Asch
I don’t know why I expected things to be different.
I know my mom, and I know her habits. I know she gets overwhelmed easily, and that once our house starts to get messy, she shuts down and can’t manage to get it clean again.
But knowing it is different from seeing it, and the second I walk inside, my heart sinks.
It’s not her fault. I know that. I know that she has mental illnesses and hangups and that there are reasons she’s like this.
I know that I’m not much better.
It doesn’t stop my heart from seizing up as I realize what kind of conditions she’s been living in since I left. It wasn’t this bad the last time I was home. At least, I don’t think it was. I’d helped her get it under control, and I’d hoped that she’d be able to keep up with it on her own.
She hasn’t.
Mom greets me at the door, and I can see from the look on her face that her shame is getting the best of her. It’s all in the way her shoulders slump and the way her smile seems frozen on her lips, and my heart aches for her.
She’s doing the best she can, I remind myself, and I really, really have no room to talk.
I come by my own habits honestly, wrought of years of living like this.
Hugging me tight, she whispers, “I missed you, Asch.”
I know her words go beyond missing me at school, and go straight into missing me when I’d shut her out of my life after I’d learned the truth of my supposed scholarships and the link between our family and the Bouchards.
“I missed you too, Mom,” I tell her.
She takes a step back, and I have to step over a pile of grocery bags that have been left right by the front door.
They’re full of things that she hasn’t put away, and I hope there’s nothing perishable in them.
There isn’t much storage in the house, but there’s enough room in the pantry for these things.
I think.
The living room of our small, cramped house is tightly packed with boxes, and some of them look unopened.
The things I’ve bought her and had delivered, full of necessities that she never got around to unpacking.
Frustration fills me as I see how much money has probably been wasted by her not even checking them.
She’s probably reordering the same things at higher prices.
I want to say something, but I also don’t want to see her shrink back and go distant if I bring it all up.
If I had the money, I’d hire someone to help her, but I don’t.
Maybe I really should think about some of the street fights River’s been doing. If I brought in more income, I could get someone in here—assuming her pride would even allow it.
I fight not to sigh.
“Come sit down,” Mom begins, only to bite her lip when she looks at the couch, where a pile of laundry has built up over the last few months I’ve been gone. “I’ll move these,” she says in a small voice.
“It’s fine. I can help you fold it,” I tell her.
Is this how Blaze feels when he looks at my messy room? The desire to help is so strong, but I also know that it’s futile. No matter how much help I offer, it’s just going to go back to how it was after I leave again.
It might take a few weeks, but by the time I visit again, it’ll be right back to how it is now.
“No,” she says, shaking her head. “I’ll do it.”
I want to argue, but she’ll get stubborn and put her foot down, so I glance at “her” chair, which is the only clear place in the whole room. I survey the room more, seeing the mail stacked up on the coffee table along with a few dishes that haven’t made their way to the kitchen yet.
Without giving her a chance to argue, I pick those up and take them there, grimacing when I see the dishes neatly stacked in the sink.
Every counter is full, the items that have made it past the front door and into the kitchen left out instead of being tucked away in the cabinets.
It’s not that she’s gross; everything has been rinsed off and neatly stacked. But the sheer number of items is daunting, and I’m not sure I’ll be able to handle helping her get it in order over the next two weeks.
She’s not the only one who gets overwhelmed.
I open up the dishwasher, which is full but thankfully clean, and start to put dishes away so I can reload it.
I hear footsteps, and I turn to face her.
“Asch,” she says, her voice quiet and defeated, “I’m so sorry.”
“Why are you sorry?” I ask her. “I know that it’s not your fault.”
I wish she would change anyway. I wish she could.
“I shouldn’t make excuses,” she replies. “It’s just that with work—”
It’s never been about work, and we both know it.
Just like it’s not about schoolwork or studying for me.
I have time, but I don’t have the energy or inclination.
“I know, Mom,” I tell her. Because I do. I really, really do, in ways I wish I couldn’t relate to.
“Tell me how school’s going?” she prompts, staring out at the crowded kitchen counters in what I can only describe as a look like a deer in headlights. She reaches out, though, with one trembling hand and picks up a box of unopened spaghetti noodles. She puts it in the mostly empty pantry.
“It’s fine. I think I did really well on my finals,” I tell her. I’m used to having to work hard, and even if the scholarship isn’t real, I still take pride in my grades. “There’s one class I’m having to bust my ass in, but the rest are fine.”
“Good,” she says, starting to sort through more of the items on the counters while I load the dishwasher.
“I may be coming back to New Valence,” I tell her, swallowing around the lump in my throat. “I don’t think Mr. Bouchard is going to be paying for my tuition anymore.”
Her eyes narrow. “He’s supposed to keep paying as long as you’re in school,” she says, her voice sharp.
