Liam,” my mother called from downstairs.
I startled, my pencil skidding across the page as a picture flashed behind my closed eyes, my mother lying on the kitchen floor with blood pooling around her head. It had been over a month since she had gotten home from rehab, but the sense that the other shoe was about to drop never truly left me.
“Yeah?” I called back from my bed.
Without realizing it, I had started to draw. I still wouldn’t paint, not since the night I brought the picture of my mother home. Not even in art class. But my constant doodling had expanded, taking over entire notebooks.
“Come down,” she answered.
I heard something playful in her tone. I think I even smiled as I moved off my bed and headed toward the hall. As I stepped out, I almost walked into my brother.
“What does she want?” he asked.
“What?”
“Mom,” he said.
I looked at him. It is hard to explain those days. Mostly, he just wasn’t around, spending the majority of his time at his girlfriend’s house. She didn’t go to our school, so I hadn’t met her yet. I remember being fascinated by the entire thing. In fact, I had wanted more than anything to talk to him about it, see what it was like to have a serious girlfriend, but I never had the chance. He seemed to be avoiding me.
For his part, he had avoided Mom in the same way. And she him. They spoke. We’d had two sit-down dinners, which were totally awkward. Even Dad joined us for those. Drew had answered questions about school and lacrosse. But after, he slipped away and the house returned to an expectant silence.
“I don’t know,” I answered.
He shook his head and walked into his room. I watched him go, that feeling of unease crawling up my back.
“Baby,” my mother called.
I cringed. As her eyes grew clearer and clearer, my mother had started calling me that more and more. It made me uncomfortable when no one else was around. With Drew just down the hall, the sound made me want to jump off a building. Instead, I hurried down the stairs and found her by the door to the garage. She had a jacket on and I saw car keys dangling from her long finger. I stopped, staring at her.
“Are you going out?” I asked.
“So are you,” she said with a smile.
“Uh, is it okay if you drive?”
She laughed. “As long as your father doesn’t find out.”
She reached a hand out to me. Her shining red nail polish beckoned me forward. Her skin felt cool and dry. And she smelled of flowers, and only flowers.
“MOM?”
We sat outside the giant pet store by the mall. She turned the engine off and opened the door. When she spoke, there was a lilt to her voice I had never heard before.
“I want to show you something,” she said.
I followed her into the store. We had never had a pet, so the smell felt like a slap to the face. I covered my nose, which made her laugh. And she hurried down an aisle filled with dog chew toys.
“I thought about a puppy,” she said over her shoulder.
“What?”
“A puppy,” she said.
“What are you talking about?”
She took a sharp turn, heading toward the back corner of the store. I saw the cats before she reached them. Stacks of three cages lined a portion of the wall, rising almost halfway to the ceiling. A single adult cat, orange and white, slept in one. Three kittens played in another. My mother reached them and stopped. She swayed a little as she watched. I stepped up beside her.
“But a dog is too much, right?” She turned and smiled at me. “So pick one. Whichever you want.”
I stood there, unsure what to do. Part of it was that I was a teenage boy in a pet store with my mother looking at cats. I fidgeted, looking around to make sure I didn’t recognize anyone else. The bigger question racing through my mind, though, was whether my mother was okay. She looked clearheaded. Sober would probably be the correct word, but even then I didn’t think of it that way. I had absolutely no idea why she wanted us to get a cat.
“I don’t know,” I mumbled.
“Come on,” she said, grabbing my sleeve. “Pick one.”
I took a step closer to the cages. I felt so weird, kind of like I had a fever, chills when I wasn’t even cold. And sweaty in a strange way.
“Are you . . . ?”
I couldn’t figure out what to ask. She laughed and pointed to one of the smaller kittens, a brown-and-white tabby. It sat in a small litter box while two larger kittens wrestled in the middle of the cage.
“Oh, look at that one.”
She moved closer to the cage, sticking a finger through the bars. The kitten stared at her but didn’t move.
“He wants to come home with us, doesn’t he?” Her pitch rose. “Hi, baby.”
