financially, but he wasn’t a good husband to her. I’m certain that if she hadn’t been so afraid to raise us on our own, she wouldn’t have married him. She would’ve paved her own path, done something exciting with her life. It was part of the reason I was taking her advice; taking time to write my novel. I didn’t want to let her down. I didn’t want her to think that her sacrifice was in vain. “But I also know my boy. And there’s no way you could write about love like this unless you had personal experience.” Her eyes met mine. “There is someone, isn’t there?”
Picturing Lennie’s face, my gaze dropped to my lap. I suppose Mom was right. Technically there was someone. But she wasn’t someone I could tell my mom about. What would I say? I ran into an old high school acquaintance, and we talked a couple of times. She refused to go out with me, so instead I’m writing about her; imagining what could have been. Oh, yeah, and she’s the same girl I used to talk about all the time in high school. She wasn’t into me then either.
Yeah, no thanks. I’d keep that to myself. In my experience, it was good to keep a lid on the crazy as much as possible.
“Nope. There’s no one. It’s just a made up story.” Lifting my head, my gaze briefly landed on Ray.
He stared at me, his eyes narrowed as if he suspected something. But then he bent his head over his plate, taking another bite of food, and the moment was gone. It was probably in my imagination anyway. Ray had never been the most observant guy. I couldn’t tell you how many times Mom got a new haircut or color and it took Ray days to notice it. Sometimes he never did. She would eventually point it out or bribe one of us kids to do it.
Mom, however, had always been astute. She eyed me as if she didn’t believe what I said. But I held her gaze steady as if I had nothing to hide. Still not appearing completely satisfied, she went back to her meal. I sighed with relief, grateful to have dodged that bullet for now.
After dinner, I helped Mom with dishes while Ray went to watch TV in the family room. While leaning my back against the tile counter and drying one of the frying pans, my gaze shot down the hallway to my left. The doorway to my former bedroom came into view. It had since been turned into a guest bedroom, but in my mind I could picture it exactly as it used to be. Where there was now a wall filled with framed pictures of flowers, there once was a tall bookshelf overflowing with novels.
I thought of my conversation with Lennie about those choose-your-own-ending stories. Setting the dried pan down, I turned to Mom. “Hey, whatever happened to all my books?”
Mom’s arms were elbow deep in soapy water, the faucet spraying liquid down her arms. Using a sponge, she scrubbed a chrome pot. “We boxed them up years ago, remember? Ray tried to get you to take them awhile ago, but you said you didn’t have room.”
Nodding, I vaguely remembered the conversation. My apartment was too small for all of my books, so that made sense. “Where are the boxes now?”
“In the garage.” After turning off the faucet, Mom pulled her arms out of the water and reached for a dishrag. Droplets of water dotted the counter and splashed on the floor near Mom’s feet. She swiftly wiped her arms with the rag and then used a different rag to wipe the counter. “C’mon, I’ll show you.”
As I followed her, I noticed a few silver strands of hair at the roots of her straight brown hair. I was sure they’d be gone by the next time I came over. Mom went to her hairdresser every month like clockwork. I knew that because she used to drag me to her appointments when I was little. Nothing was worse than spending an hour in a hair salon bored out of my mind. Amelia didn’t mind because she would peruse the glossy magazines and choose hairstyles she wanted to one day try. Mom always took us out for ice cream afterward, though, so that sort of made up for it. The
Picturing Lennie’s face, my gaze dropped to my lap. I suppose Mom was right. Technically there was someone. But she wasn’t someone I could tell my mom about. What would I say? I ran into an old high school acquaintance, and we talked a couple of times. She refused to go out with me, so instead I’m writing about her; imagining what could have been. Oh, yeah, and she’s the same girl I used to talk about all the time in high school. She wasn’t into me then either.
Yeah, no thanks. I’d keep that to myself. In my experience, it was good to keep a lid on the crazy as much as possible.
“Nope. There’s no one. It’s just a made up story.” Lifting my head, my gaze briefly landed on Ray.
He stared at me, his eyes narrowed as if he suspected something. But then he bent his head over his plate, taking another bite of food, and the moment was gone. It was probably in my imagination anyway. Ray had never been the most observant guy. I couldn’t tell you how many times Mom got a new haircut or color and it took Ray days to notice it. Sometimes he never did. She would eventually point it out or bribe one of us kids to do it.
Mom, however, had always been astute. She eyed me as if she didn’t believe what I said. But I held her gaze steady as if I had nothing to hide. Still not appearing completely satisfied, she went back to her meal. I sighed with relief, grateful to have dodged that bullet for now.
After dinner, I helped Mom with dishes while Ray went to watch TV in the family room. While leaning my back against the tile counter and drying one of the frying pans, my gaze shot down the hallway to my left. The doorway to my former bedroom came into view. It had since been turned into a guest bedroom, but in my mind I could picture it exactly as it used to be. Where there was now a wall filled with framed pictures of flowers, there once was a tall bookshelf overflowing with novels.
I thought of my conversation with Lennie about those choose-your-own-ending stories. Setting the dried pan down, I turned to Mom. “Hey, whatever happened to all my books?”
Mom’s arms were elbow deep in soapy water, the faucet spraying liquid down her arms. Using a sponge, she scrubbed a chrome pot. “We boxed them up years ago, remember? Ray tried to get you to take them awhile ago, but you said you didn’t have room.”
Nodding, I vaguely remembered the conversation. My apartment was too small for all of my books, so that made sense. “Where are the boxes now?”
“In the garage.” After turning off the faucet, Mom pulled her arms out of the water and reached for a dishrag. Droplets of water dotted the counter and splashed on the floor near Mom’s feet. She swiftly wiped her arms with the rag and then used a different rag to wipe the counter. “C’mon, I’ll show you.”
As I followed her, I noticed a few silver strands of hair at the roots of her straight brown hair. I was sure they’d be gone by the next time I came over. Mom went to her hairdresser every month like clockwork. I knew that because she used to drag me to her appointments when I was little. Nothing was worse than spending an hour in a hair salon bored out of my mind. Amelia didn’t mind because she would peruse the glossy magazines and choose hairstyles she wanted to one day try. Mom always took us out for ice cream afterward, though, so that sort of made up for it. The
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