Nom de Plume

chapter one

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The door of the Uber slams shut behind me and I stare up at the house I grew up in. The sound of someone struggling to start up a lawn mower a few doors down and a few birds chirping in the small red maple near the driveway is at the same time overwhelming and quiet. I adjust the duffle bag on my shoulder as I look at the unfamiliar minivan in the driveway.

In fact, the minivan, the new swing set peeking over the new privacy fence, and the mailbox are all unfamiliar to me. Something is wrong. My mom certainly doesn’t make enough as a bartender to afford the fencing. And I am her only child and don’t need a swing set at age thirty-four. Unease and confusion grow in my stomach.

“Hey, man, thank you for your service,” the Uber driver says after rolling down his passenger window.

I give a nod back and a small smile. I never really know what to say back when people thank me for my time in the armed forces. I’ve seen and done enough to know it deserves respect and thanks, but it always feels odd saying “you’re welcome.” It feels too cocky and too small of an answer, all at the same time. A solemn nod is all I’ve mastered.

“Have a good one,” the driver says before taking off down the street.

A man and a woman ushering three little girls dressed in ballerina outfits come rushing out the side door of the house. The mom checks bags and efficiently gives directions to the girls as they jump into the minivan. The man, presumably the dad, notices me at the end of the driveway. His eyes narrow as he takes me in, looking over my camo pants and boots and undershirt. I look a sight, I’m sure. But I thought I was coming home to my mom, not some strangers.

This isn’t right.

“Can I help you?” the man asks as he approaches me. With a whisper to her girls, the woman stays by the van to watch.

I tower over the man and likely look five seconds off a battlefield, so I give a rueful smile. “I’m sorry. I used to live here… I guess.”

“You guess?” he asks, his stance softening when he realizes I’m not a creep.

“Yeah, I was coming home and, well, this isn’t my mom’s house anymore, is it?” I scratch the back of my head and look around.

“No, we’ve been here for three months. Fuck, man, what a homecoming.” The guy winces.

“No kidding. I’ll be out of your way—”

“Hey there, soldier!” a creaky old voice shouts from next door.

“Before you go, I have some of your mail,” the man says and jogs back up to the house.

I approach old Mrs. Stewart’s porch while he goes to get my mail. “Hello Mrs. Stewart,” I say with a warm smile for my almost lifelong neighbor.

“It’s good to see you, boy,” she says and reaches out a long and knobby hand to me.

I hold her hand and let out a long breath. Mrs. Stewart had been like a grandmother to me growing up. She babysat me and cooked me dinner on nights when my mom worked at the local bar. In return, I raked her leaves, mowed her lawn, and shoveled her snow from as soon as I could until I left for the service. Her husband had passed away a year after my mom and I moved in, but I was too young to have known him. My mom and her bonded over their single womanhood and raising me.

“What are you doing here, young man?” she asks fondly as I ascend her front steps to sit on her rickety wicker furniture. Everything creaks under my weight, and I do my best to keep my thighs engaged and not rest my full weight on her chair.

“I was coming home,” I say simply and look over her knitting project. She presses pause on an old CD player that still has a Spiderman sticker on it from when it was mine and played exclusively Creed and Nickelback. She bought it off me for three dollars at a garage sale after I got my first iPod. Her audiobook pauses, and she turns to me, her wrinkled face creases even more with concern.

“Coming home? Boy, your mama hasn’t lived there in almost nine months!” Mrs. Stewart gasps.

“Where, uh, where is she?” I ask, swallowing a lump of anxiety. Had my mom left me behind?

I had colleagues who had come home from service or on leave to find their wives and girlfriends gone or shacked up with other men. But my mom ? Was that even allowed?

“She’s been sick. She-”

“Here you go! I’d been meaning to bring it up to the post office. I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to do with it. Now I guess all the return addresses make sense,” the man who now lives in my house chuckles as he hands me a stack of mail over the railing.

“Thank you,” I say to him. “I’m sorry to disrupt your day.”

“Nah, don’t worry about it. I’m sorry about your not so homecoming,” he says with a wave as he jogs back up to the van.

“She’s sick?” I ask Mrs. Stewart. My stomach sours.

