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“Brooklyn talked to her father. And like Hal wanted, she found out some details for us that might help with Dad’s case. There’s just one little hiccup.” My mouth forms a tight straight line and I wait for my mom’s eyes to drift from the floor to mine. “Seems Grandma and Grampa asked Walden to write that letter in support of Dad staying in the slammer. Oh, and this is good intel . . . he penned another one for this hearing!”
Sarcasm oozes from my tone, and I’m not proud of slinging it around. It’s just so hard to be rational and calm when everything is falling to shit around me. Especially when it’s all kind of shit to begin with.
My mom moves to the other end of the sofa. Taking a seat on the edge, she palms her knees and stares out into the empty hallway. Her lips barely part as her eyes seem to haze at the blank space.
“Yeah, this seemed like it was above my pay grade,” I bite out.
The room fills with unbearable quiet, and eventually, after nearly a minute, Brooklyn shifts in her seat, her legs sticking to the leather. It draws both my mother’s and my attention.
“Sorry,” Brooklyn says. “About . . . I guess, just . . . sorry.”
Her eyes flutter down to her lap as she pulls her feet in and folds herself up in the chair.
“No.” My mom’s voice slices through the harsh quiet, instantly driving my pulse to a thousand beats per second. She lifts her chin and snaps her gaze to me, repeating herself—“No.”
I raise my shoulders.
“No to what? I mean, I wish that was a solution. I’ve tried saying no to things and shit still comes back to get me.” I’ve seen this side of my mom before. It’s aggressive and confident, a small slice of her character, and one she uses rarely.
“No, you don’t say sorry, Brooklyn,” my mom says, her eyes still on mine. Brooklyn utters a whisperedokayat my side.
“And no, he doesn’t need to write another letter. My parents have asked enough of him. They’ve asked enough of all of us.” While she continues to stare into my eyes, her focus seems to drift, her thoughts somewhere else besides me. I believe she is here for the words, for her commands, but I think she’s also maybe deploying a chess strategy, one that has her thinking four or five moves into the future.
Brooklyn and I glance to one another, silently exchanging thoughts and clearly both unsure of what my mom means for us to do now, other thanno, which I guess meansnothing.
“I’m sorry you came all this way, and I know this is a strange way to meet, Brooklyn, but I need to ask you both to leave.” My mom’s gaze finally drifts to Brooklyn, and it’s to kick us out.
“You’re serious right now? That’s it? I come to my mom with this massive problem and your response isI’m sorry but you gotta go?” I get to my feet and step closer to my mom, pulling her focus from Brooklyn and back to me.
“I need to think.” That’s all I get from her. It’s always the bare minimum with this woman.
“You know, for a minute there, you seemed genuinely angry at something you should be livid about. I thought maybe you were going tofeelsomething for once, something that wasn’t about you or your degrees or what status you might get at the university, or . . .”
Brooklyn’s hand runs down my arm and I jerk. My anger cools when I flinch and twist to meet her eyes, though. Her head to one side, her eyes are dewy with sympathy.
“Give her time,” she whispers.
My face feels pained, just like my heart. The wrinkle is deep in my brow and my head hurts from this entire situation. But Brooklyn’s calm voice wraps around me somehow and I step back, dropping my forehead into my hand to rub away the stress that is putting my head into a vice grip.
“You’re right,” I say, nodding mostly to myself.
“I need time to think. That’s all,” my mom repeats.
I lift my head and meet her gaze, her focus still hazy and less present than I would like. It’s hard to have faith in someone who has a habit of avoiding responsibility for anyone other than themself. Rather than raising me, my mom left me with the wolves, the same animals who are doing everything in their power to keep me and my dad apart a little while longer. Excuse me if I don’t believe that anything is going to change by giving my mom some “time to think.” But staying here and pushing her won’t work either, and I know that from experience.
“It was nice to meet you,” Brooklyn says, standing from the chair and moving to stand square with my mom. She holds out a hand and my mom blinks her stare down at it, pausing as if she’s never taken anyone’s hand before in her life. When she finally does shake, it’s slow and awkward, the entire time her eyelids moving with the energy of her constant thoughts.
“I look forward to seeing you again,” Brooklyn says, her mouth stretched into a hopeful smile that practically begs my mom to react.
“Yes. Cam?” My mom’s hand falls from Brooklyn’s and her ghost-like voice calls for me.
“Yeah, ma,” I say, doing a piss-poor job of hiding my irritation.
“I’ll call you. Soon. I will think and I will call you,” my mom says.
For a moment, the look in her eyes is clear and serious, and I actually believe her. That confidence and will fades quickly, though, and by the time she’s walking us out her door, she’s back to the diluted version of herself.
I keep it together until we make it to Brooklyn’s car. Even when we get in and I’m buckled in my seat, I am calm. It’s not until I let my mind fast-forward to an hour from now, a day from now, and finally, two weeks from now, that my pulse jacks up and my head pounds in frustration.
