After my father left Mom at her meeting, he disappeared again for days. As if emboldened by his absence, that sour smell seemed to subtly grow like an invisible yet deadly mold. It started as a hint, buried under my mother’s perfume as she moved past me in the kitchen. Then I’d notice it in the hallway by her bedroom. By the next day, it had wafted down the stairs, hanging damp and thick in the foyer, rushing out to greet me every day when I came home from school.
Drew was there during that time, but he refused to speak to me. When I brought up either Mom or Dad, he simply walked away. I actually missed him telling me I was stupid or calling me a loser. Even that would have been better than shuffling through those days so full of dread that I could taste it against the back of my throat.
By the fifth day, Mom stopped leaving her room. I checked on her that evening and she was sitting up and reading a book. I have no idea where it came from. She smiled at me and patted the mattress. I walked over but didn’t sit down. I couldn’t. I felt like if I stopped moving for too long, the specter that haunted our house would wrap its bony fingers around my throat and laugh as it crushed my life away.
“Liam, did you feed the kitten?” she asked.
I remember feeling so cold when she said that. I blinked, unsure not only of what to say, but of what was real.
“It’s gone, Mom,” I whispered.
“What?”
“The cat isn’t here anymore,” I said.
She waved me off with her thin fingers.
“Don’t be silly,” she said. “Sit with me.”
“Is Dad coming home?” I asked, unmoving.
“Of course. He might be late tonight, though. Work’s very busy.”
Slowly, I backed away from her. The smell turned my stomach. I felt dizzy and overwhelmingly nauseous. I watched my mother, praying that she didn’t call me back. But dreaming that she would, and that everything would return to that oasis we lived in when she first returned from rehab.
When I reached the doorway I turned, rushing to the bathroom. I doubled over, my stomach seizing, but nothing happened. Covered in a cold sweat, I stood back up and walked out into the hallway. Drew was standing in his room. He watched me, not talking. I expected his eviscerating smile. Instead, his face remained emotionless until he shut his door between us.
ON DAY EIGHT, my father returned. Mom hadn’t left her room. Nor had she eaten, even though I had taken to bringing what food I could find up to her room. I stood and watched him enter the house. For the first time, a primal anger rose inside me. I pictured rushing him, wrapping my fingers around his neck, an enactment of the dread I’d been surviving for days.
But he surprised me. I had expected him to ignore me and Mom, maybe even Drew, and disappear into his basement. Instead, he came up to me, his eyes sharp.
“Where’s your mother?”
“In her room,” I said.
He hurried past me. I stood frozen, listening to him rush up the stairs. My mother’s door opened. Time passed, minutes, but I don’t know how many. I just stood there, like things could end up differently. When he appeared, storming down the stairs, I knew.
“Call 9-1-1,” he snapped. “Tell them we need an ambulance.”
I didn’t move fast enough. The entire thing felt so surreal, like it wasn’t really happening. Then Drew joined us. My father turned to him. I expected his anger to erupt again, but it didn’t.
“Come with me,” my father said. “We need to help her.”
He and Drew ran out of the room. My father called back to me.
“Call 9-1-1.”