“She’d been drinking again,” she replies with a pitying look. “Didn’t want to find another job away from the alcohol, so it got worse. Then there was this fellow that had been coming around. Not a man she was dating, you see. He never looked happy going into that house. She wouldn’t tell me what he was about. Started getting snippy with me and all.”

Mrs. Stewart leans back in her chair with a sad sigh. “I can’t believe she didn’t tell you.”

I shake my head. “Not even on the phone. Do you know where she is now?”

Mrs. Stewart nods and shuffles inside to get her address book. My mom and I had been playing phone tag for days. Her messages were always vague and encouraged me to take a vacation before I came home. Now, I understand why. She doesn’t want me to see her sick and not have a home to return to.

A few minutes later, Mrs. Stewart returns with a piece of paper with an address in my mom’s handwriting. I’m no longer sitting in the rickety chair, but am pacing the front porch, each step creaking. The address is for an apartment complex close to where I went to high school. At least it isn’t a hospital or under a bridge.

“She’s been there since she moved out and sold the place. As far as I know, she’s still there,” Mrs. Stewart says and gestures to the paper.

“Thank you,” I say and request a new Uber to the address.

“I want to tell you to go easy on your mother, but I’m mad at her, too. For leaving you to find out the hard way she wasn’t doing well,” Mrs. Stewart says. She waits a moment and reaches up as if to stroke my cheek but can’t reach. “Welcome home, soldier.”

****

Standing outside my mom’s apartment complex, I feel sick with worry. Why hadn’t she told me she moved? She knew I was coming home. I press the buzzer at the entrance to the building.

“Hello?” a weary but familiar voice says through the intercom.

“Mom?”

The door clicks to unlock, and I open it. A door down the hallway opens and my mom’s face peeks out. “Oh, baby boy,” she says and breaks into a sob.

Embracing her against my chest, I look over her into the apartment. It is decorated with the same decorations as our house had been, though now everything looks crammed into the space. It smells like her favorite cigarettes and stale beer. “Mom,” I sigh into her graying blonde hair.

She’s thin, her face wrinkled more than it should be for her age, and the skin on her arms is tinged with yellow. My heart joins my sour stomach as they settle somewhere near my toes. She is sicker than Mrs. Stewart knew or admitted to me.

“You weren’t supposed to find me. You were supposed to go somewhere else and have a wonderful life without a sick mom to think about,” she says in a weak, muffled voice against my chest.

“Of course I was going to find you, Mom,” I say, and my voice cracks.

She lets go of me enough to wipe her nose on her sleeve and gesture for me to come in. Her eyes never lift to mine. “I’ll fix you a cup of coffee. I imagine you want an explanation.”

I drop my duffle bag just inside the door and the uneasy feeling makes itself known again. It feels like I’m in an alternate reality where everything is the same, but yet very different. Around me are my mom’s furniture and decorations, but in a smaller space. It is my mom, but sick. At this point, if a robot in a maid’s outfit comes ambling out of a room down the hallway, I’d not even flinch. Clearly, I have hopped timelines.

She shuffles around the small kitchen area and I look around. Her favorite chair has stains all over and burn marks like she’d dropped cigarettes on it. The kitchen table is crammed against a wall and covered with everything from mail to take out boxes to empty beer bottles.

“I really hoped you wouldn’t find me,” she says, watching me take in my surroundings.

“Would it have made you feel better to abandon me?” I ask, not sure how to sugarcoat my anger and hurt.

She exhales sharply as the coffee pot finishes. She pours me a cup with shaking hands.

“Would it have made you feel better to know both of my parents didn’t want me in their lives anymore?” I say, my voice quiet and steady despite the swirling emotions in my chest.

Hurt and fear flashes over her face. “No, baby. I want you in my life, but I don’t want me in yours.”

“I don’t think it works like that,” I say and grip the coffee mug. The same stupid one with the dogs with enormous, cartoonish eyes that I drank from every time I came home. My voice is deep, and I know how it sounds to civilians. I am big and loud and intimidating. All exceptional qualities in the military, but made me feel like an ogre at a tea party in civilian life. My mom flinches at my tone and words, and I remind myself to scale it back.

“Baby, I’m not going to make it,” she says with a sniffle.

“How long do you have?” I accidentally bark at her. My emotions are simmering in my throat, and I can’t help it.

