Touch (Denazen #1)(95)

I shake myself back to the present. “What did you say?”

“I know. It’s hard to imagine, but it’s possible our sheep have been around since the ice age.”

Images of snaggle-toothed, monster sheep flash through my head. I quickly readjust my thinking when she brings me a picture they use to promote their business. Along the top are the words: Pine Grove Soay Sheep Farm, and under it are a half dozen cute, little sheep. And I do mean little. Apparently Soay sheep are the midgets of the sheep world.

“Their meat is all the rage,” Grandma gushes as she gazes at the photo. “Your aunt Susie is our top customer. She runs a gourmet five-star restaurant in Seattle.”

“Interesting.” I give back the picture and quickly stuff another bite of roast beef into my mouth so I’ve got an excuse to stay quiet, because now I’m fuming.

I’ve got an aunt who lives in Seattle. Mom could’ve taken us there, but no. I get quality time with the sheep ranch branch of the family in the Middle of Nowhere, Oregon, instead. Lucky me. Again.

By the end of dinner, they don’t know what to think of me, and I’m at a loss about what to think of them. Upstairs, a toilet flushes, then a door bangs closed.

Mom.

Even though Grandma’s smiling, stress pulls at her lips. It probably never occurred to Mom what our coming here would do to her parents. Then again, Mom lives for drama. She eats and breathes the stuff. I’ve learned to ignore it all—well, most of the time—but Grandma might find that hard to do.

Grandpa pushes his plate away and frowns in the direction of the back stairs. He mutters something under his breath, unfolds from his chair, and stalks off toward the den. Grandma sighs when the TV pops on. I get the feeling Grandpa isn’t too thrilled with Mom’s reappearance, but will suffer anything to make Grandma happy.

Poor Grandma. Does she really think having Mom back is a good thing? She stands, gives me a quick smile, and starts clearing away the dishes. “Pie?” she asks in an overly cheery voice.

I haven’t eaten so well in…well… I can’t remember. I nod and clear away my place. After she slips the last dinner plate into the soapy dishwater, she cuts me a massive slice of chocolate turtle pie, and then cuts another, smaller one, and hands it to me. “Take this one to your mom.”

I’d rather not. My face must show my hesitance, because she purses her lips and pushes me out. “Go on. She loves pie.”

Why do I get the feeling I’m carrying a peace offering? It’s a waste of good pie, but I do it, anyway.

I navigate the stairs with a plate and fork in each hand. At the top, four doors welcome me. I could play eeny-meeny-miney-moe, but instead, I go to the first door and knock softly. Nothing. The next is empty too. At the third, Mom’s sad voice warbles from behind the door. She’s talking to someone on her cell phone. I can’t make out what she’s saying, but it doesn’t sound good. I could either give her the pie, or tell Grandma she’s busy and leave it to her to interrupt the ongoing melodrama. Before I can step away, I hear the hard click of her cell phone closing, and a bang as it hits the door.

She better not’ve broken it. That phone is my only link back to my friends.

What am I talking about? What few friends I had have already forgotten about me. When I called Mike the fourth day after we left, it had taken him a whole minute to figure out who I was. Granted, he’s not the brightest bulb, but we’d hung out every day at the skate park after school. It’s almost as if when I’m there, people love me, but when I’m not, they don’t even remember I exist. Mom’s the only exception. She remembers me, only she wishes she didn’t.

I knock on the door.

“Go away.”

“I’ve got pie.”

The door flies open, and Mom stares at me with a tear-stained face. “Did she spit in it?”

I thrust the pie at her. “You’re sick, you know that?”

With a shrug, she takes the plate and begins to eat. “What’re they saying? Wait. Let me guess. Who do they think it is?”

I don’t get it. Mom’s pretty. She’s smarter than most. And when she’s not going ballistic about a guy, she’s actually fun to be with. So, why can’t she see beyond herself? Doesn’t it even occur to her how much pain she puts people through? Puts me through?

“Some guy named Kenny,” I say flatly.

“Kenny Jacks?” She snorts. “I would be so lucky. Dad chased him off before I got a chance.”

I don’t want to do this. I don’t want to think of her as the town slut. I want a normal mother, one who cooks and cleans and cares for me.

She stuffs the last of the pie in her mouth. I know my disgust is showing. I can’t help it.

She swallows and lifts her chin higher. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like I’m…”

I dare her to say it.

She doesn’t, and quickly thrusts the plate back at me and begins to shut the door. I wedge my foot between the door and the jam, determined this time to get an answer. “I don’t look like you. I don’t look like them. I’ve got to look like someone. I’ve got to be like someone. So, who is it?”

Her face sinks into an unattractive pinch. “No one they know.”