Between Mom and Jo Page 13

  Yeah, Mom. This is how I spend my days. Roasting mini marshmallows.

  She looks at me like she doesn’t know me. I should introduce myself: Nicholas Nathaniel Thomas Tyler. Boy Genius. Solid Waste King. Carbon-based wastoid. Mom steps back, steps away. “I forgot some papers.” She clunks her briefcase atop the table and runs upstairs. My eyes focus on the briefcase, the monogram: EAT. I have an irresistible urge to take a knife and gouge into the leather: ME. Or hack at it until it’s shredded. Mom returns and flips open the lid. She shoves her papers inside.

  I touch her back.

  She flinches and holds her heart. “You startled me.”

  “Mom,” I say. “We need to talk.”

  She looks at me. Then looks away. “Not now, Nick. I’m right in the middle of this court case and I have to get back to work.”

  “You always say that.”

  She frowns. “No, I don’t. I just can’t do this right now.”

  She knows I want to talk about Jo.

  She lifts her briefcase. “I have to go. We’ll discuss it tonight.”

  “No, we won’t,” I say. “You never want to talk about Jo.”

  “You’re right,” she says sharply. “I’m tired of talking about Jo. I’m sick of you always bringing her up in every conversation. And I’m tired of you moping around here like your life is over.” Her cell rings, and she opens her briefcase again. She retrieves the silver bullet. “Oh yeah, hi, Zim. I found the deposition. Sorry. I’m on my way back now. What?”

  I stare at her as she’s talking. She either sees or senses me and moves away into the living room. I follow. She averts her eyes and finishes her conversation, “. . . petition the court. Worse case scenario, I know.” She listens. “I know!” She closes the phone. “Find something to do,” she says without looking at me. “Paint your room. Go to the public pool. There’s plenty to do around here.” She heads out.

  “There’s nothing to do,” I say at her back. She opens the door. I yell, “There’s nothing for me here. I hate it here.”

  She whirls around and clubs me. I don’t know if she was turning and I was closing in, or if she hit me intentionally. She gasps, and her briefcase falls from her hand. With both hands she clamps onto the sides of my face. “Nick, God.” She threads her arms around me and pulls me close. “I’m sorry.”

  My bones are rubber. I’m useless.

  “Oh baby . . .” Her arms squeeze the life out of me. What’s left of it. “I’m so sorry,” she says in my ear. “I didn’t mean to . . .” Her teeth chatter like she’s freezing. “Nick. Honey.”

  She’s talking to a zombie, to a mummy, to a corpse. When she finally realizes it, she releases me and backs away. Our eyes meet and hold.

  Mom’s eyes change from liquid to solid. She bends to retrieve her briefcase and says, “I have to go. I promise we’ll talk tonight.”

  I’ve got my CD player on with the bass amped up, the balance skewed to the right speaker only. It sends concentrated surges of shock waves through my ear, neck, head. I feel . . . drugged. Separated from reality.

  Mom barges in. What happened to privacy prevails? “Nick, for God’s sake. Turn that down.”

  I stretch out a hand and punch off my player.

  “Thank you,” she says.

  I flop over onto my stomach, away from her. Vibrations from the bass continue for a moment, then shock. The shock of silence. I shift my head only enough to watch her. She’s looming over my fish tank, where another killifish went belly-up.

  Mom’s focus scatters. “What happened at lunch today . . .” She swallows hard. “I’m under a lot of pressure at work. We have this trial coming up —

  “No.” She stops herself. “That’s no excuse. I’m sorry. It isn’t you. You know I’d never hit you.”

  Never, Mom? Never?

  “I’d never hurt you.” Her knees buckle, and she perches on my mattress. Her hand lifts to touch my head, but I cower. I cover my face with my arms. She makes the right decision and moves her hand away.

  “I wanted to say I’m sorry. Again. I’m sorry about everything.” She stands.

  Everything, Mom? Everything?

  After she leaves, an hour later, two hours, I’m still wondering, Everything, Mom? Does that include having me?

  Kerri

  In order for my outsides to match my insides, I dye my clothes black. My shirts, my shorts, my shoes. My jeans and socks. I never go upstairs anymore because it’s contaminated by her, but I have to for the dye. I know she has black hair dye.

