Mom hastily opened the door, almost bowling Dad and I over. Her hair was disheveled. Uneven strands were hanging in different directions like she had been attacked with static electricity. Her makeup was botched. Her eyeliner was on thick, but her lipstick couldn’t have been worse if a three year old was attempting to color inside the lines. Dad who was rather excited to see her before hand had a disappointed expression on his face. Every inch of my being that hoped Mom had recovered from that crazy night was shattered.
She stood still. Rage covering her wrinkled suit, she huffed and puffed.
I said, “Mom, I wanted to—”
“Don’t.”
Dad grinned. I hoped it was because he realized what he had left behind and not because he was prepared to break into mad laughter. He said, “Hi, honey.”
Mom said, “Don’t,” and stomped off for the dining room table. She slammed her purse down on the kitchen table. She picked up the stone and tossed it up and down like a baseball, saying, “Want to hear how I have been?”
She shook the stone at Dad, taunting him, “Reese Alan Quinn, ask me how I have been!”
Dad cautiously stepped closer and closer to Mom. I closed the door.
Mom took off at full speed, swinging the stone at Dad as hard as she could. He dodged it one or two times, but it hit him in the chest on try three. It affected him like a feather would bother a crocodile. Dad wrapped his arms around Mom, shushing her to calm down.
Loud, convulsive sobs came pouring from my mother. Her sharp nails tore into my father’s suit jacket.
“I missed you,” Dad said. “I wish it did not have to be this way. I would have given anything not to be away from you for so long.”
Between sniffles, she said, “I know. I’ve always known. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have married such a jackass.”
They broke up. Their embrace interrupted when dad said, “What is up with the rock?”
With that Mom took another swing, nailing her target with bulls eye accuracy.
The Silhouette (Alan Quinn and the Second Lifes) Page 13
