Mom sounds tired when she picks up the phone. I’ve forgotten about the time difference.
“Jason?” The loud, scratching sound of her face against the receiver before her voice fades in: the tail end of a yawn. “What time is it?”
“I’m sorry Mom. I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“No, no, honey. It’s okay. How are things?”
“They’re all right.” She doesn’t sound happy, but she sounds relaxed. At ease. Her distant tone of voice is gone. For the first time since Brian disappeared, she sounds alert.
“Why are you calling, Jason?”
“When are you coming home?”
“In a few weeks, hun. A few weeks.”
“Mom?”
“What is it?”
“Dad’s acting weird.”
“I know. It’s okay. He’s been going through hard times.” She pauses. “It’s been hard for everybody.”
“No, I mean.” I don’t know what I mean.
“Jason, are you crying?”
“No.”
“Is everything okay?”
“Yeah.”
She doesn’t talk. She listens to me blubber. My lip flaps with each inhale. I squeeze hot tears out of my eyes.
“Hey, Mom?” I wipe my nose with the entire length of my arm. She waits.
“Yes?”
“Why are grown-ups so weird?”
“I don’t know, Jason. We just are.”