A Curve in the Road(52)

Stunned and hurt by how my son talks about me, I fight not to cry. I don’t know what to say to him or how to deal with this right now, so I pretend to be asleep as he leaves through the front door.

Zack doesn’t come home again that day. He texts me later to tell me he’s going to a party and plans to sleep over at a friend’s house.

I decide to give him some space until I can figure out how to deal with this in a calm way, but I’m deeply hurt and troubled by what he said on the phone. I can’t believe it. He’s never spoken that way before, with such bitter disdain for someone, at least not when I was within earshot. I feel wounded and anguished, and I worry that Alan’s death has affected him more than he’s letting on. I feel like I’m losing everything I love . . . that it’s all falling apart . . . and my house feels colder and emptier than ever.

The phone rings, and it’s Maureen. I tell her about what Zack said.

“Oh, Abbie. Teenage boys can be so insensitive sometimes,” she says, “but it doesn’t mean anything. He’s a great kid, and he loves you.”

I’m tempted to let everything spill out about Alan’s infidelity—because Maureen is one of my closest friends and so far I haven’t told her anything about his cheating—but I’m afraid Jeremy might find out, and I can’t let Zack learn about it from anyone but me, so I bite my tongue. Carla and Nathan remain my only confidants.

Maureen and I chat about other things, and then we talk about catching a movie that night with a few of the other hockey moms, since the boys are going to a party anyway.

“I’ll call Gwen,” she says, “and you can call Kate.”

“That sounds great.”

It all works out, and Maureen picks me up at six, and we meet the other gals at the theater. It really helps for me to laugh with some friends at an outrageous chick flick. It feels good to get my mind off things, at least for a little while.

Later, when I return home, Winston is waiting at the door for me. I let him out the back door, and then we curl up on the sofa together to watch the news.

Winston. Like an angel, he rests his head on my lap. I rub behind his ears.

When we finally go upstairs to bed, he jumps up and sleeps on Alan’s side, which is unusual for him, as he normally prefers his own fluffy cushion on the floor.

I like how it feels to share the bed again, even if it’s only with my dog. I suspect Winston knows how much I appreciate it, because he’s amazingly intuitive.

The following day, Zack and I get into the car to drive to my mother’s house for the afternoon. As soon as we’re outside the city, I feel ready to bring up what I overheard him say on the phone the day before, although I don’t want him to know that I eavesdropped.

I glance across at him. He’s staring down at his phone, texting.

“How was the party last night?” I ask.

He finishes what he’s doing, then looks up at me. “What?”

I repeat the question.

“It was okay. And it wasn’t really a party. There were only twelve of us.”

“I see. So enlighten me. If twelve doesn’t qualify as a party, what number does?”

He thinks about that for a few seconds. “Oh, I don’t know. Twenty? Twenty-five?”

He leans forward and switches on the radio.

“Listen, Zack,” I say, turning the volume down slightly. “I wonder if we could talk about something.”

“Sure.” He gazes out the window.

I clear my throat and dive straight to the point. “Remember when you came home yesterday afternoon and you thought I was asleep on the couch?”

He turns toward me and frowns, but I continue, undaunted.

“I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but I heard some of the things you said when you were talking on the phone, and I was really hurt. I had no idea you felt that way.”

“What are you talking about?” he asks, and I sense he’s about to deny everything.

“I heard you say that you were disappointed that I haven’t removed your father’s things from my closet, and that you think I hate him—which I don’t—and that I’m not moving forward like I should be, and that you can’t wait to move out in the fall. Is that true?”

His cheeks flush red, and he stares at me with a look of pure horror.

“I’m not angry, honey. I just want to talk about it, because I hate to think that you’re unhappy at home. Or that you think I’m nuts. If there’s anything you want to ask me, I promise I’ll answer it honestly.”

His eyebrows pull together with alarm. Finally, he speaks. “Mom. I never came home yesterday.”

I dart a glance at him. “What do you mean? Yes, you did. You made yourself something to eat, and then you left again.”

He shakes his head. “No, I didn’t.”

“Yes,” I insist. “I heard you talking on the phone. And you cooked something in the microwave and ate chips.”

He faces me more directly. “I swear to God, Mom, I didn’t come home. I was with the guys all day. We had hockey practice at three, and then I went straight to Greg’s house and texted you that I was going to spend the night there. I know you got my text because you replied to it.”

My heart begins to pound. “But I heard you talking. I heard the microwave.”