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COLTER
The three of us, Zeke, Abi, and myself, sit at my dining room table meant for twenty. It’s quiet, the only sound is the clinking of silver spoons on fine china.
Abi made grilled cheese and tomato soup, something I haven’t had since I was a kid. My mom used to make it for me, and I remember loving it, but now I eye it warily. I have two chefs working for me in shifts, yet Abi insisted on making dinner. She chose Zeke’s favorite meal, and I can only assume it’s some sort of apology for lying to him about his father his entire life. It doesn’t seem to be working.
“You know,” Abi says, nervously picking at the crust on her sandwich and eyeing Zeke. “I think we should make the most of this.” She glances at me for support, and I shift uncomfortably in my seat. I don’t really agree with the way she’s going about this, but I wouldn’t dare tell her that. Zeke is eight, which is young but not so young he doesn’t understand what’s going on.
“We could go swimming, watch some movies,” she goes on. “Maybe check out the yard. I saw a lovely garden out back that looks like the perfect spot to have a picnic.”
I carefully lift the sandwich and bring it to my mouth. Anything to keep from being a part of this conversation. I hesitantly bite into nothing but cheese and bread, and although I expect it to be bland, it’s actually not bad. It reminds me of my childhood, and a burst of memories flood my mind. It’s a nice momentary distraction.
Zeke says nothing, and Abi tries to catch my eye, but I don’t look her way. She gives up and I peek at her as she slumps in her chair with a sad look on her face. She dips a piece of her sandwich in her soup and pops it in her mouth. I follow her lead, and am once again pleasantly surprised.
Zeke, on the other hand, doesn’t entertain the idea of having dinner. He sits in the chair, spine ramrod straight and eyes forward. His jaw is clenched, and his eyes don’t hold sadness in them. They hold anger. So recognizable I wish Icouldsay something. Even if it’s to tell Abi to quit trying to bribe the kid back into her good graces.
Silence is met with an uncomfortable tension in the room, and it lasts for several minutes. I finish my sandwich while Abi continues to shred hers, and then the only sound is a grandfather clock in the corner and Abi’s feet knocking against her chair. A pin dropping would be deafening right now.
“When can I see Dad?” Zeke finally turns to his mom. His hands are beneath the table, and if I had to guess I’d say they were clenched.
“Well, honey, it’s complicated.” Abi bites her lip and squirms. “Your father and I had a really big fight before we left home, and—”
“So!?”
Zeke’s shout seems to surprise Abi, but it doesn’t so much as make me blink. The kid is pissed. Rightfully so.
“You said this was just for now, Mom.” Zeke’s glare lets up, and his eyes begin to gleam with tears. “I wanna see Dad and I wanna go home now.Please, Mom. I wanna talk to Dad.”
“I’m sorry, Zeke, but that’s just not possible.” Abi doesn’t look at him. I imagine it’s because she can’t. She stares down at her bowl of soup, her eyes empty.
Tears leak from Zeke’s eyes, and he shoves from his chair. “I hate you!” he screeches. “I don’t wanna live with you anymore. I want to live with Dad!”
“Zeke,” Abi whispers, her face snapping to his. Her eyes are wide with shock and she grips the edge of the table.
Zeke turns and sprints from the room, and Abi jumps from her chair. “Zeke!” she yells, taking the first few steps toward him. Her hands reach out, but he’s out of sight. She pauses and his footsteps echo off tile until they can no longer be heard.
Abi covers her mouth and cries. She stares at the entryway he left through with silent tears streaming down her face, and then she falls back in her chair and hangs her head, her face in her hands.
I let silence overtake us, the occasional sniffle breaking it. When I can’t take it any longer, I rub my jaw and turn toward Abi.
“Don’t worry so much about that. He’ll come around.”
“Did you just hear him?” she asks, her face lifting and her hands slamming on the table. “He wants tomove inwith Devin. He fucking hates me, Colter. Don’t pretend like this is going to be okay. All it will take is one word to a teacher or a friend about this, and the police will be called. He doesn’t evenwantto stay with me.”
“He’s angry with you right now. He won’t be angry forever.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Abi stands abruptly and the chair falls over. She glances at it and then her stare pins me. “I lied to him about his father! Where he is. Who he is. Everything. He’snevergoing to forgive me for that.”
“You did it for his best interest.”
“Like that fucking matters.”
“Itdoesmatter.”
Abi paces, her hands yanking at her hair. She’s losing it. I sit and stay calm, waiting on her to calm as well. I mean it when I say it’s going to be okay. Not right now, and probably not tomorrow, but eventually, it’ll be okay. He’s angry, not stupid. He knows which parent he wants to stay with, and it isn’t his abusive father. If it was, he wouldn’t have gone along with this charade for so long. He knows what’s happening, whether he wants to admit it to himself or not. I know because once upon a time, I was him.
“Abi, stop pacing,” I say when minutes go by.
She pauses and narrows her eyes at me.
