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It’s time to call my mom.
Maybe she can help, or at least tell me what to do.
She answers on the second ring, out of breath. She’s probably power-walking around her neighborhood in Seattle. She moved out there for husband number two—or was it three? —and she never came back even after they divorced.
Her love of the Pacific Northwest is the only thing that trumps her love of her only son. That and Beecher’s mac and cheese. Okay, so now I come to think of it, I fall pretty far down her list of priorities. Maybe I’m top five. I think. Either way, she’s never let me feel anything other than her number one. Ever.
As a single mom, she fought to give me all the best things in life, and now that I’m faced with the scariest situation of my entire life. I just want my mom.
“Thor? Honey I can’t hear you.” Her panicked voice snaps me out of my own brain.
It’s scary as shit in there sometimes, and I need a smack. “Mom?”
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, I just—”
“Thoren Bartholomew Snyder, don’t bullshit me. I wiped your ass for years and know exactly what your shit smells like. Start talking.” She stops, takes a few gulps of a drink, and the jingle of her dog’s leash rattles through the speakers.
“I have a son.” Who is currently still under the kitchen table, but he’s quiet at least. Though I’m not sure that’s a good thing.
Something falls, possibly the phone. Mom cusses, scrambles to pick it up, and her dog—Everest—a tiny handbag dog with big dick energy, goes ballistic.
“Everest! Everest, shut the fuck up a second.”
Everest doesnotin fact shut the fuck up. He just gets louder.
“Fucking squirrels.”
A door squeaks open. Everest yips, growls, and barks like the mailperson’s walking toward him, then suddenly goes quiet. Mom’s dining room chair squeals against the kitchen floor tiles, and she plops on it. I can imagine her clear as day. In an eighties shiny tracksuit, neon headband holding her hair back, and fanny pack around her waist as she walks her little terror of a dog around the neighborhood.
“Honey? I’m pretty sure you said you had a son. We spoke a few days ago. Didn’t we skip a few steps? Who’s the lucky girl?”
“It’s not like that.” Rubbing at the ache in my chest doesn’t help. “He’s eleven.”
“Thor, I’m very confused right now. You’re telling me you’ve kept an eleven year old son from me for years? How is that even possible?”
“Mama, no. Can you just...?” I drag my hand through my hair. “A kid landed on my doorstep today with a note that claims he’s mine. I never knew about him before today.”
“You’re sure he’s yours? You’re just accepting it? Or are you going to get a DNA test?”
“I don’t think that’s necessary.”
“Strong family genes are hard to deny. I get it. And the mother?”
How she manages to be so practical and logical while also still being smushy and loving is anyone’s guess. Do they learn that at mom school? “Gone.” My voice breaks on that one word. I should leave the room. I shouldn’t have this conversation in front of Matthew, but the last time I left, he had a meltdown. I don’t want him feeling abandoned, again. I still can’t place a Caz from twelve years ago, though.
“Gone or dead gone?”
“Gone.”
“Ooof.” She exhales a blast of air in my ear. “Can’t imagine how hard that decision must have been for her to leave. Poor woman.”
Poor... woman? Doesn’t she mean poor me? I’m the one left holding the baby. Okay, so he’s not a baby, and I imagine if I tried to hold him he’d lose his shit—rightfully so—but still. Aren’t I a victim in all this too?
“I’m sure you’re great with children, Thor. You just need to believe in yourself and listen to what—oh my God, what’s my grandson’s name?”
“Matthew. Though the note said he doesn’t mind Matty either.” Can we get to the helping part please, Mom?