  The upstairs is different. The bedroom has new furniture, a rocking chair, and a pink and purple dresser drawer. There’s no TV. Kerri’s jewelry is all over Mom’s dresser, and I think I’ll steal it. Then I think I don’t want to make human contact with Kerri’s personal stuff.

  Except her dye. There are night-lights on in the hall and the upstairs bathroom. Translucent clown heads and ice-cream cones. They’re on day and night, which is weird. She has night-lights downstairs too. Plastic flowers and rainbow hearts. She always leaves lights on behind her, like she’s scared of the bogeyman.

  In a cabinet next to the sink I find all this nail polish, every conceivable color. I don’t touch it. One’s spilled. There are three boxes of Clairol. She must buy in bulk, I think. Jewelry, nail polish, hair dye, night-lights.

  I don’t have that many clothes. Two washers full. They come out kind of slate gray, but that’s okay. I make sure to leave a mess for Kerri to clean up. And the empty dye boxes so she’ll know I’ve violated her space.

  Mom doesn’t say anything. She barely looks at me. Kerri only says, “If you’d asked, I’d have gotten you some black Rit.”

  Shut up, I think. Your roots are showing.

  Kerri scans me up and down. She nods her head. “Cool,” she says. Like she gets it.

  Which almost makes me wish I hadn’t done it.

  Mom

  Mom throws back my covers and drags me bodily out of bed to eat breakfast with her and Kerri. They’re celebrating their one-month anniversary of living together. I guess they expect me to party with them. Embrace the Family Moment. I can think of things I’d like to do with the candles on the cake. You never know when you’re going to need a fire.

  “How about California?” Mom says. “We could spend a whole week out there seeing sights and going to the beach. We could either drive or fly. I’d rather fly and rent a car.” She’s reading the Travel and Leisure section of the Sunday paper. Kerri’s got the Sports.

  I bet dyed black hair burns fast.

  Mom says, “What do you think, Nick? You’ve always wanted to see the ocean. We could head down the coast, maybe hit Disneyland.”

  I continue doing what I’m doing — scraping my knuckles with a serrated knife.

  Mom sighs. “Nick, are you listening?”

  Are you speaking to me?

  Kerri pipes up from her chair, which used to be Jo’s chair. “That sounds awesome, Erin. I’m glad you’re finally taking a vacation. You need it.”

  I feel Kerri’s eyes drilling holes into the base of my skull. What?

  Kerri says, “We could go to Sea World in San Diego. They have this awesome shark exhibit.”

  Shut up, I think. Remove the word “awesome” from your vocabulary.

  “Isn’t that where the Institution of Oceanography is, Nick?” Mom asks. “That’s all you talked about last year, going to Scripps Institution of Oceanography.” She says to Kerri, “He wants to be a marine biologist.”

  No, I don’t. In a previous life maybe. I don’t remember telling her about Scripps Institute, or my plans for the future. I told Jo. We were talking about going to California once, over spring break. Before the break. The break-up.

  “What do you think? Will that resurrect you from the grave?” Mom’s speaking to me now, I guess. One set of knuckles is flaky white with serrated skin. I’ve drawn blood, so I start on the other.

  Kerri scoots back her — Jo’s — chair. “He didn’t hear you,”
she says. “He’s in the dead zone.” She grabs the knife out of my hand and glares at me. “What is your problem?”

  “You,” I say.

  Mom’s up, clasping my wrist and jamming me against the counter. Do it, I think. Hit me. I dare you.

  Her eyes get this wild, frightened look. She eyes the knife. And my bloody knuckles. Her face pales, and she lets me go. With a swish of robe, she sprints up the stairs.

  “Good job,” Kerri says. “Way to go. I hope you know what you’re doing to her.”

  I cut her a look.

  Kerri wets a dishrag under the faucet and before I can retract them, has my hands wrapped up in it. She rubs them roughly. “For weeks now she’s been trying to come up with something that’ll make you happy. Anything to bring you out of this funk you’re in and cheer you up. I don’t know why she bothers.” Kerri shoves the bloody dishrag at my chest. “Yes, I do. Because she loves you,” Kerri adds. “You might try giving some of that back.” She storms up the stairs after Mom.

