by Nan Dixon
God save her when the teenage girls started coming around in earnest.
She picked up three clean shirts and carried them to his closet. “Why don’t you jump in the shower?” she asked, shaking the wrinkles out of the first shirt before placing it on a hanger. “I’m about to put the burgers on the grill so we can eat in half an hour.”
“I’m not hungry,” Andrew said, sweat sliding from his hairline down the side of his forehead.
Yuck.
She hung the shirt, then slid a hanger into the next one. “You’re always hungry.”
It was the main reason her grocery bill surpassed the gas, electric and cable bills combined.
With a shrug she had no idea how to take, he switched hands and started doing reps on that side. “I’m eating at Luke’s.”
She blinked. Blinked again. Kept the smile on her face. “Why would you eat at Luke’s?”
“He invited me over. His family’s having a picnic.”
“So are we. I made all your favorites. Taco dip and potato salad.” Both with light versions of sour cream and mayonnaise instead of nonfat. For him. Because he claimed the nonfat tasted like crap, which wasn’t even true. “And brownie sundaes for dessert. With whipped cream. I even got bacon for the burgers.”
He snorted. “Turkey bacon. Tastes like shit,” he said under his breath.
But loud enough that she could hear.
She pretended otherwise. “Real bacon.” She’d read it was better to use that instead of turkey bacon, which often had more additives.
He eyed her suspiciously, his blue eyes—his father’s eyes—narrowed. “Real burgers? From a cow?”
Full-fat beef burgers? Did he have any idea how bad all that grease was for him? “Turkey burgers. They taste just as good.”
“No. They don’t.” He switched sides again, didn’t bother looking at her. “Like I said, I’ll eat at Luke’s.”
“But I want you to eat here. With me.”
“No, thanks.”
She squeezed the shirt in her hand. She’d made a trip into Pittsburgh yesterday to get all the ingredients she needed to have a special picnic for the two of them. A trip that had taken all afternoon, which meant she’d had to stay up late to finish the laundry and housework, not to mention that profit-and-loss statement for work. She’d spent the morning cooking and baking, wanting nothing more than to enjoy a leisurely, pleasant Labor Day. With her son.
And all he had to say to her was no, thanks?
She didn’t think so.
“You’re eating here,” she told him, her tone brooking no argument—though that never stopped him before. “With me. We’ll eat, play some board games or maybe watch a movie. It’ll be fun.”
It would be like it used to between them. Before he started hating her.
His expression darkening, he stood. Let the weight drop to the floor. “I want to go to Luke’s.”
“I understand that,” she said, letting him know she heard him. That she was taking his wants and needs into account. Just as the therapist she and her ex-husband, Todd, had seen for marriage counseling had taught her. Not that it had worked out so well—they’d separated a month after their last session—but at least she’d learned a few valuable tools for dealing with conflict.
“After we eat,” she told Andrew, “you can go over there for an hour or so.”
See? That was completely reasonable. Completely rational and, if she did say so herself, a very nice compromise.
“Everyone will be gone by then!”
So much for trying to meet him halfway. No good deed and all that.
“I want to spend the day with you,” she said. “We hardly ever see each other.”
“That’s not my fault. You’re the one always working.”
“That’s a bit of an exaggeration, don’t you think? It’s not as if I spend every waking moment at the office. I’d say the bigger issue is that we’re on opposite schedules.” When he wasn’t bussing tables at Wix’s Diner in the evenings, he was hanging out with his new friends.
Andrew tossed up his hands. “But I already told Luke I’d come over.”
“I guess the next time you’ll wait until you have permission before you make plans. Especially on a holiday.”
“It’s not Christmas,” he grumbled.
He stared at her, all resentment and anger. The dark stubble covering his sharp jaw and chin mocked her, sparse though it was. A visible reminder that he wasn’t a little boy anymore.
That he no longer needed her or, it seemed, wanted her around. Ever.
When she looked at him, love swamped her. Threatened to drown her.
And he looked right through her as if he wished she were already gone.
His phone buzzed. He grabbed it from the bed and checked the screen. “It’s Luke. He says I can come over whenever I want.”
Luke Sapko was a good kid. A nice kid.
Actually, he was nicer—and certainly more polite—to her than her own son was. The thought left her feeling guilty and inadequate.
Maybe she was too hard on Andrew. Maybe she wasn’t hard enough. She had no idea. All she knew was it shouldn’t be this difficult. It wasn’t rocket science, for goodness’ sake. By all accounts, humans had been raising children for two hundred thousand years. Surely she could guide her own son into adulthood. She had only two more years to go.
“Come on, Mom,” Andrew whined. Funny how he could look like a grown man—or pretty darn close to it—and still act like a five-year-old. “A bunch of the guys are going. I don’t want to be the only one stuck at home.”
She winced. Stuck at home. Guess that summed up how he felt about spending a few hours in her company.
She tried not to take it personally. “Andrew, I—”
“Please?”
The rest of what she intended to say dried in her throat. Please. There was a word she didn’t hear from him often.
He was working her. Or trying to. She knew it. He probably even knew she knew it. But he didn’t care as long as he got his way.