“I don’t know. I didn’t get to go to that appointment,” she says and waves her hand. Irritation colors her movement.

“What?” I ask and almost drop the mug.

“I lost my health insurance at work, and I can’t afford anything else. I got turned away at the door from my doctor’s office because I had too big of an outstanding bill,” she scoffs.

“How much do you owe?” I ask, calculating my own savings in my head.

“More than you have, baby,” she whispers. Her eyes are kind as they finally settle on me. I notice the yellow hue to her eyes.

“Mom,” I scold.

“I owe almost a hundred thousand to the hospital and the doctor.”

“How much to the man that’s been coming to see you?” I ask, setting the mug down so I don’t crack it or drop it.

“That woman needs to mind her own business,” Mom snaps and turns away to the refrigerator. She pulls out a beer, looks at me, and then puts it back. She rests her forehead on the cold, white metal of the refrigerator.

“You had ‘ that woman ’ firmly in our business my entire life. She is right to be concerned and upset.” I defend Mrs. Stewart.

“I started joining the gambling at the bar,” Mom spits angrily. Not anger at me or Mrs. Stewart. But an internal anger at herself.

“Mom,” I groan. She has a fucking bookie on her tail.

“They’re a bit more… aggressive with their payment schedule. I’ve been paying them off and whatever is left after bills goes to my hospital bill,” she says.

“What do you mean by ‘aggressive?’” I ask, knowing enough already to make an informed guess.

Mom waves me off.

“No, answer me.”

“They’ll hurt me if I don’t pay them,” she snaps.

“Yeah, I gathered as much. Have they hurt you yet?”

She steps around the counter and points to her legs below her threadbare nightgown. I choke on my gasp. Her shins are mottled with bruises of every gross color. “This is from weeks ago. I don’t think I can heal right anymore.”

I close my eyes and lean against the kitchen counter, my hands braced on the cool material. Gathering myself and breathing through my anger and hurt, I turn back to her. Tears are streaking down her face. “I’ll call the hospital and see what we can do. I’m not leaving you, Mom.”

“Baby boy,” she sobs and grips me around my middle again. “I’m so glad you’re home.”

****

Hours later, I’m sitting at a high top bar table with a buddy from basic training. Matt is a police officer in New York City now and agreed to meet up for a beer. It’s been a long time since I was in the city. My mom and I would go a few times a year for celebrations or events, but we were largely not fans of the hustle and bustle. Now the noise is almost welcome. In a way, it feels comforting to see the chaos.

Staring at the beer in front of me, I realize I’m an asshole for drinking when my mom is a sick alcoholic. Matt doesn’t judge me for it, though, and doesn’t bring it up. “Fuck, man, I’m sorry,” he says and picks up a fry from the tray we ordered. “What are you going to do?”

“I called the hospital billing department and got them to agree to let her be seen if I dump half of my savings into her account. The other half is going to the bookies,” I say with a sigh.

“Want me to call some people and get the bookies taken care of?” he asks. “It’s not my jurisdiction, but I have some connections.”

“Nah, they’d just send someone else after that guy is locked up,” I dismiss his suggestion.

“True, he’s not likely the only bookie,” he says and sips his beer. “Do you have work lined up?”

“I was going to work with a buddy from high school on his construction crew, but now I’m thinking it’s not going to be enough money fast enough,” I say and slowly tear the bar napkin into shreds.

“You could always do some personal security here in the city,” Matt suggests.

I wrinkle my nose.

“I know, I know. Body guarding some rich celebrity princess around town doesn’t sound like a fun time, but they pay well,” Matt reasons.

I want to work a construction job that is steady and has my ass in a recliner chair by nightfall. Being outside for work, seeing a clear beginning and end, seeing actual progress, and working hard is exactly what I need. No work being brought home in the evenings. No bullshit office politics. No donuts in the breakroom. Just hard work and good pay.

“It’s the absolute last thing I want to do,” I grumble.

“Yeah, but listen. There’s a security company I’ve crossed paths with professionally before. Their guys have always been top tier and well paid. You could see if they have any temporary jobs while some starlet is filming in the city or something. It’s worth it for the money for your mom.”

Matt’s right. It’s worth it. “Alright, send me the info,” I resign.