Bad Cruz(6)

I’d had to find out through my mother, over a phone call on my way home from work while my Honda Odyssey stumbled its way up my street like a drunken sorority girl after a block party.

Apparently, Bear had offered to mow her lawn for cash to be able to purchase it.

“I would buy it for him in a heartbeat, honey, you know, but those games are mighty violent, and I’m not sure he should be playing them anyway.”

It was pointless to explain to her it was a Sisyphean battle to have Bear not play video games. That was what he and his friends did. It was the norm.

At the same time, I felt depressingly inadequate as a mother. A true failure. I couldn’t even buy my son a video game.

Maybe Gabriella was right.

Maybe I needed to shut up, tell her the burger she had was organic, and suffer the occasional abuse for a nice, fat tip.

I pushed the door open to the weathered rental bungalow. The exterior was pale blue. Bear and I had painted it ourselves to knock down some of the rent money the owner had asked for. The inside consisted of not much more than hand-me-down furniture from friends and family.

But it was ours, and we were proud of it.

I kicked my heels off at the door and dumped my jacket and purse onto the credenza, feeling bone-tired and weary.

Weary of not being able to afford the things my son wanted.

Of pimply, rude teenagers who pinched my butt at work.

Of Gabriella and her slim legs and easy, fat-contracts life.

And of Dr. Cruz Costello, who seemed hell-bent on hating me.

I really needed to get out of this town, and was going to do so as soon as Bear graduated from high school.

“Care Bear? You here?” I called out.

Pans and utensils clattered in the kitchen, growing louder as I made my way through the darkened, small living room.

“Mom? I made pasta. Sorry, I had a ton of homework and forgot to take the chicken out to thaw.”

I entered the kitchen and pulled my son into a bone-crushing hug. After I took a step back from him, I took inventory of his face, before tugging at his velvety earlobes and smacking a wet kiss on his forehead, something he disliked, yet indulged me nonetheless.

At thirteen, Bear was already a head taller than me. Not a huge surprise, seeing as he took after his father, who was a six-three tight end in high school.

It probably should depress me.

How Bear used me as a womb-for-hire and came out the spitting image of Robert Gussman. The same floppy chestnut hair, impish emerald eyes with golden flecks, deep dimples that popped out even when they talked, and slightly crooked nose.

It should, but it didn’t.

Because Bear was so much his own person, Rob had become nothing but a faded scar at this point. Like an old penciled letter, the words erased by time and nearly indistinguishable.

“Pasta’s perfect.”

I rose on my toes to kiss his cheek. For all his handsomeness, Bear, like other boys his age, smelled of socks, hormones, and farm goats.

I pulled away, noticing he’d already set the table and served our dishes. “How was school?”

We both sat at the table, digging into his extra al dente (read: completely uncooked) pasta, drenched in a suspicious supermarket sauce.

“Pretty good. I mean, Mr. Shepherd is still pestering me about joining the football team, which is a drag, but other than that, it was nice.”

“Don’t let him strong-arm you into anything. You are not Rob. You don’t have to play ball.”

“There’s no danger of me becoming a jock. It’s so much effort for basically nothing.”

“Anything else going on in your life?”

Bear scrunched his nose, which made those dimples pop. “Not really.”

Something inside me softened, turning into an almost-dull ache. He didn’t want to tell me about the video game. Didn’t want to worry me about it.

“How was your day at work?” He looped a forkful of red pasta and scooped it into his mouth.

Well, son, it was worse than Abraham’s on the day God spontaneously told him he needed to circumcise himself at the age of ninety-nine.

Now it was my turn to lie. Or at the very least, give him an edited version of the truth.

“Great. Jerry might be needing me for some extra shifts in the next few weeks. That means more money. We can splurge a little. Anything you need?” I hoovered pasta into my mouth.

Thankfully, the stupid cruise was paid for by the Costellos, who weren’t exactly strapped for cash.

“Nah, don’t worry ’bout me. You should spend that money on yourself, Mom. You never get yourself anything.”

“That’s nonsense.” I waved my fingers, gulping air like there was too much of it in my airpipes. Holy sheet-balls, had he put Tabasco in this sauce? “I get myself these nails.”

“Nice try. Auntie Gail does them for free. I’m not stupid.” He rolled his eyes.

He was, in fact, the opposite of stupid. Bright and wise beyond his years. It was time I stopped lying to him about the small stuff just to make myself feel better.

The rest of the evening was bliss.

Bear and I watched American Idol together while eating pistachio ice cream in front of the TV. We laughed and passed judgment as if either of us could hold a note to save our lives. Then he kissed my forehead, wished me goodnight, and retired to his room.

A few minutes later, I heard soft snores down the hallway, escaping from his ajar door. That boy could sleep through the Kentucky Derby. Whilst being on a horse.