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“He won’t be back from Dublin until the middle of March at the earliest,” Mam replied, coming to join me at the island. “I flew into Dublin this morning and had lunch with him before driving down,” she explained before taking the stool opposite mine.
“Why’d you do that?” I asked between mouthfuls of stew. “You could’ve stayed above with him for a few days.”
“Why’d you think?” Mam rested her elbows on the counter and smiled. “Because I wanted to see my baby.”
I rolled my eyes. “I’m not a baby, Ma.”
“You’re my baby,” she countered. “And you always will be. I don’t care if you grow to seven feet tall. You’ll still be my little Johnny.”
Jaysus. What could you do with a woman like that?
Shaking my head, I gave up on my spoon and lifted the bowl to my mouth, draining the last drop of soup at the bottom before slapping the bowl down and sighing in contentment. No one cooked like my mother. Not the chefs at the Academy or the takeout restaurants in town. The woman had birthed me and she had a direct line to my stomach.
“I see your manners haven’t improved,” Mam quipped, giving me a disapproving frown.
“Can’t help myself, Ma,” I shot back with a wink. “I’m a growing boy.”
Moving for seconds, I filled my bowl and just stood over the stove to eat. There was no point in sitting down when I had plans on cleaning out the pot.
“How did your checkup go last week?” she asked. “Is Dr. Murphy happy with how you’re healing?”
Wouldn’t know, because I didn’t go…
I grunted a blasé response, too busy inhaling my food.
“What about the doctors at the Academy?” she pushed. “I know they weren’t keen on you returning so soon.”
Again, I grunted my response because getting into this with my mother was a discussion I could do without tonight.
If I lied, she’d see through me. If I told her the truth, she’d panic.
Either way this discussion went, my mother would insist on seeing my injury—a.k.a. my cock and balls. And either way this discussion went, I would lose my shit and tell her no.
Then she would overreact and get on the phone to my father and cry about how I wouldn’t show her my “private parts” and how he needed to come home to deal with me because I was probably dying from gangrene of the penis or some other horrific and overdramatic illness.
Distraction and avoidance was key to a tear-free Mam and a trauma-free me.
“Delighted you’re home, Ma, but I’m going to head up to my room and start on my homework,” I decided on saying instead. “Fifth year is kicking my ass. I’m actually thinking about getting some grinds for Irish.” I added that last bit in for extra affect. I didn’t need grinds for anything. I hadn’t scored less than a B on any test or exam since third year.
In fact, I could be the one giving the fucking grinds. I sure as hell spent enough time helping the lads in my business and accounting classes.
But my distraction worked, steering my mother’s concerns away from my ailments and onto my education.
“Oh, pet, that’s okay,” she quickly announced, tone comforting. “I’m proud of you for being brave enough to admit when you’re having a problem. I’ll make a few calls in the morning to see what’s available.”
“Yeah, that might be a good idea,” I agreed with a solemn nod. Stretching my arms over my head, I forced a yawn.
“You look shattered, love,” my mother assessed, her brown eyes laced with empathy. “Why don’t you get an early night and I’ll write you a note for your homework?”
“Thanks, Ma, I’m wrecked.”
I walked over and pressed a kiss to her cheek, and then hightailed it out of the kitchen before she had a chance to remember her earlier question.
“Oh, and before I forget,” she called out, stopping me in my tracks. “I booked your car into the garage for service. The closest date I could get was Monday fortnight, so I’ll give you a lift to school and we can pick your car up afterward.”
“Ah, shite,” I grumbled, turning in the doorway to face her.
“What?”