I grimace. I can’t explain the sex trafficking to her. I can’t. To say that she’d freak out is an understatement, and she’d insist that I go to the cops, or straight to the FBI.
Even if I had proof, I wouldn’t dare.
It’s bad enough the Bouchard Syndicate has it out for us. I don’t want to paint a target on my mother’s back. She’s already in enough danger from being related to me, right now.
But what am I supposed to say that won’t have her contacting him to demand that he keep his word to her?
“It’s complicated,” I say.
“Uncomplicate it,” she says flatly.
I sigh. “Mom…”
I don’t know what to tell her.
Maybe George Bouchard will keep his word to her and I’m worrying over nothing.
I doubt it.
He’s going to want to get to Blaze, and he knows that fucking me over is an easy way to get to his own son.
I wonder how his own homecoming is going. I itch to pull out my phone and text him, but I’m here to spend time with my mom.
I’ll message him later.
I finish loading the dishwasher and turn to the fridge. It’s full, but I’m willing to bet most of it is expired and she hasn’t gotten around to clearing it.
“Tell me about your new job,” I say, tossing the jar of mayonnaise I find.
“Nope,” she says. “Nice try. Asch, please stop doing that.”
“Nope,” I echo. “I’m going to help you, and we’re going to get everything in order.”
She sighs, muttering, “Why bother?”
I grit my teeth. “Because it’ll help you. You know it will.”
“For all of three weeks before things go back to how they were,” she says, and I hate the defeatist attitude.
She doesn’t usually show it to me, preferring to stay positive when I’m around, but I’ve seen the tears and the despair over her inability to stop doing what she’s doing. To fix things. To make things better.
“It won’t be like that,” I say softly. “Not this time.”
She offers me a tight smile. “Tell me why you think your tuition is going to stop being paid for,” she tells me.
“Because Blaze pissed off his dad, and the easiest way to get to Blaze is to get to me,” I finally tell her.
“That motherfucker,” she mutters.
I arch a brow at her.
“What?” Mom asks. “What else am I supposed to call him? If he’s willing to drop his end of the deal he made with me because of a feud he’s having with his son, he’s just as much of a heartless bastard as I always thought he was.”
If she knew the truth, she’d have more creative curses for him.
“Yeah, well,” I say. “It wouldn’t be terrible having me home, would it?”
“Dyschord will give you more opportunities than NVU,” she says. “And you know it.”
“There are other universities in New Valence,” I remind her.
“Dyschord is better,” she counters. “We’ll figure it out, Asch.”
There’s no “figuring it out,” and she knows it. It’s so far beyond our price range that it might as well be on another planet.
“Yeah,” I say anyway. “We’ll see what happens. It’s paid through the end of the year, at least.”
We work in silence in the kitchen.
“What would you like to do for Christmas?” she asks me.
“Nothing special,” I tell her. “We can watch TV or something.”
Mom smiles at me, but it looks strained. “Maybe a few days before, we can go out to eat at that restaurant you like. I got a bonus and thought we might splurge.”
We shouldn’t. But I know she’s going to feel guilty if she doesn’t do anything, and the place I like is reasonably priced. “Yeah, sure,” I say.
“Don’t get so excited,” she deadpans. “You might hurt yourself.”
I hug her again. “It sounds great, Mom,” I tell her.
She glances at the clock on the oven. “Shit,” she mutters. “I need to get some work done. My deadline is midnight for this project.”
“Go on,” I say, shooing her on.
“Don’t clean without me,” she tells me. “Unless you want to work on your room.”
“I’ll do that,” I promise.
She heads to her room, where she has a small desk set up, and closes the door.
I go to my own room with a sigh, then text Blaze.
Asch
How’s it going over there?
Blaze
Mom is happy to see me. She’s showing me photos of her dahlias. So many dahlias. I’m glad the seeds I sent her worked out.
Asch
Do I even want to know how they’re going with your dad?
I’m not sure I do. But we can’t figure out how to move forward if we can’t even get a feel for what’s going on with him.
Blaze
Haven’t seen him yet. He’s at some meeting.
I’m free tomorrow, I’ll come over and help you clean.
I freeze, briefly paralyzed with the fear of having him over at my place. I can’t let him see it. He knows in theory that my mom is a hoarder, and he knows how messy I am, but there’s no way in hell I’m going to let him come over.
But what am I supposed to do? Go over to his place? That sounds like an even worse idea.
Asch
Nah. Let’s go do something else. I’ve got it handled here.
Blaze
You don’t, but fine. Let’s hit up the shops, and find a party in the evening.
Partying without Pandora sounds boring, but I send a thumbs up to him.
I look around my room, which is every bit as much of a disaster as the rest of the house. I almost wish I could let Blaze help, but the humiliation would be entirely too much.
I can’t.
I’ll have to try harder.
I can do it.
I take a deep breath and grab a t-shirt from the floor, tossing it into my half-full laundry hamper.
It’s a start.