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Mom doesn’t say anything immediately. But then, finally, she whispers, “Okay, okay. Squirt it is, if that’s what you want.”
My little brother nods, giving her a small, close-lipped smile.
Later, I find Mom out back, smoking a cigarette with the cordless phone pressed to her ear.
The rain seems to have cleared up, but with it came thick gray skies as far as the eye can see, heavy fog, and a sweep of cool air, prompting Mom to crack open the windows to let in some fresh air.
It’s her voice I hear first when I stop in the kitchen for a drink.
“…gonna do, Linda? I can barely make ends meet enough as it is—no, no, you don’t have to do that. I didn’t tell you so—I know.” She sighs, muttering a curse, and that’s when I see the smoke rolling past the open window over the kitchen sink.
She must be standing or sitting right outside it. I can hear her voice as clear as if she were in the room.
Chewing the inside of my cheek, I twist my head, glancing in the direction of the hallway—the stairs—making sure I’m alone.
I left Squirt in my bed. He fell asleep about halfway through Finding Nemo. I hadn’t watched that movie in years. I was glad Mom didn’t get rid of it.
After we’d had breakfast this morning, I showed him my collection of movies and comics. He didn’t seem too interested though, so I showed him my keyboard I got for Christmas last year from Gavin. He seemed to like watching me play, but didn’t care too much about trying himself.
But maybe he’s just being shy still. He’s barely said more than a handful of words since he showed up after all. It’s gotta be weird being here with us.
He did smile all big and get excited when Mom made brownies after lunch though, showing off his missing two front teeth. But then again, who wouldn’t get excited about that?
“What the hell was he thinking?” There’s a long pause, and more puffs of smoke, telling me Linda must be saying something from the other side of the line. Then, “He doesn’t even know his mom’s dead. He thinks she’s sick.”
My chest squeezes at her words.
His mom’s dead?
I remember what he said when he got here.
“Mommy’s sick. Had to go away.”
“Yeah, an overdose, from the sounds of it,” Mom goes on.
I frown.
There’s another pause, then, “Doubtful. He didn’t give enough of a shit to clean up his act for his first son.”
Wrapping my arms around myself, I glance back toward the hallway, wondering if maybe it was a mistake to eavesdrop. I don’t know if I want to hear this.
I’m old enough now to know Dad was far from the hero I once worshiped. Not only did he treat Mom like crap—I see that now—but he was only so cool toward me because he was trying to get me on his side. Turn me against her.
I also remember other little things now, that I didn’t really pay much attention to then. How unreliable he was. How he was only ever really nice to me and funny when he smelled of beer. Definitely not when he smelled of that awful metal stuff…
He was high. I don’t know what it was, but it made him all jittery and say weird things, but with a smile on his face.
And when he wasn’t…
When he wasn’t smelling of beer or anything…
He just wasn’t there. Present in body, but in mind…he was a stranger who’d yell at me to go away when I tried to get him to go to the river, or to town, or to the garage to work on cars.
Mom would tell me he was sick. She’d have me help her instead, or take me to the park to play with my action figures. Or she’d let me help with dinner, which was fun, and something Dad didn’t like, so we kept it from him.
I swallow thickly, remembering now some of the cruel things he’d say.
To Mom, about Mom…
