My mother had still not returned home from rehab. I stood in the kitchen, staring at the open refrigerator. It was virtually empty but for a new case of Drew’s Muscle Milk protein shakes. I thought about ripping open the box and taking one, but I knew he’d kill me, eventually. Not that I expected him to come home. At school, I heard he was seeing some girl. He’d been staying nights there, a lot. For a couple of weeks.
During that time, I had developed an uneasy relationship with loneliness. I went days by myself in that house, punctuated by hours behind the closed door of my room, hoping the soft voices I heard would not approach.
When I closed the refrigerator, I started talking to myself, something of a new habit.
“Today’s Tuesday. Even if he’s coming home, it won’t be until after lacrosse. Maybe it won’t be late. It hasn’t been as bad, lately . . . when he’s home. Not that he’s around much.”
My conversation abruptly ended when I heard the front door open. For a second, I thought it was Drew. And I think I was happy about that. I even started to move toward the foyer. But then my father appeared. When he looked at me, I lowered my eyes.
“Your mother is home,” he said.
That moment was so weird. I should have heard his words and understood them immediately. Mom had been gone for over a month. I needed her home. But for some reason I remember being lost in the sound of his voice, like I hadn’t heard it in years. I wanted more but he just passed through the room on his way to the basement.
“Liam?”
Her call floated into the house and my heart fluttered. I moved so slowly across the tile, afraid that it was all a dream. That I was still alone. Then I saw her, and the truth was I barely recognized my mother. She stood in the doorway, her back straight, her eyes clear and bright, and her hair perfectly done in shining black waves that fell around her shoulders.
“Baby,” she said.
I didn’t run to her. I wasn’t a little child anymore. But that urge was difficult to fight. Instead, I moved carefully, as if at any minute some bend of light would reveal her as a cruel mirage.
I stopped a few feet from her. My mother’s smile broadened. She put her arms out and I let her hug me. I remained stiff, however, and she sighed.
“It’s going to be different, baby,” she whispered near my ear. “I promise. I’m good. Really good. And your father’s changed. You’ll see.”
“Okay,” I said.
The truth is, I wanted more than anything to believe her.
THE NEXT DAY, I came home from school to find the refrigerator filled with food. Not just condiments and old milk. We had fresh fruit and vegetables. Meat. Bread from the bakery downtown. I didn’t know what to eat first.
“Liam?” she called from upstairs.
I froze, my chest tightening and the hairs on my arms standing on edge. I waited, expecting her call to come again. Picturing myself slinking up the stairs to her bedroom door. Finding her in bed, that smell filling my nose, and her new red nail polish chipped and flaking like dried blood.
As I stood there, holding my breath, I heard footsteps. I let the air out when I realized they were too light to be my father’s or Drew’s. When my mom walked into the kitchen, all my fears vanished. She was dressed. She stood up and walked without the hint of a sway. And when she spoke, I heard no slur to her words.
“How was school today?” she asked.
“Good,” I said.
“Anything new?”
I blinked. For some reason, I thought about my painting, the one I destroyed when she was still in the hospital. Part of me wished she could see it. But then I thought about the lines of that work, the way she appeared on the canvas, like the haunting instant between life and death, and I felt embarrassed by what I had done. This woman looked nothing like that. She looked alive. And healthy. Like everyone else’s mom. Better, even.
With all that on my mind, I just shook my head.
“Let me make you something to eat,” she said, so happy. “How about . . . ?”
She paused, looking confused for an instant. At first, I got worried again. But then I realized she just had no idea what to fix. She didn’t know what I liked, or what I didn’t. I was her son, and yet she knew almost nothing about me. The realization was crushing.
“I’m not hungry,” I said.
“Oh,” my mom said, disappointed. “Okay. Sit down with me.”
She sat at the kitchen table and patted the seat beside her. I took it, looking away at the window by the sink. I could feel her fidgeting.
“Liam, do you trust me?” she asked.
“Sure,” I said.
“No, really.”
“Yeah.”
She nodded. “I think I am going to get a job. I need to do something for myself.”
“Did you ever work?” I asked.
“Of course,” she said, laughing. “I was a middle school teacher when I met your father. We met at the school, actually. He ran a robotics seminar.”
She paused. I waited, desperately needing more. It was like the smallest corner of some veil that hung between me and my reality had been suddenly peeled up. I got just a peek of the truth. At the same time, though, I didn’t want to think about my father. I didn’t want to hear about it. The hatred that grew inside me kept my mouth shut. It kept me from asking my mother more questions.
Our stillness hung between us. It made me nervous. So when I finally spoke, my words meant nothing.
“You should get a job . . . if you want.”
“I’d have to ask your father,” she said.
The silence that followed felt even heavier. Even more dangerous. That time, she broke it, though.
“Drew loves you,” she said. “You know that, right?”
I laughed nervously.
“Seriously,” she said. “I know it might not seem like that all the time. But he does. He just thinks about himself too much sometimes. He’ll grow out of that. You’ll see.”
I nodded.
“You two need each other. You need to be close. Family’s the only thing you can count on in life. The only people you can really trust.” She fidgeted again. I looked at her and saw the tears in my mother’s eyes. “I’m so sorry. So sorry.”
Sitting right beside me, my mother sobbed. She kept apologizing and apologizing. It made me vibrate, but I finally turned in my chair and put my arms around her.
“It’s okay,” I said, over and over again.
Her breath caught. “Oh, Liam.”
“Mom, it’s okay. Everything is going to be okay.”
“It is,” she said, her crying suddenly sounding like a laugh. “I promise, it is.”
As I held her, I heard the garage door open. I heard my father’s car pulling in. It was a little after 3:00 P.M., way before he would ever get home. Immediately, I let go of my mother and stood up. She watched me with sadness in her eyes. But before she could say anything, the door to the garage opened. My father walked into the kitchen.
“We have to go,” he said. “You have a meeting.”
The worry left my mother’s face. She smiled so broadly that I thought her face might split right in half.
“I do,” she said. “Thanks for coming home.”
He glanced at me before answering. “Sure. I told you I would.”
“Well, thank you.”
My mom rose from the table and gave me a hug. When she pulled back, I saw the look in her eyes. It seemed to tell me that she was right. That things would be different. And this small act of my father keeping his word proved it. Despite myself, I nodded. No matter what, hope and childhood are never too far apart.