42. Grown-ups

It’s obvious that Mom’s been crying.

“What’s wrong?” I ask. I’ve been home a few minutes before seeing her. Before really seeing her.

“Nothing.”

“Did something happen at work?” I ask.

She’s sitting on the couch across from me. “I didn’t go to work today,” she says.

I’ve come to understand that Mom has several looks. The drunk look and then the hungover look. The angry look. The don’t-really-care-about-anything-look (which is a lot like the drunk look but more awake).

This is different from all of those.

This is the Dad look.

“Did you talk to him?” I ask.

“What? How did you know?”

“Did he call?”

She shakes her head and closes her eyes.

“Why’d you call him?”

“Because—because he’s the only—” She stops herself. “Chris, not now.”

I wait for a minute but then decide not to push.

“You want to go out to eat tonight?” she asks.

I shrug.

“Somewhere outside of Solitary.”

I nod without hesitation.

Definitely. Like Mexico. Or Alaska.

“Anywhere you’d like to go.”

“Why don’t you pick,” I tell her. “And I’ll treat.”

“Stop acting like a grown-up.”

I want to tell her to stop making me, but I don’t. “I’ve got money to spend,” I say instead. “Let me spend it.”

“We’ll see,” she says, standing up.

The thought of my father’s face and voice makes me angry. I’m glad he’s not here. And come to think of it, I don’t want to hear what he had to say. The less I know about him the better.

Mom and I are doing just fine.

Or at least that’s sure what I want him to believe.