When Regan reached the front door of her apartment building, she keyed in the four-digit security code, waited for it to emit that annoying squawk releasing the lock, and hoisted the door open. She slid inside, and let out a sigh of contentment as she kicked the miserable slingbacks across the foyer, where they hit the wall containing the tiny locked mailboxes. Well, one of them hit the wall. The other one careened into Mrs. D’Amico, her neighbor from the fifth floor, who responded with a surprised yelp.
“Oh, I’m so sorry, Mrs. D’Amico. Are you okay?”
Regan limped to her neighbor’s side, grabbing her arm to support her.
“Well, I never,” sputtered the older woman.
Where were the Oscar judges when the real performances were taking place, Regan mused, because her neighbor sure was making a big show of reacting to the unexpected blow, first leaning this way, then that, gripping the spot on her leg the shoe had collided with, her face scrunched with agony.
Regan kept a tight hold on her, lest her theatrics throw her off balance and onto the floor, causing a real injury.
“Mrs. D’Amico, let me help you up to your apartment. Here we go.” She guided the older woman into the elevator and punched the 5 button. It creaked its disapproval and started a slow ascent.
“Awful late for you to be coming in, what with a child upstairs and all.” Mrs. D’Amico’s tone was dry, and she peered at Regan over the top of her spectacles.
Funny how the pain had subsided enough for her to get that jab in, mused Regan. She checked her watch. “It’s only 10:30, Mrs. D’Amico. On a Friday night, yet.”
“But what with the child and all, left to his own devices.”
Regan scrunched her brow. “Devices? Between the Xbox and the movies I left him, he’s fine. He’s a teenager, you know. He doesn’t need constant supervision. In fact, a little freedom is good for his development into an independent human being.”
Mrs. D’Amico, her mind having moved on to her favorite past time (or so it seemed to Regan) of subtle criticism of her mothering techniques, seemed to have forgotten completely about her injured thigh.
“Just barely a teenager. And I don’t know,” although her tone implied she did in fact know, and wouldn’t hesitate to enlighten Regan, “I raised my share of teenaged boys, and one thing is certain. Those that are left alone turn out wrong. In trouble, no values, no morals.” The lady tsked, shaking her grayed head and tugging at the spectacles that magnified her dark eyes to at least double their true size. Regan closed her eyes. Frustrated, she let her head drop back so quickly that she almost bonked it on the wall of the elevator. Just how long did this wretched contraption take to reach the fifth floor?
Mrs. D’Amico, oblivious, went on, “And I’ll tell you another thing. In my day, a mother would have better sense than to leave a teen-aged boy alone at home while she went out gallivanting on her own.”
She met eyes with Regan and raised her hand in warning. “I’m not one to judge, the good Lord knows I’m not. I’m just saying, that’s all. A little food for thought for you.”
A little food for thought? Enough for her to choke on, to the extent of needing the Heimlich maneuver. She shouldn’t be surprised. Mrs. D’Amico had been her neighbor since Regan had moved in four months ago, and the widowed old woman had never held back her view of the world. “Mrs. D’Amico, Luke is a good boy, and despite what you think, I’m a good mother.”
Thankfully, the elevator door slid open with a slow, torturous screech, and Regan stepped out. She looked back and, convinced that the older woman had recovered sufficiently from the unexpected footwear assault and didn’t need further assistance, gave her a tired wave before heading down the hall to her own door. But she couldn’t quite outrun the sound of a muttered, “That’s what they all say…” floating after her before she reached her destination.
The aroma of microwaved popcorn greeted her through the crack in the door after she unlocked the knob and the deadbolt. However, the two safety chains that were in place from the inside prevented her from actually entering the apartment. Atta boy, she thought. Luke always remembered the important things, like safety precautions for life in the city. It was the small things, like common courtesy, tidiness and respect for his elders that usually evaded him.
“Luke?” she called through the crack, in a voice she hoped found that happy medium between too soft to be heard, and so loud it scared the daylights out of him. She was just beginning to wonder if he’d fallen asleep in front of the TV—which was blaring insistently—when he appeared, approaching from down the hall. He shoved the door closed, and the sliver of visibility of his face and her little home were momentarily lost. She could hear him flipping the chains off, and their heavy clanking against the wooden doorframe. Then nothing, except padded footsteps on the wooden floor.
Sighing, she twisted the doorknob and pushed her way into the apartment. She wondered if this lack of greeting was a barometer for the mood he was in. After the night she’d had, she didn’t want to enter into a showdown with Luke. She caught up with him in the living room, where he’d already plopped back on the couch, his attention riveted to the late show.
“Hello, Luke.” She took off her jacket and hung it on the wooden tree standing in the corner. Nothing from him, except a momentary flicker of his eyes, focusing on her for a second before flipping back to the TV screen.
“Hello, Mother, great to see you. How was your evening?” Regan said pointedly, her gaze on him strong and direct.
Nothing, not even a grin. When had she lost her ability to amuse her child? Heck, when had she lost her ability to make him acknowledge she was even in the room? Well, desperate times called for desperate measures. She strode over to the TV and flipped it off. When the screen went black, he jumped to his feet and yelled, “Mom! Don’t!”