  “There’s only one thing that’ll make me happy,” I say to empty space.

  I spend the day in my room. Snails crawl. Algae grows. I know I should check the tanks, but I don’t have the energy. Or the interest.

  I can’t stand it anymore. I have to do something. I know what it is. I go out to the living room and find Mom and Kerri there. Mom’s reading a paperback, her head in Kerri’s lap, and Kerri’s knitting, watching her big-screen TV.

  I stand in front of them. “I want to live with Jo.”

  Mom doesn’t look up. Kerri does.

  “I want Jo to adopt me so I can live with her.”

  Mom shuts her book and rises, elevates to full height, and passes me without a glance. I trail her to the kitchen. She opens the fridge and removes a carton of yogurt.

  “Mom.” I touch her shoulder. “I want to live with Jo.”

  She wheels around. “Who gave you that idea?”

  What? “Me,” I say.

  Mom goes, “Are you talking to her? Are you seeing her? You’ve been sneaking out to be with her, haven’t you?”

  I shake my head. “No.”

  Mom focuses on me, hard, like she’s trying to excavate the truth. It’s the truth, Mom. Believe it.

  “We haven’t talked,” I say out loud. “I haven’t seen Jo.” I’ve respected your wishes. I’ve respected you, your position, your power over me. I’ve kept my vow to honor you.

  Respect me. Honor me. “I want to live with Jo,” I repeat. “I know it’ll be all right with her.”

  Mom pushes past me.

  “It’s what I want, Mom. It’s what’ll make me happy.”

  “Living with Jo isn’t going to make you happy. I can tell you that.”

  “Just because it didn’t work out for you doesn’t mean it won’t for me.”

  There’s a long moment of silence. I say again, “This is what I want, Mom.”

  “I don’t care what you want,” she snaps. “This is what you get. This is the way it is, Nick. Get used to it.”

  “No,” I say. “I want to live with Jo.”

  “Well, you can’t!” She slams the yogurt down on the table and the contents explode. Forget the glops of pink and white everywhere, I think she hurt her wrist. She’s whimpering and clutching it to her chest, her eyes filling with tears. Kerri runs in. “What’d he do? Did he hurt you? Are you okay?” Mom raises her chin and blinks at me. “It’s never going to happen, Nick,” she says. “Get it out of your head.”

  I can’t get it out of my head. My angelfish, the one I named Sasha, has been listless all week. I don’t even care. I can’t watch the inevitable and know the part I’ve played in it. I camp out on the bottom stair in the laundry room. I lay there all night, stiff and cold. At dawn, Mom opens her door and, slipping an arm through the sleeve of her suit jacket, whispers into the room, “Sorry if I woke you, sweetheart. Go back to sleep.”

  I ambush her halfway up the stairs. “Mom. I want to live with Jo.”

  Mom slows her descent momentarily and grits her teeth. She moves again, wedging by me, and continues to the landing, through the laundry room and into the kitchen. I follow her. The coffeemaker, set on automatic, gurgles the end of the brew cycle, and Mom pours herself a steaming cup.

  “I want —”

  “Stop it, Nick.”

  “I want to live —”

  “Stop!”

  The clomp on the stairs behind us makes us both turn.

  Kerri enters, yawning.

  I tell Kerri, “I want to live with Jo.”

  She holds my eyes. She acts like she wants to say something, then changes her mind, I guess. Kerri will let me go. She hates me. She’d do anything to get rid of me so she can have Mom all to herself.

  I resume with Mom, “I want to live —”

  “Shut up, Nick. Just shut up!”

  “Erin,” Kerri’s voice rises.

  “What!” Mom snaps at her.

  Kerri flinches. Pushing her hair off her face with both hands, she says, “At least let him talk to her.”

  Mom’s eyes shoot fireballs. “Stay out of it. This is none of your business.”

  Kerri reels. “Well, excuse me for caring.” She plucks her chef’s jacket off a hanger in the laundry room and crashes out the back door. She’s barefoot and has on a flimsy nightshirt.

  “I want to live with Jo.”

  Mom sets her coffee cup down hard in the sink. Drops of hot coffee singe my arm. She wrenches her briefcase off the table and stalks out the door.

