Lies You Never Told Me(61)

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? ? ?

On Friday night, my mom has work, but her shift doesn’t start until ten. When I get home she’s on the sofa leafing through a magazine. The TV is on, as usual. She’s watching Jeopardy! I keep my head down and try to walk as quickly as I can to my room.

“Hey,” she says, when I’m halfway there.

I pause. Then I turn toward her. She looks exhausted—her eyes are heavy, her hair still uncombed. She probably just woke up.

“Friday,” she says, with an awkward attempt at a smile. I don’t smile back.

“Yeah,” I say.

I chew the corner of my lip. Something tugs at me, tries to pull me to the sofa in spite of myself. I’m still so angry with her. But this is the last time I will have to stand in this shitty apartment and listen to her. This is the last time I will have to worry about the fragility of her feelings, the delicate balance of her sobriety. I don’t know when I’ll see her again—but it won’t be here.

There’s something intense, almost spiderlike about her hands when she’s anxious. They creep toward her cigarettes and light up as if they’ve got a mind of their own.

“Remember . . . remember when you were little and we used to watch this together?” Mom asks. I shrug. She takes a drag and exhales, and her fingers stop trembling quite so bad. “Whenever you got one right, you had this dance you’d do. Like . . . an end zone celebration.”

“I guess,” I say.

She sighs and grabs the remote, snapping off the TV. “Come here, will you?”

“I have to get ready for work,” I say, even though I have no intention of going.

“Five minutes. Come on, you can spare five minutes,” she says.

I drop my backpack where I stand and trudge over to the sofa, sitting down on the far end. I’m not in the mood for a lecture, or more scolding. Not from her.

But it’s the last time, says a little voice in my head. The last time she gets to try to tell you what to do. Just play along.

She takes one more drag, then stubs out the cigarette in her ashtray. Her hands start to fidget almost right away, but she looks at me with steady blue eyes.

“I’m sorry,” she says.

I wait. I’m sure there’s going to be more. A “but.” I’m sorry but you just can’t. I’m sorry but you don’t know what’s best. But she doesn’t say anything else. The silence stretches out.

“For what?” I ask.

She leans back against the sofa cushions. “Well, you weren’t wrong about what a shitty mom I’ve been. I’ve . . . I’ve let you down, again and again. You’ve had to take care of yourself for a long time. It’s not fair. And I’m really, really sorry.”

I don’t know what to say. She’s never apologized for anything before. In all the years that I’ve taken care of her, she’s never said a word about it.

“Okay,” I say warily. I don’t know that I’m ready to forgive her for any of it. I don’t know if I’m supposed to.

She looks down. “I know you’re still pissed at me. About a lot of things. And that’s okay, you can be. I just . . . it’s important to me that you know I’m trying. To do better, I mean.”

I can’t remember the last time she said that to me.

She gets suddenly self-conscious. “Anyway. That’s all.”

I don’t say anything, and after a while she doesn’t seem to expect me to. But I sit and watch the rest of Jeopardy! with her. I don’t yell out the answers like I used to, even when I know them. But when it’s over, I lean over and rest my head against her shoulder, just for a few seconds. The sensation is so familiar that for just a moment I’m unaccountably sad.

“I’ve got to get ready for work,” I say. I hesitate for a moment. “I love you.”

She looks surprised. A little pleased.

“I love you too,” she says.



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? ? ?

I take a long shower and disappear into my bedroom. I sit on the edge of the bed for a while, looking around my little room. The things I’ve scavenged over the years, the things I’ve earned. The few things that are mine. I’m going to leave them all behind. But already the sadness is fading, and a sense of excitement replaces it. I’m getting a new start. I’m setting down those anvils I’ve been juggling and walking away.

I hear Mom leave for the bus. I sit still a little longer, waiting to make sure she doesn’t come back for anything. Silence swells up around me.

When it’s time, I grab my bag, step out the door, and walk away without looking back.

I can’t see Aiden’s face when he pulls up at the bus stop, but I open the passenger side door and calmly climb in. I’m surprised—I expected the backseat to be packed full, road-trip style. But it’s not. He’s got a single suitcase, a leather messenger bag, and two grocery bags in the backseat.

He smiles across the console at me. “Are you ready?”

I buckle up. “Let’s go.”

And as hard as I try to dig for some feeling of regret as we hit the highway, all I feel is free.





THIRTY-FIVE


    Gabe