Something Like Normal(18)

“It’s really simple,” she says, writing something on the pad. “Roast the tomatoes, sauté the shrimp, boil the pasta, toss the ingredients together, then grate some cheese over the top. Serve the bread on the side.”

“Sounds foolproof.”

“Yeah, well…” She hands me the notepad. “You’re cooking it.”

We stand there in the parking lot, just looking at each other. The afternoon sun brings out slivers of gold and red in her hair and the freckles on her nose—and again I have the urge to kiss her. Instead, I reach out and give her hair a gentle tug. “Thanks. I couldn’t have done it without you.”

“No problem.” She waves me off in a little it-was-nothing-gesture, but I’m pretty sure it was something. I’m just not sure what.

I hear music pumping from the house before I’m even out of the car. At first I think it’s Ryan, but it’s not the ridiculous pop metal crap he likes. It’s Aretha Franklin wailing about R-E-S-P-E-C-T.

Uh-oh.

I open the door and my mom is sitting at her favorite spot at the kitchen island with a glass of white wine at her elbow. Her eyes are red and swollen.

“Are you okay?” I ask as I place the grocery bags on the counter. “What happened?”

Mom turns down the stereo and rubs her nose on the sleeve of a ratty old football T-shirt that used to be mine. She only wears cast-off shirts when she’s cleaning house. “I told him to leave.”

“What?”

“Your dad,” she says. “When I woke up, we had the same fight we’ve been having for the past year about what a terrible, neglectful person I am because I’ve been worried sick about you. So I canceled on the Michalskis and told him to stay wherever he stayed last night until he hears from my attorney.”

“Damn, Mom. Way to grow a pair.”

A hiccup-giggle escapes her, then her eyes fill with fresh tears. Oh, shit. Not more crying. “Did I do the right thing, Travis?”

It would be easy to lie and say yes. I don’t care if Dad stays or goes, but she loves him.

“I don’t know.”

“Maybe this is all my fault.” She reaches for her cell phone. “Maybe I could call—”

“No.” I cover her hand with mine. “He needs to decide what’s important.”

“You’re right. It’s just that—he’s still my husband.”

“I know.”

Mom sniffles. “You bought groceries?”

“Yeah, so, you know, turn up your music or whatever,” I say. “I’ve got it under control.”

Her eyebrows lift over the rim of her wineglass, but she doesn’t protest. She cranks the volume on Aretha. Not as loud as it was before, but still loud enough that we don’t have to talk. Which is good, because I don’t know what I could possibly say to make her feel better.

“Do you need some help?” she asks.

“I can do it.”

The corners of her mouth pull up in a tiny smile. “You’ve always been this way.”

“Like what?”

“Independent,” she says. “Stubborn. As soon as you could talk, your answer for everything was ‘Me do it’ and you’d get angry if I tried to help you. Even then you were trying to get away from me.”

She takes a sip of wine. “I only took the job at your school so I could have a little part of your life. I always envied that your dad got to spend so much time with you.”

“Really?”

“I give you credit for sticking with football as long as you did,” Mom says. “Especially when you hated it.”

“Well, just so you know,” I say, pulling the tomatoes from the plastic bag, holding all three of them in one hand. “I was never trying to get away from you.”

“You have no idea how happy that makes me.” Except she starts sniffling like she’s going to cry, and I don’t want that again.

“Hey, Mom?”

“Yeah, Trav?”

“How do you roast tomatoes?”

She smiles. “Would you like some help?”

I nod. “Yeah, I would.”





Chapter 5

It’s a quarter to five and I’m still awake.

I dress in the dark, then take the keys to the Suburban from the hook next to the garage door and drive with no destination in mind. US 41 is empty this time of night, but I enjoy it. My mom always assumed I was up to no good when I stayed out all night, but most of the time I was just driving around. I think about turning the SUV north and heading to North Carolina, but I don’t have my stuff and I’m not really allowed to go back yet.

We were back from Afghanistan a couple of days when Sergeant Peralta—my squad leader—called me aside.

“Just wanted to check in,” he said. “You doing okay?”

“Yeah, I’m good.”

“You sure?” he asked. “Because you seem like you’re dragging ass. That’s not like you.”

The nightmares were keeping me up most nights. “Just tired, I guess.”

“Listen, I’m concerned that you’re not dealing with Charlie’s death,” he said. “As a friend, I’m telling you that you need to get your shit together before anyone higher up the chain notices.”