  My door opens. Mom flicks on my overhead light and blinds me. “I know you’re not asleep,” she says. “I want to talk to you.”

  Her eyes skitter around the room and locate my desk chair. It’s shoved against the wall. She wheels it over, carts it across the floating debris from the shipwreck on my floor, and clears the seat. The stuff on it is mostly Jo’s socks. Her white and red crews. Her wool sock with the hole in the toe. Mom sits.

  “I hate it here, Mom,” I tell her.

  “Nick —”

  “I don’t hate you,” I add quickly. “I didn’t mean to say that.” Before. The other time. She understands about impulses, right? She didn’t mean to hit me. “I just don’t want to be here. I want to live with Jo.” I don’t add, It’s not that I don’t need you. I need you to give me what I want.

  “Look,” she says. “I know you’re not crazy about Kerri, but if you’d give her a chance —”

  “No.” I shake my head. “That’s not it. It’s not Kerri. It’s . . . this.” It takes tremendous energy to raise my arm. I wave it once across my body. I’m not sure what “this” encompasses. This place. This life. This . . . person.

  Mom presses her fingers to her forehead like she has a headache. “Okay, I understand. It’s the memories in this house. I’m sorry, honey. Naturally, you have all these bad associations.”

  “No.” My head shakes again. It’s hard to move, to engage so many muscles at once.

  “It’s not a problem.” Mom lowers her hand to her lap, laces her fingers together, and smiles. “I don’t have any real attachment to this place. It’s close to your school, but there are lots of other houses in the area. In fact, Kerri and I have been talking about moving closer to my office, maybe building a house together —”

  “No,” I cut her off. “It’s not the house. It’s . . .” My hand flattens on my chest. “Me.” I thump it once. “Me.” I thump again. Then, rhythmically, “I” — thump — “hate” — thump — “me.” My arm is so heavy.

  “Nicky.” Mom gets up off the chair and moves to the bed. She sits down beside me. “Honey,” she says softly. “You don’t mean that.” She takes my dead hand and examines the scabs.

  “Please, Mom,” I beg her. “Let me live with Jo.”

  Mom presses my hand lightly between hers. Her voice is even when she says, “Try to understand. I’m your mother, your biological mother. Parents and their children are meant to be together. We have a bond. We’re family. We�
��re part of each other and we need to stay together. I love you. You’re my son.” She swallows once. “Besides, I have legal custody of you. It would never work because Jo never adopted you. Which, apparently, you know.”

  “Why didn’t she?” I ask. I already know the answer.

  Mom’s eyes close. She knows the answer too. I fill her in, in case she’s forgotten. “Because you decided it wasn’t necessary. You and Jo got married. Not legally, of course. But you made a vow to always be together. You trusted each other. You went on faith.”

  “God,” Mom expels the word. “I can’t believe she tells you these things.”

  “And Jo promised you on the day I was born that she would love me like I was her own. Because she loved you. She promised me — you both promised — that we would always be together.”

  Mom barks, “Well it didn’t work out that way, okay? People change. They grow up. They grow apart.”

  “Not from me,” I tell her.

  Mom’s eyes well with tears and she pushes to her feet.

  There’s more I have to say. It’s time. There’s too much left unsaid between us, too many unspoken fears. “When you had your cancer, Jo got really scared and wanted to adopt me then. But she didn’t want you to believe for a minute, not for one minute, Mom, that you might die.”

  “Stop it.” Mom’s searching frantically for something. A tissue? The only thing she can find is a bloody T-shirt — the one I wore when I carved the dragon on my arm. Or tried to.

  My mouth’s dry. I’m shaking. I haven’t spoken this way to Mom — ever.

  She doesn’t seem to notice the blood. There are so many things she doesn’t notice. Swiping at her snot, she says, “I know you think Jo needs you, and you feel sorry for her because she’s all alone. That’s nobody’s fault but her own.” Mom blows her nose and wads up the T-shirt. “She could’ve reconciled with her parents, but she didn’t. She has two half brothers in Texas she never talks to, and cousins and aunts and uncles. She has family everywhere. Even if she didn’t, she could’ve been part of my family — our family. She never even tried to get along with Neenee and Poppa.”