so hard. I threw out all our wine and liquor and told her not to bring another drop into this house. I told her doctor about the drinking. I made appointments with counselors. I registered her for AA and offered to drive her to the meetings. Her drinking only got worse. She hid bottles everywhere. She started neglecting you, neglecting everything. To get sober and stay sober, she’s going to have to do it herself. You can’t let her drag you down too. You have to focus on school and—”
“Dad, she got fired today.” The words burned in my mouth.
Dad sat back in his chair. I think I saw actual dread etch across his face. “What?”
“She lost her job because—” I stopped, unable to voice my own culpability in what happened to Mom. “I don’t think she has any money saved up. I don’t know what she’s gonna do if she doesn’t get another job right away.”
“Your mother will figure something out, son.”
“What if she doesn’t?” I felt my eyes become round and beseeching, even though I didn’t want them to. I’d stopped begging Dad to give Mom a break a long time ago. “Will you help her? If she starts to go under, will you help her?”
Dad sighed. “Brodie….”
“Please, Dad.”
“I can’t make your mother get treatment. I can’t make her do anything. Neither can you or anybody else. I have to focus on you now, Brodie. I have to keep a roof over your head. In a few years, you’ll need money for college. Things are tight for us financially as it is. I didn’t ask for child support from your mother. I knew with her salary she wouldn’t be able to pay that along with rent and all the other expenses she was taking on. There’s not much else I can do for her. She’s not my responsibility anymore. You are.”
The pain that went through me then was so strong it raised a bitter taste in my mouth. I dropped my fork into my plate and slumped back in my chair.
Dad sighed again and rubbed a hand over his face. “You’re tired, I’m tired. Maybe this isn’t the best time for talk. Let’s just eat our dinner, huh?”