She found herself softening. Luke was the first friend Andrew had made since moving here, and she didn’t want her son to miss out on a chance to interact with his peers. Not when he actually seemed excited to be doing something in Shady Grove instead of complaining about how the kids were all small-town hicks, the weather was too cold and the beach too far away.
Maybe this was a step in the right direction. A sign that Andrew was finally settling into his new life.
And maybe she was just sick and tired of arguing with the boy.
“Fine,” she said, though she sounded as if it was anything but. Since she’d wrinkled his clean shirt, she tossed it over her shoulder to iron later. “You can go. But I want you home by nine.”
His triumphant grin collapsed. “Nine? I’m sixteen.”
“I’m well aware of how old you are, Andrew. I did give birth to you. And yes, nine. Tonight’s a school night.” He’d started his junior year at Shady Grove High last week. “I don’t want a repeat of what happened last year with your grades.”
“Whatever,” he mumbled, as if she hadn’t given in to him. As if he couldn’t care less that his grades last semester showed a marked lack of effort.
He sent a text, his fingers flying over the buttons.
Used to be a time when she could brush his hair back, make him smile and laugh. Those days were deader than her marriage vows.
“I’m gonna shower,” he said, tugging off his sweaty shirt. He dropped it on the floor—two feet from his clothes hamper.
With a grimace, Penelope picked it up by the hem, the fabric pinched between her thumb and forefinger. “Do you have some sort of genetic defect that stops you from putting your clothes where they belong?” she asked, tossing the s
hirt into the wicker basket. “Or do you leave them scattered all over simply because you know it bothers me?”
“That’s just a side benefit.” And he rapped out a da dum dum on his dresser.
A joke? Wow. Give the kid his way and suddenly he was a comedian. She turned. Her smile froze, her breath locked in her lungs. The safe, secure world she’d worked so hard to build for them shifted, leaving her thoughts tumbling.
No. Please, God, not again.
“Andrew,” she wheezed on an exhale, and worked to keep her voice calm as she closed the distance between them. Focused on clearing her expression. No sense worrying him. Not when she wasn’t sure what was going on. “What happened to your back?”
He glanced over his shoulder. “What do you mean?”
“You...you have a bruise.” Clearing her throat, she lightly touched his lower back, to the right of his spine. “Here.”
Turning to the mirror, he twisted so he could see what she was talking about. He shrugged. “I must’ve bumped into something.”
“I think you’d remember bumping into something hard enough to leave that big of a mark.” It was at least the size of her fist, the center a dark purple, the outer edges bleeding into yellow. “Do you...do you have any other bruises?”
Another shrug. “Not that I know of.”
But he had this one. One he’d seemingly been unaware of. Fear rose in her throat, threatening to choke her. “Do your joints hurt? Have you noticed being more tired lately? Have you been getting headaches?”
He rolled his eyes. “No, no and yes. Right now. A big one.”
“Not funny,” she murmured. This was serious. Couldn’t he see that? Spinning him around, she searched his body for more bruises. His appetite was still strong and he’d put on weight, not lost it. She reached up to check the lymph nodes in his neck.
He jerked away. “Jesus! Knock it off. I’m not sick again.”
“I know you’re not,” she said quickly, as if her words alone could make the statement fact. But she’d already learned the hard way that all the wishing, hoping and praying in the world couldn’t change what was. She tried to smile. “But I’ll make an appointment with Dr. Franklin tomorrow to—”
“I’m not going to the doctor.” He stabbed his fingers through his hair, making the strands stand on end. “Look, the truth is, I didn’t bump into something. I got it playing dodgeball in gym the other day.”
Relief made her knees weak. Her head light. He wasn’t sick. The leukemia hadn’t come back.
Thank God.
But he had been hurt. Could have been injured even worse. What if he’d been hit in the head and gotten a concussion?
“No school district should be allowing a game like that to be played in gym class,” she said, her fury and indignation growing. “First thing in the morning I’m going to call the school—”
“That’s why I didn’t want to tell you! I knew you’d freak out about it and it’s nothing. It doesn’t even hurt. And the last thing I need is you making it into some big deal.” He yanked open a drawer, grabbed a pair of socks and underwear, then shoved it closed hard enough to shake the dresser. “It’s a bruise. Not the end of the world. Not cancer. So don’t even think about calling and bitching out the gym teacher, because I’m the one who’ll have to take a bunch of shit if you do!”
He stormed out of the room, across the hall and into the bathroom. Slammed the door shut as if to punctuate his little tantrum.
She hunched her shoulders. Bit her lower lip. A moment later, the shower started.
He didn’t understand that she was simply doing her job as his mother. He resented everything she did for him. The healthy food she prepared, the doctor appointments she dragged him to, the tests and blood work. Even a simple question about how he was feeling set him off.
She worked so hard to keep him safe. Healthy.
And all it did was make him mad. But she was the one who suffered. She had to live with him, had to deal with him, day in and day out. His choices, actions and rotten, disrespectful, ungrateful attitude were her problems.
She just prayed they weren’t her fault.
Copyright © 2014 by Beth Burgoon
ISBN-13: 9781460344101
Southern Comforts
Copyright © 2014 by Nan Dixon
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