Chapter 32
I wake on the couch with the sun setting in the living room window. I’m covered by a heavy blanket. My eyes blurry, I watch the walls, the blank TV screen, the air.
Mom puts a bowl of pasta on the coffee table. Bow ties with a square of butter melting on top.
She comes back and places down my folded jeans and T-shirt from yesterday. They’re clean and warm, fresh from the dryer.
On top is a folded piece of paper. I open it and read, in perfect cursive, You seem like your own kind of person. She must have checked the pockets before putting the jeans in the wash.
When I pull them on, they’re warm and snug. The shirt is too. I sit and eat, first one bow tie at a time, and soon as many as I can fit in my mouth.
Mom watches me from across the room. Her clasped hands are still.
Her mania has passed. I think of the night I asked her not to go to work and she explained how she leads her actions not by what she feels but by what is best for the person she loves, and that this keeps her from overthinking.
I picture her bringing my clothes to the laundry room, carefully checking the pockets, and washing them.
She probably wasn’t passionately moved to do it. But she did it anyway, for me.
I eat the pasta and, when I’m done, ask, “Have you eaten?”
She doesn’t answer, and so I boil a pot of water, add pasta, and find a jar of red sauce in the back of the cabinet. I make Mom a bowl and bring it to her in the living room. I watch her eat in the dimming light, until she finally says, “Tony drove you home in your car. What happened to your head?”
I reach up and feel the tender bump above my eyes. “I hit it on a desk.”
“A desk?”
“Deliberately.”
“Sean.”
“Why weren’t you there last night?” I ask.
She covers her eyes. “I’m sorry. I let myself get carried away with what I was doing.”
“What were you doing?”
She throws a hand in the air. “Nothing important. Not important enough.”
I try to sound kind. “Is there anything I can do to help you feel steady?”
She shakes her head.
“Then is there anything you can do to help yourself feel steady?” I don’t know if this counts as me helping her, but it’s not helping either of us if I don’t say it. “I need to know that you’re my parent and I can rely on you.”
She doesn’t move and I worry I’ve said too much.
But then she nods. “I’ll make an appointment with my old therapist.”
“Can you make one for me too?” I say.
After a long stare, she blinks and takes out her phone. “You know, let me ask Mr.?Zitolo who he sees. He’s always telling me his guy would be great for you.”
“He is?”
“I just wasn’t sure if that’s what you wanted.”
“It probably wasn’t.”
She types on her phone. “I’ll find out the name and set it up for you?”
“No, no, don’t worry about it.” I gather our bowls and bring them to the kitchen sink. “His guy is probably too expensive.”
“He actually offered to pay for it.”
“He did?”
She waves this away. “But I can do it. I only missed two days of work. I’ll go in on Monday and it’ll be fine.”
“Will it?” I say.
She looks at me. “It will.”
It’s dark outside. Slowly, I remember the rest of my life. I sit back down and take out my phone. There are two messages.
Tony wrote, Love you, bro
I write back, Thanks/Sorry, and decide we’ll never speak of this again.
Elijah wrote, I hope you’re doing okay
I start a reply but I don’t know what to say. Sorry/Goodbye? Don’t worry, you don’t have to speak to me anymore?
I must make a sound, because Mom says, “Sweetheart.” She comes and sits beside me. “Is there anything I can do to help you ?”
I tell myself not to say no.
“Can you hold me?”
Some part of me can’t let go of the fear that I won’t always be able to rely on her, that she won’t always be here, and I guess, at least one day, she really won’t be.
But for now, she puts her arms around me and places my head on her shoulder.
“I love you, beautiful,” she says. “I love you so much.”
I try to let myself hear it.