A woman in a green smock joined us. She started talking to my mother and all of a sudden we were buying that cat. Once my mother filled out about a hundred forms, she breezed through the store aisles, the smocked woman in tow, picking out a litter box, toys, even a cat tree. By the time she was done, someone had to help me carry it all to the car. With my arms full, I turned once to look at Mom. She held the small cardboard box with our new kitten up to her eyes as she whispered.
“You’re going to love your new home. It’s going to be great.”
DREW WASN’T HOME when we got back. I have to admit that while at the store, I thought the entire cat thing was crazy, but when we got it out of the box and it started running around the house like mad, I got into it. We spent that day together, Mom and I, setting up all the cat’s new stuff and playing with it. We laughed and goofed around. I felt young, and happier than I could remember.
“Do you remember that day with the caterpillar?” I blurted out.
My mother’s eyes met mine. She scratched the kitten’s chin as her eyes narrowed.
“Caterpillar?” she asked.
“Nothing,” I said.
She just smiled. “Do you want to make some cookies?”
“Cookies?”
“Sure,” she said, springing up so fast that the kitten launched off her lap. “Come on.”
I followed her into the kitchen. She swung open cabinets, pulling down bowls and her old stand mixer, which I hadn’t seen in years. Then she moved to the pantry. I stood by the kitchen table, already pretty sure that we didn’t have any of the ingredients we needed. I didn’t want to tell her that, though. I sensed something in her jerky movements and in her decision to suddenly adopt a cat. Sort of like that day when my parents had been outside talking to the neighbor. Like a fuse had already been lit.
When she finally backed out of the pantry and looked at me, I saw her disappointment. I thought she’d just give up. Instead, her long fingers touched the side of her face. Then she smiled.
“Smoothies,” she said, beaming.
My mother laughed as she dug through the groceries she had bought the day before, tossing a half-empty container of fresh fruit and a jar of peanut butter on the counter. To my surprise, she found the blender, taking a minute to scrub the years of dust off the clear plastic. As I watched her work, I felt strange—shaky, I guess. Like I’d eaten too much sugar already. But after a second, I got caught up in her energy. As we worked together, our movements in the kitchen took on a choreography, like we danced to some silent music only we could hear.
Our fun hit a crescendo as the blender blades roared, pulverizing ice cubes and fruit, mixing it with milk and sugar. When it was done, the silence seemed to take us. Without a word, she poured two glasses and we carried them to the table. We sat and she leaned forward, asking me questions about my life.
“Do you have a girlfriend?”
“Mom, really?”
“Seriously. You’re so handsome.”
She asked me about grades, too. And sports. Her questions flirted with home life, but she’d stutter-step, diverting to safer topics. Until she said something about Drew that I would never forget.
“Your brother’s gone,” she said, looking over my head.
“What?”
Her head did a very quick shake. “He’s not home.”
I knew that was a recovery. I knew she meant something else. Although I wanted to let it go, to let the evening spread out until it became some new version of my life, I couldn’t help myself.
“You said he was gone. What do you mean?”
“Nothing, baby,” she said.
“No, seriously. Are you talking about him and Dad? About how they act together?”
“Liam, no,” she said. “I just meant he wasn’t home.”
“He hates me,” I said.
“No, he doesn’t. Why would you say that?”
“He told me he does,” I said.
“No, he—”
“He told me that you were dead. He made me believe that.”
Her irises seemed to waver. One hand touched her forehead. “What are you talking about?”
“He told me I killed you. That I embarrass you. That I’m the reason Dad treats you like he does.”
“Stop!” she snapped.
It was the first and only time my mother ever raised her voice. It cut right through my thoughts. My admonitions. Right through my heart. I blinked, and I saw my mother in a new light. I saw her fear. Her avoidance. Her need.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered.
She stood up and came to me, taking my head in her arms. She hugged me to her chest. She was warm and real. I never wanted to let go.
“It’ll be different,” she whispered.
But she was wrong.