Matt shifts his weight uncomfortably. “I’m going to, uh, go get some lunch. Or something. I’ll, uh, see you. In the kitchen. I’ll see you in the kitchen. Later.” He turns awkwardly and shuffles out of the room, arms swinging at his sides.
My mother nods toward the couch. “Sit. Now.”
I sit.
“I...” She pauses, her hands visibly trembling. This is not going to go well. “I cannot...” She cradles her head in her shaking hands, picking absentmindedly at her eyebrow. “What am I supposed to do with you, Adam? Maybe you have some idea, some... Something. Maybe you can tell me what it is I’m doing wrong, because... Because I’m trying my best, and you... I’m trying my best, and you are still spiteful, and rude, and stubborn, and difficult, and angry. And... And I’m trying my best, Adam, I am, so if you have any idea why, if you have any inkling as to what I am doing to make you so spiteful and rude and stubborn and difficult and angry, please let me know. Please. Because I can’t... Because I just can’t figure it out. I can’t.” Her voice breaks. Her fingers scan her eyebrows frantically, looking for something to hold onto.
I stare at my hands. This isn’t what I expected. I expected anger, disappointment. A self-righteous lecture on obedience and respect. Not this. “I’m sorry.”
“You’re not, Adam. You’re not sorry. You’re sorry you upset me. You’re not sorry for anything you’ve done. It’s not the same thing.” She keeps her eyes on the ground as she speaks, massaging her temples.
“What? What’s so gravely immoral about walking out of church so you can visit your dying father? What do I have to be sorry for about that?”
She sighs deeply. “Adam, please.”
“I can’t take it. Living in a damn fishbowl. I can’t take all of them watching me. Pretending they know me. Pretending they can help me. I don’t even know their names, and they want to save my life. How does that work? Who does that?”
“I can think of someone,” she says quietly.
I roll my eyes. “Jesus Christ, we’re not talking about Jesus, we’re talking about our family. Why do you always have to make it about that? Maybe I would actually talk to you if you didn’t insist on turning every conversation into some... Some spiritual testimony. I don’t care that you think prayer has healing powers. I don’t care that Jesus has saved us all from the fires of hell. Maybe if you didn’t always act like I was some... Some fucking project, maybe I wouldn’t be so stubborn and resentful. How about that?”
“Why are you so angry? He loves you.” She shakes her head, her gaze still fixed on the ground. “You know he loves you. You have to. Why are you so angry with him?”
“What, did he tell you that? That he loves me? Is God speaking to you now? Are you going to build a fucking ark or something? Take me up on a mountain and try to kill me?!”
Her eyes meet mine. “I wasn’t talking about God. I was talking about your dad.”
Chapter 3
But God said to Jonah,
"Is it right for you to be angry?" . . .
"It is," he said.
"And I am so angry I wish I were dead."
Jonah 4:9
“How did things go yesterday?”
I roll my eyes, slamming my locker door shut and shouldering my backpack. “First we talked about what was wrong with me. Then we talked about what was wrong with her. Then... I don’t know. I thought we were actually getting somewhere, maybe? I guess she felt that way, too, because then she asked me to pray with her.”
Matt inhales sharply. “Ooh. Bad move.”
“It didn’t really go over well. I don’t know. She’s insane.” I set down my pack and slide down the wall to the floor. Beside me, Matt does the same.
“Are you in trouble for walking out of church?”
I shrug. “I don’t think so. I mean, she’s still pissed at me, but she’s not going to ground me or anything. Not that it really matters. She wouldn’t ground me from the hospital, and since Chelsea and I broke up that’s the only place I really go.”
He nods. “You are kind of a hermit.”
“Shut up. I used to have a life. I think.”
“Yeah, sure. Whatever.”
I flex my feet, stretching out my calves. “I still have this bad taste in my mouth. About the whole Chelsea thing.”
“Well, I mean, you guys ended on a shitty note. What did you really expect.”
“I don’t know. But when you break up with someone, you’re supposed to feel like you did the right thing. I don’t feel like I did the right thing. But I also don’t feel like I want to listen to her nagging for the rest of my life.”
Matt snorts. “Believe it or not, there’s this magical thing that can happen after a breakup known as ‘making nice.’ Plus you get the make-up sex. Which is rumored to be good.” He smirks.
“Shit, dude, keep your dick in your pants. She’s practically my sister.”
He rolls his eyes. “Just saying. You and Chelsea really should talk, though. And I’m not just saying that on Allie’s behalf. I don’t think.”
I eye him suspiciously. “You know something.”
He shakes his head. “Allie knows something, though. She pushes it on me at really awkward moments.”
“So your girlfriend slash my almost-sister knows something super secret about why me and my ex broke up that I don’t even know myself.”
“It seems like it. But if anyone asks, I said nothing.”
I roll my eyes. “Yeah, I’m sure the FBI will be here shortly to begin the interrogation.”
He purses his lips. “Not to worry you, dude, but I think it’s kind of...”
“Serious?” I suggest. Half-kidding.
He nods gravely. “Yeah. Serious.”
“Oh.” My stomach sinks. I need to talk to Chelsea. I should talk to Chelsea. But... What if I don’t want to know?
It seems like everything in my life comes down to this. This choice. Do I want to know? Am I better off not knowing? It might not even be important. It might not even have anything to do with me.
“Whatever. I’ll talk to her at some point. I really don’t think it would go all that well right now, anyway.”
