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KATE
When Carter emerges from the bathroom, clean shaven with hair cropped off his shoulders, words fail me.
Six months ago, I’d have rejoiced over his new look. Now, though, his bare face leaves his eyes exposed. He looks haunted.
Everyone stares at Carter, mouths agape.
“Dude,” Eric says, the first to break the silence, “what’s with the GQ look?”
Carter storms out of the dorm, slamming the door behind him.
Jenna hovers in the recess of the dark hallway, staring after him. She looks like she’s been slapped.
I try to summon self-righteous motherhood but completely fail. I don’t know the exact details of their fight, but I do know my son turned a state of the union talk into an argument about their relationship. He’s obviously been carrying around the resentment for a while. His dad did the same thing.
One look at Jenna’s face shows me nothing but regret. That’s a point in her favor, even if what Carter accused her of is accurate.
I hesitate, wanting to give my son the privacy I know he wants, but also wanting to know where he’s going. It’s not safe to be alone outside. And it’s clear Jenna isn’t moving.
I hurry out the door after Carter, stepping into the hall just in time to see him disappear into the stairwell. I follow him down to the ground level.
“Carter, you said yourself it’s not safe outside.”
He ignores me, pushing through the door and disappearing outside.
I find him behind the dorm with Skip. He has the can of turpentine out and is rubbing frantically at the paint. Turmoil lines every muscle of his body.
The last thing he wants is a lecture or a consoling mother. Sighing, I pick up a rag and a can of turpentine. Sliding on a pair of gloves, I join him in the arduous task of stripping paint. Carter slides a peripheral glance in my direction but doesn’t speak.
I don’t try to draw him out. That would be pointless.
I strip paint until the tips of my fingers burn. My back, shoulders, and arms ache from the repetitive exertion. My feet in particular scream at me, every part of me still sore from my journey here.
I ignore all the bodily gripes and keep working on the paint.
The sun creeps across the sky. Carter never says a word. I sigh inwardly, resigning myself to the role of silent companion.
It’s nearly dinnertime when he finally speaks. “We were going to paint it blue.”
I raise my eyes to look at him. “What?”
“We were going to paint the van blue. Jenna and I were still working out the details of the Ultra Brew logo, but we knew the background was going to be blue.” He looks at me with devastated, red-rimmed eyes. “You know what, Mom? Fuck it. I’m not giving up on Ultra Brew. Just because she’s decided she doesn’t want to be a part of it doesn’t mean I have to give it up.”
I decide not to point out that Jenna never said she didn’t want to be a part of the dream. The way I see it, Carter isn’t ready to admit the world is in the shitter. Jenna is taking the brunt of that denial, even if Carter is also upset about something else that happened between them. He’s always been slow to digest and express feelings. So was his father.
It’s clear by Jenna’s stricken reaction to Carter’s words that she cares for him, but Carter is going to have to figure that out for himself. He doesn’t need his mother to tell him his girlfriend wants to work things out. I would have thought that was obvious by the number of times she said sorry through the bathroom door, but apparently not so obvious to my son.
“Do you remember how hard things were right after Dad died?” Carter asks.
The turn in conversation catches me off guard. Those first days after Kyle died are not a bright spot in my memory. Not only had I lost my husband, but I fell into a deep dark hole out of which Carter and Frederico had to drag me.
“Hard to forget that,” I reply. “Not my proudest moments.”
Carter looks at me, a dent forming between his brows. “I always thought it was kind of beautiful.”
“What was beautiful? My breakdown?” That doesn’t make any sense.
“I remember thinking I wanted to find someone that I would love as much as you and Dad loved each other.” He shrugs and starts dumping the paint in the mixing tray.
My mouth hangs open. That was Carter’s takeaway from my ten days of dwelling in darkness without showering and eating? It takes me a moment to compose myself.
“What do you think Dad would say if he was still alive?” Carter asks.
It’s my opening. I consider my words carefully, wanting to make my point without inciting another blow up with Carter.
“He would tell us to be prepared.” For once, talking about my late husband doesn’t make me feel like a crumpled ball of paper. I’m finally able to find happiness in my memories of him, rather than sink into despair over his loss. It’s a good feeling. “Dad would tell us not to be caught out on the trail with only one shoe.”
Carter chuckles, no doubt recalling the time I lost a shoe in a river during a one-hundred-mile race. The laugh exposes his Adam’s apple and the ridges of his cheekbones, both of which have been covered in furry scruff for the last few years.
“I like the new look,” I say.
“You always were after me to trim my beard and hair.”
“I’m your mother. It’s my job to nag you until you make yourself presentable.”
“That’s your job, huh?”
“Yep. And it was Dad’s job—and yours—to take care of me at ultras. Remember how Dad always carried an extra pair of shoes for me after that race?”
“Yeah.”
“It’s just like—”
“Dude, check out Skip,” says a new voice, interrupting my mom speech. I scowl at Eric, who waves down at us from the rooftop.
“That’s an improvement!” he crows, fist pumping the air. “Nice job on the paint removal.”
“How’d you get up there?” Carter asks.
Johnny appears beside Eric. “Roof access from the janitor’s closet,” he calls down. “We moved all the solar panels from the balcony to the rooftop. It should give me a few extra hours of time on my ham radio.”
“More importantly,” Eric says, “we should have Xbox action by tonight. You up for God of War?”
A smile splits Carter’s face, the first I’ve seen all day. “Yeah. Sounds good.”
Video games and ham radios. The kids are fucking around on the roof with solar panels so they can play with electronic toys. Talk about a waste of resources.
“Eric,” I say, “do you think you could route power to a washing machine from the solar panels? Eventually, we’re going to have to wash some clothes.”
“Washing machine?” Eric scratches his chin. “I don’t think the panels I have will be enough to power a washing machine. But it’s a good idea. Let me think on it.”
Thinking about it is better than blowing me off. I decide to take that for a win. Now, if only I can figure out a way to ease Carter into a new way of thinking.
Johnny and Eric disappear back inside. I formulate several more mom speeches in my head before absorbing Carter’s bleak expression. In the end, I decide to keep my mouth shut and help with the van. The mom lecture designed to get my son’s head out of his ass and on the road to reality can wait for another day.
He’s on his own with his relationship.