Total pages in book: 213
Estimated words: 201920 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1010(@200wpm)___ 808(@250wpm)___ 673(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 201920 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1010(@200wpm)___ 808(@250wpm)___ 673(@300wpm)
“Hello,” I answer the phone, setting the cup down on the floor and sitting cross-legged to look out the sliding doors at the back of the house.
“You answered.” My mother sounds surprised, and maybe she should be. It’s been a long time since I’ve heard her voice.
“What’s going on, Mom?” I ask her, feeling a sense of loneliness I haven’t felt in a while. Maybe it’s not the anger that keeps me at a distance from her. Maybe it’s just because she’s a reminder of what happened.
“I wanted to let you know I bought you a sofa.” Her voice has a feigned sense of happiness to it. Like she can pretend we’re okay and one day we’ll be back to normal. “I need your address so I can send it. And a TV stand too. And if you need anything else …”
“Mom, you didn’t have to do that,” I tell her simply. It hurts when I talk to her. Physically hurts. Because I still love her, but I hate her too. I can’t forgive myself and she’s the one who led me down that path. I’d rather hate her than hate myself.
“I wanted to, and I know that you quit working when … she passed away four months ago, so money must be tight. If you need any …” my mother falters then continues, “I don’t know what you have saved, but I can send you—”
“I’m fine.” I hated that job at the bakery anyway. It was just killing time and numbing the truth of what I needed to do. It’s not like I was going anywhere running the register.
“Will you let me send them to you?” she asks me and it’s the anguish in her voice that makes me cave.
It’s not that I want to hurt my mother. I know she’s in pain like I am. I just don’t want to be around her. I don’t want to forgive her because then it would be like what happened was okay.
And it never will be. Never.
“Sure, I’ll text my address to you,” I agree mostly out of guilt.
“Thank you,” she says, and I think she’s crying on the other end of the phone.
“Are you okay?” I ask her.
“I just miss you; I miss your grandmother too.”
“I miss her too … She’s in a better place now.” I say the words, but I don’t mean them. They’re only for my mother’s benefit. If it wasn’t for my grandmother’s death, I’m not sure my mother and I would even have a relationship. It’s been six years of hardly saying a word to each other. For most of them, I lived under her roof. Both of us keeping busy and ignoring each other.
I remember when I started sneaking out how she pretended I wasn’t.
I kept pushing and she let me get away with murder. She didn’t want to fight me. She didn’t want a reason for us to argue. It’s the guilt that does that. Either that or the shame.
“I have to go, Mom,” I tell her as I watch the leaves on the trees behind my house gently sway with the wind. It wasn’t until I moved in with my grandmother that my mom admitted our relationship was strained. She likes to pretend, but I don’t have the strength for that. Or maybe it’s the other way around.
“Well, call me,” she tells me hurriedly before I can hang up. “If you need anything.”
“I will,” I answer, although that’s not going to happen. I already know that and I’m sure she does too. “Thank you for the furniture,” I add. “I really appreciate it.”
“You don’t already have anything, do you?” she asks me. “It didn’t seem like you packed much.”
“No, I didn’t. Thank you.”
I end the call as fast as I can. I know Mom wants to talk. But she’s saying all the wrong things.
Then again, I am too.
I’m holding back; I know that much is true.
I know what I need to do, but it hurts to think about it. It’s going to change everything, and I don’t know who I’ll be after it happens.
And that’s what scares me the most. When this is over, I don’t know what will be left.
DEAN
Foam spills over the rim of the red Solo cup as I fill it. It falls into the bucket with the rest of the spilled beer.
The last time I had a drink from a keg was at a party for my uncle’s company. He’s in construction and so was I until I got set up with Jack Henderson, Kev’s uncle and my uncle’s friend. That beer was in celebration of hard work. This beer is just because we can drink all night and not give a shit.
And it’s the first of many to come. Cheers to that.
I down the cold beer and put my cup back under the spigot to fill it up again.