He looks at me skeptically, then shrugs. “Yeah. Sure. Whatever.”
“It can’t be that important, can it? She would have told me.”
Matt cracks his knuckles uncomfortably. “Yeah. Right.”
He doesn’t believe me.
I don’t believe me, either.
“Hey, Grandad.”
He lowers his glasses and looks up at me. “Hey, champ. Go see your dad, didya?”
I nod. “He’s alright. Not a good day.”
“Eh. We all have our days.” He eyes me for a minute longer, then gestures to the armchair across from him. “Sit down. I want to talk to you.”
Shit.
I sit, cracking my knuckles. I don’t dare speak. Grandad has lived with us for years, ever since Uncle Don died, and has only yelled at me a handful of times. I think I’m still shaking from last time.
“Your mother and I had an interesting talk today.”
I nod.
His face softens. “Relax, Adam. I’m not going to hit you. I just... Frankly, I’m worried about you.”
“I... I’m fine. Seriously.”
He shakes his head. “Adam, I’m going to be perfectly honest with you, and I don’t think you’re going to like it. Your mom needs you, champ. And you’re great with your dad. When you’re with him, you take such good care of him. You talk to him like a person, not a kid. He’s still your father. You still treat him like your father. And you help him, and that’s really admirable. It’s not easy. I know it’s not easy.”
I nod.
“But your mother... She doesn’t need you to help her get dressed, or to escort her to the bathroom. But she still needs you.”
“It’s just...”
He shakes his head, holding up a hand. “Look, champ, here’s the thing: she’s not perfect. I know she’s not. Neither is your dad. God knows he was trouble growing up, and he’s still stubborn and impulsive and aggravating. But you love him anyway. Give your mother the same chance.”
“It’s not the same.”
He sighs. “You’re just like him.”
“What?”
“Stubborn and impulsive and aggravating.”
I stare at my hands. “I’m not trying to antagonize her. I know it sounds like I am, but I’m not. I just... She makes it so hard. Like, yesterday, we actually were getting along well. We both sort of cleared the air, and reached this understanding, and it felt good. And then she asked me to pray with her, and it was just like... Like it had never happened. She just... It’s like she doesn’t hear me. I tell her, ‘I hate it when you preach to me.’ And she says she understands, but then she keeps doing it. Like I never said anything. What am I supposed to do? What else can I say?”
He tents his hands, resting his wrists on his belly. “Talk to her, champ. I know you already have. But talk to her again. All the things you’re telling me, all the things you’ve complained about to other people. Tell them to her.”
“I’ve tried that.”
“Try again.”
I sigh. “Grandad, I know... I don’t know. I know you’re trying to help, it’s just that...”
He purses his lips. “Your dad never liked his mom much, either. He was so young when she got sick. Even when she was lucid, he didn’t care for her. Said she was a shrew. One day I damn near decked him, the way he was talking to her. I can’t make you love your mother, champ. I couldn’t make your dad love his, and I can’t make you love yours. But you should. Your dad fell in love with her for a reason.”
“It’s not that I don’t love her. I just... I can’t talk to her. When I was in third grade, I came home crying because some guys were shoving me around at recess. She told me to turn the other cheek and asked me to pray about it with her. When Dad got his diagnosis, I tried to talk to her about it and she suggested that we read through some favorite psalms together, instead. She never talks to me. She has never actually talked to me.”
“Just do the right thing, champ. Nothing more, nothing less. Just... Do the right thing.”
With that, he stands, pausing to stretch for a moment before sauntering off toward the kitchen.
Addie blows in through the front door a few minutes later. “Hey. What are you doing? Just sitting?”
I shake my head. “We had a talk.”
“Chelsea?”
I raise my eyebrows. “You know something?”
She shakes her head. “No. Allie does, though. Did you talk to her?”
I sigh. “No. But the way you and Matt are talking, I probably should.”
She wrinkles her nose. “Who was it, then? Aunt Karen?”
“Grandad.”
She drapes her coat over a chair and collapses onto the couch, curling her feet up under her. “What did he have to say?”
“He thinks I should give my mother a chance.”
She rests her head on the armrest, closing her eyes. “Well, you know what I think about that.”
“Yeah, I know. It’s hard to forget.”
“Not fair. I don’t beat you over the head with it or anything. I just think it’s important.” She crosses her arms, burrowing her hands into her armpits. “Jesus, I’m tired. It’s so cold.”
“It’s not that bad. I kind of like it.”
“You’re weird. And stupid.”
“You want some tea?”
She opens her eyes. “Yeah, sure. Ooh, put the kettle on. I love the kettle.”
“Speaking of weird...”
She rolls her eyes. “It’s old-timey. It makes me happy. A little bit of honey in mine, please. I’ll be here when you get back.” Her eyes fall shut again.
I wander into the kitchen and rummage through cabinets, trying to find the kettle. I’ve unloaded most of the pots and pans onto the counter when the back door slams open behind me.
“Adam.”
I turn. Allie stands there, wild-eyed, holding the door open. A few brave snowflakes follow her inside, melting as they fall.
“We need to talk.”
Word count (this update): 2114
Word count (total): 10,267
Author's note: If this is choppier than usual, blame the election. For every word I typed, I think I refreshed the returns twice. Also, I broke the 10K barrier! This is by far the earliest I've ever done so, but I'm not counting my chickens yet. If most people have catastrophic Week 2s, mine are usually the equivalent of a nuclear winter.
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