The Opposite of Loneliness Essays and Stories(12)

Microwavable sausage links, cold cuts, tubs of ice cream with the ring of measuring spoons. Sometimes I’d warm up some pasta and sit with him as he watched CSI. But other times I’d ask him why he was up at three and smell his sodas while his head was in the fridge.

I went down and sat on the rug next to my mom. My trash bags of dirty dorm clothes were already folded in neat piles by the shelf. She looked young for fifty—thin, blonde, and still able to twist her legs behind her while she searched for striped blues, Green Bay greens, and the nuances of whites. We talked for a while about classes and food. At little party things or parent-teacher meetings, people would tell us our expressions were the same. I’d never really noticed it on my own—I just thought the way she smiled made sense.

“So tell me about Sam,” she said. I knew we’d land on it eventually. “I hardly got to meet him before you left for school.”

“Yeah you did,” I said, rebraiding my hair. “We hung out here all the time.”

“Maybe.”

“Not maybe, yes.”

“Okay, yes.” She opened the dryer and eased some sheets into a basket. “But you know what I mean. What’s he like?”

“Um, he’s great,” I said. “He studies astronomy at Eastville, but might drop it and just do something with reading.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah. He’s pretty smart. It’s nice, we actually talk about real stuff. Not like Chris.”

She smiled. “And you stayed together all semester? You didn’t even . . .” Her voice trailed off.

“Uh, no,” I said affirmatively. I waited for a second to see how she’d react. “I’m actually offended that you said that.”

“Addie, I didn’t mean to be offensive, I’m just saying that’s a long time without seeing each other.” I realized then that it was a genuine sentiment. I traced back through the fragments I’d heard of my mother’s life before my dad, trying to remember whether long distances had been involved.

“Kind of,” I said.

“Did you get together with anyone at school?”

“No. Mom, I don’t want to talk about this, it’s not like that. And don’t say ‘get together.’ ” She looked hurt and I already felt bad.

“Okay. ‘Have a crush.’ Sorry, I didn’t realize how serious it was. That’s great, honey.”

“Yeah.” I waited for a second, wondering if it was fair to continue. “It was really nice to have someone around all the time, you know? Not around around, but like, texting me and thinking about me when I was in class or like, at some party.”

“That’s romantic.” Again there was a genuineness in her eyes that I felt in my stomach.

“Where’s Dad?”

“Asleep.”

“He’s asleep? It’s like ten A.M.”

She shrugged. “You should try to play with your brother at some point. He’s been asking when you’ll get home.” She liked this. Her children were spaced such that they all got along. My brothers and I never had a chance to beat each other up—we were always too young or too old.

My family was like anyone’s, just functional enough to be functional. It wasn’t until college that I really realized everyone’s house had its own messed-up stories. (Kaylie’s brother did coke and Max’s dad was secretly gay.) We had nothing like that. Perhaps the problem was we didn’t have much at all. My older brothers worked in Chicago, and Kyle was the only kid home. Our parents didn’t fight in the conventional way, mostly because I don’t think they thought it was worth it. For as long as I can remember, my mom woke up at six to work out and on her ten thousand projects. She ate lettuces and soy things but cooked real food for the rest of us. My dad had a job in car sales and was really skinny. My brothers and I hardly recognized the muscular man standing next to our mom in their wedding photos. I knew it bothered her. The problem was that he meant really well. That’s the thing, he just meant really well.

As for me, I didn’t know what I wanted. Cigarette holes had started spotting the sides of my skirts and the semester had granted a profundity to the world that I could photograph or turn into a bad poem. Everything seemed worthy of retelling and I’d struggle to stop stories before I started. But my professional ambitions were still switching with the channels of my illegal downloads. Wide-eyed and coiled in bed, Sam and I would be convinced by the dramas of forty-six minutes—idealizing the pursuits of doctors, politicians, astronauts in space. Bored or exhausted with regularity, we’d envy House and Law and Order, cuddling away our apathy until we were reminded that all we really wanted was to lie in bed. I was in love for the first time and my mother could tell.

I passed my little brother Kyle’s room on the way back upstairs. He didn’t have any lights on and was buried with headphones in a game of World of Warcraft.

“What’s up?” I said, leaning in his doorway. He didn’t hear me so I said it again. “What’s up, geek?” He turned around in his swivel chair.

“Hey.”

“What are you doing tonight?” I asked. He’d gone back to the game, shooting some blue whirlwind of a spell out of his character’s hands.

“Nothing.”

“But didn’t you just get out for winter break?”