He stalked over to her, looking like he intended to turn it back on, but she blocked his advance with her hand.
“Luke, not yet. It’s late, anyway, and you should be getting to bed, but I want to talk to you for a second.”
He rolled his eyes—a move he’d perfected in the last six months since her and Rick’s divorce, making her wonder, not for the first time, if some of the perks of turning fourteen, unbeknownst to parents, were conspiratorial classes, led in legions of secret gatherings around the world by older teens, covering the fine art of how to drive the adults in your life absolutely batty. Eye-rolling 101, Sullenness for Teens, and for those earning an advanced degree— Smart Mouth 400.
After he delivered a flawless eye-rolling, he focused on her and said in a half-wail, half-moan, “Whaa-a-at?”
Regan bit her tongue against a harsh reprimand, and instead, sat down on the couch, patting the spot beside her. “Come tell me what you did tonight.” She gazed up at him with what she hoped was a welcoming smile. What she saw almost caused unbidden tears to well in her eyes. Her son’s appearance, during this his voyage from cuddly Mama’s boy to newly rebellious teenager, was an ensemble of contradictions. A purple hue blended with the natural blond of his hair, the remnant of a date with a store-bought hair dye destined for disaster. Dangling from one earlobe was a grimy silver cross, the result of his and a friend’s sojourn into body piercing one afternoon, their only instruments an ice cube and a safety pin. Yet, mingled with these screams for independence and adolescence were evidences of the little boy he hadn’t left too far behind. His soft cheek, on which she’d planted thousands of kisses and nuzzles over the last thirteen years. His back, which to her seemed to be getting broader by the week, was the same one that she had rubbed while singing lullabies for over half his life. And his eyes—they might be filled with suspicion and doubt now, expressing their uncertainty at where he fit into this new, strange life—but it wasn’t all that long ago when they would fill up with joy at the sight of an unexpected candy treat from Mom, or overflow with gratitude on Christmas morning.
She closed her eyes for a moment. No way could she let him see how emotional she had become. It was tough enough getting him to talk to her when she kept things light and airy between them. He plopped down where she’d indicated, careful to leave a foot or so separating them.
“So, what did you do while I was gone?”
“Nothing.”
“Do you have any homework?”
“No.”
“Practice your trumpet?”
“Huh uh.”
This was going well. Another one of those classes offered in the mystical teenage course
catalogue: Advanced Techniques for One Word Answers.
Staring at him, she took a stab at a question that could backfire on her, but she had to know: “What’s wrong, honey?”
The fact that he didn’t respond immediately with an impulsive argument, she took as a positive sign, leaving the window open to the possibility that there was, indeed, something wrong. And maybe that he’d like to talk about it. “Tell me.”
“I dunno.”
‘I dunno’ was infinitely better than ‘nothing,’ or worse yet, ‘none of your business, Mom.’ And she detected the misery lying under the surface of his tone. Encouraged, she prodded, “Whatever it is, I can help you.”
He paused, probably turning around in his mind what he wanted to say, and how best to make his out-of-touch mom comprehend it. Then, he came out with it, “It’s you.”
He looked up at her, shook his head slightly, and tried again, “I mean, it’s this.” He gestured to encompass the miniscule living room they were sitting in, and who knows, maybe he meant to include the whole ratty little apartment that she had moved them to, after the divorce required her and Rick to sell their house and each move into smaller places. “You know, our whole lives. You here, Dad there, me back and forth.”
She was definitely beginning to get the picture. The post-break-up effects of life were taking their toll on her son. He turned and looked her straight in the eye. “Do we really have to live like this?”
Regan stared, feeling her face getting warm and her heart rate increasing. How could she explain to an impressionable young teen that his father was a lying, cheating, rat fink who broke her heart, and hoisted her, against her will, into the position o having to support herself after fifteen years of marriage and a dual income? Of having to sell her house that she had worked hard to make a home over the years for her little family, only to settle for a two-bedroom city apartment within walking distance of the office, because she couldn’t afford a car?
Not that she would drive even if she had a car. Not anymore. Not after …
She shook her head fiercely to rid it of that train of thought. As he waited for her response, she cleared her throat and figured the best she could do was go for honesty. “Yes, sweetie. At least for right now, we have to live like this.”
“Whaddaya mean, for now? What’s gonna change?” He lifted an eyebrow and gave her that dubious look again. He always could read her, and saw through her efforts to see the silver lining in every rain cloud.
“I don’t know. Once I get used to living without your dad, we’ll all get in the swing of things. Don’t worry—we’ll manage.”
A slight headache that had formed in the elevator had exploded into an all-out migraine. And she could see that her cheerful little pasted-on smile wasn’t making an impact.
He opened his mouth, thought better of it and closed it. Then, open again. “I’m tired of living in two places. I didn’t sign on for this, you know? Why should I suffer because you guys can’t get along?”
He had a point. She was doing her best to formulate an answer when he administered the final blow.
“I’m thinking I want to live in one place. Either with you or Dad, I don’t care, but no more going back and forth. Why don’t you guys decide and let me know?” He gave one sharp nod, and disappeared down the hall. Seconds later, the sound of a slammed bedroom door signaled the end of their heart-to-heart.