Here the Whole Time(39)
“Sit down,” she says, not looking at me.
I sit on the chair in front of me. On the table I find a glass of water and aspirin.
“Hnnhn” is my attempt at saying “good morning.”
My mom puts her brush in a glass of water, cleans her hands on the hem of her shirt—which is already smudged with paint—and sits down across from me. With a grave expression on her face, she pushes the water and the pills toward me, and I take them. The feeling of water running down my throat already makes me feel considerably better.
“Look, Felipe. I don’t want to turn this into a lecture about drinking,” she says.
“What do you mean?” I try to play stupid because I can’t think of anything better.
“I know you’ve been drinking. From the moment you got here, from the two hundred tries it took you to unlock the door, from the way your clothes smell. I know.”
Her expression is the gravest I’ve ever seen. Of course, my mom and I have had fights before, but she’s never used this tone with me. As if the subject is of the utmost importance. I want to apologize, to explain that it was just a couple of beers, that it honestly doesn’t even taste that good, but I don’t say any of that.
“You’re about to turn eighteen. You’ll make your own decisions, go on with your life, and I think I’ve taught you everything I needed to at this point. But yesterday, for the first time ever, I felt unsure about you. I spent the night tossing and turning, wondering if I’m a good mother or—”
“Of course you are!” I interrupt, because I can’t sit here and listen to my mother say something this absurd.
“Pssst, quiet. I’m speaking,” she says, bringing a finger to her lips. “Like I said, this is not a lecture about drinking. I feel like I can trust you to be responsible. Even if you couldn’t cover your tracks from last night!”
“I couldn’t?” I ask, genuinely confused, trying to remember if there’s a chance I threw up in the bathroom.
My mom has only to point at me, and I get it. I don’t need a mirror to know that I look a mess.
“What I am afraid of,” my mom goes on, “are the things you are able to hide. The things you don’t tell me.”
“You can rest assured, Mom. Those are things I tell to the therapist.”
She lets out a soft chuckle and holds my hand.
“I wish I could know everything that goes on in your head,” she says. And after a moment she continues, “Well, almost everything. I wish I could help you get through all the crises of this time in your life so you won’t get hurt. I know sometimes we feel like we can take on the world after we’ve had two cans of beer.”
Or five, I think.
“But you will always be my boy. And I will always be your mom. So you can count on me, always. Don’t hide things from me, son. You can tell me about what’s happening in your life. Because I love you and nothing will ever change that.”
I don’t understand what she’s expecting from me in this moment. I don’t understand if she wants me to apologize, if she wants me to tell her everything that happened last night, or if she wants to know everything that happened in the rest of my life.
Regardless of her expectations, my head still hurts and I’m in no condition to come up with anything smart to say.
“I need your help, then,” I say, and there’s a spark in her eyes at the possibility of me opening up to her. “How do I make this headache go away?”
She laughs halfheartedly, unable to hide her frustration.
“It’s called a hangover, Felipe,” she says, getting up and slapping the back of my neck (which definitely does not help). “The aspirin will kick in soon. But just in case, I’ll brew a fresh pot of coffee for you.”
I frown because I hate coffee, but when she places a mug of the fuming black liquid in front of me, I change my mind. Just the smell of it makes me feel better.
“Thanks, Mom,” I say after the first sip.
“I love you, son,” she answers, drinking her coffee, too.
“You know this was the feeblest parental lecture on drinking in history, right?”
“I know.”
“And that you’ll probably have to resign from the Mothers’ Association after this?”
“Shut up, Felipe!” she says, laughing, almost choking on her coffee.
And I smile because the hangover is starting to go away after all.
The whole conversation with my mom made me forget momentarily that I spent the entire night snuggling with Caio. So when he makes an appearance in the kitchen and takes a seat at the table for breakfast, it catches me off guard.
Caio has already showered and is handsome, smells great, and has a smile on his face. It’s nearly insulting, considering I’m still wearing yesterday’s sweaty outfit. I try to shove my nose under my armpit discreetly to gauge the situation. In case you are wondering, the situation is acceptable. Could be much worse.
“Good morning,” I say, trying to pretend I wasn’t just casually smelling my armpit. An armpit that, by the way, served as Caio’s pillow the entire night.
Caio answers with a smile and pours himself a glass of milk. Unlike myself, he seems healthy and displays no signs of a hangover. None. Maybe he’s pretending so he won’t have to explain himself to my mom. Or maybe he’s an expert in the hangover department, and three (or five) cans of beer have no effect on him.