Bring Me Back(26)

“Why does she suddenly become my daughter when you’re mad?” he calls back.

“You both are exactly the same,” she grunts. “Stubborn to a fault.” She points a finger at me. “Go take a shower. At least do that.”

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. I’m irritated by the fact that my mom thinks she can come to my house and boss me around.

“I honestly don’t know what’s been wrong with you the last two days.” She shakes her head. “You’re even worse than you had been.”

She doesn’t know about the pregnancy test. My dad does, though. He found it when he was cleaning the bathroom. He looked at it, then me, then tossed it in the trash and hasn’t said a word since. He’s probably afraid I’ll bite his head off if he says something. He might be right.

“I’ll go shower,” I mumble. I’ll do pretty much anything to get out of my mom’s sight. I know she’s trying to help, but I just want to be left alone. I’m sad and angry—I lost Ben and then the news that I’m not pregnant has been devastating. I know I should tell her that, she’d understand, but voicing the words out loud—I’m not pregnant—makes it real.

My mom nods as I leave. I think she’s as happy to see me leave as I am to do the leaving.

I take a long shower—washing my body more than once. I even wash my hair which I haven’t been doing much of. I haven’t had the energy. Something I learned is that crying non-stop makes you exhausted. I feel drained even when I wake up. It sucks, but I’m learning to live with it.

I change into jeans and a t-shirt. It’s the first time I’ve worn real clothes in too long. I’ve been living in sweatpants and pajamas. Ben wouldn’t be happy with me. I know he’s probably up there, watching over me, cursing me for being such a bum. I keep telling myself one more day, but one more day has turned into three weeks. What if three weeks turns into three months? I know I can’t keep going like this, but my argument is: it’s easier than dealing.

I dry my hair, but I don’t bother styling it. This is better than I’ve been doing so I figure it’ll make my mom happy.

When I pad downstairs she’s sitting in the chair in the front room reading a book. Her jaw drops. “Are those jeans?”

I look down, pretending I didn’t already know. “Yeah.”

“I feel like I should take a picture,” she mutters to herself.

“Don’t even think about it,” I warn her, coming the rest of the way downstairs.

“Since you’re dressed, why don’t we go somewhere?” she suggests. “Target? Wal-Mart?”

I stare at her, a bit shocked. My mom considers Wal-Mart the tenth ring of hell. Seriously, she hates the place, so she must be desperate to get me out of house if she’s suggesting Wal-Mart.

“Nah, I don’t feel like it,” I say automatically, starting for the kitchen.

“Dan, grab your daughter and the car keys, we’re going to Target.”

I stop in my tracks. I know that tone of voice. She’s going to kill us if we don’t get in the car.

My dad looks over at me from the couch. “You gone and done it now, Kid. You awakened the Kraken.”

“Car. Now.”

My dad and I get moving. You do not mess with my mom when she sounds like that.

I grab a coat while my dad shoves his feet into his shoes and shrugs on his own coat. My mom is already waiting by the door with her coat on and her giant purse—seriously, the thing is so huge you could smuggle a puppy and a couple of hamsters in there.

We pile into my parents’ rental car and Dad drives us to Target. He grumbles the whole way. I would too if I wasn’t afraid my mom would beat me over the head with her giant ass purse. The woman can be crazy.

We arrive at Target twenty minutes later.

“Out,” my mom says in a clipped tone. If she was a bad guy she’d have a gun held to my middle right about now. I half-expect her to demand, “Walk,” when I get out, but she doesn’t.

She grabs a shopping cart and sets her purse in the child’s seat.

“Let’s go.” She gestures with her hand for us to follow—almost like she’s herding cattle or something.

My dad shoves his hands in his pockets and barrels forward. “I’m getting popcorn.”

My mom huffs, “Like hell you are. You don’t need any popcorn.” She points to his round middle.

He makes a face. “If you expect me to get through this, I’m gettin’ me some damn popcorn.” He heads off before she can protest further.

She looks to me and sighs. “He’s like trying to raise a big kid. He never listens. Ooh, look at this stuff,” she says, distracted by the dollar section. “I need these.” She grabs a handful of cheap notepads.

I don’t bother explaining the difference between need and want to her.

“Kid, you want anything?” my dad calls from across the way.

My mom makes a face and hisses, “Could he not make a scene?”

“Yeah, get me a Dr. Pepper,” I yell back, just to spite my mom. She looks like she’s about ready to lose it between my dad and me. It’s pretty funny—serves her right for dragging us out of the house.

“You two will be the end of me,” she groans. “The end, I tell you.”