Chapter 12
Desmond
“Are you poor?” Parker asks, voice close enough that I can hear him from where my head is currently stuck in the oven.
Dropping the bristle pad and flexing my aching fingers, I sit back on my heels.
He’s standing next to me, frowning, and is wearing a pair of sweatpants that are too short for him.
I stare at his ankles for a second, adding clothes shopping to the already insurmountable to-do list in my head.
“What’s that?”
“Are you poor?” he repeats testily. “Is that why we couldn’t live in my house?”
I stare at him, desperately trying to remember a time I’ve ever complained about finances where he could have overheard me. I draw a blank.
“What are you on about?” I ask, standing. My knees are begging for a break, anyway, and trying to clean the oven is probably a losing battle. “Your house was just too big for us, Parks. Too far away from your school and my work, that’s all. ”
“But we live in an apartment. Adults are supposed to live in houses, and have real jobs , ” he says, and waves a hand around. I frown. That sounds like something my mum would say.
“Miss Sue, next door, isn’t an adult?” I ask lightly, and he scowls at me. “I have a real job, pal, what do you think I’m doing all day?”
“I don’t know!” He tosses his hands up. “Grandma says you don’t have a real job, and that you shouldn’t have sold Dad’s house.”
I clench my jaw so hard, it’s a miracle I don’t crack a tooth.
Of course she says that. I’m starting to wonder if maybe I should ignore the legal advice I’ve been given, and stop letting Parker visit my parents’ house.
It’s one thing for her to say that sort of thing to me, but what the fuck is she thinking, mentioning it to a ten-year-old?
Mum is such a bitch , Victoria whispers helpfully.
“I have a real job,” I repeat slowly, working to keep my voice calm. “And I wouldn’t have sold your dad’s house if it wasn’t necessary. I’m sorry about that, but I couldn’t make it work. And no, we aren’t poor, Parks. I have enough money to take care of you, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“Kids are expensive,” he informs me. “Like, really expensive. That’s what Grandma says. And Dad said that a Ferrari was more affordable than me. That’s what he said,” he repeats, eyeing me warily as though expecting me to clutch my chest in shock at the news that children cost money.
“Kids are expensive,” I agree. “But I’d rather have you than a Ferrari, anyway.”
“Okay,” he says, still watching me through mistrustful eyes. “So…can I have a snack?”
“Sure can.” Reaching back, I pop open the pantry door and watch as he peruses the contents. He looks at me out of the corner of his eye.
“Two snacks?” he asks, as though this might be the thing that tips us into bankruptcy.
“Only if you grab two for me, too.”
He smiles, a swift, relieved sort of smile, and shoves his hand into the box of single-serving chip bags.
We end up sitting on the couch—chips opened and spread between us—as we watch a television show marked as appropriate for children, but has far more sexual inuendo in it than I’d prefer.
I glance over at Parker when one of the main characters kisses someone, but he’s paying more attention to the Doritos than the romance.
I pray to any deity that cares to listen—please give me a few solid years before that changes.
“Want to come to the game tonight?” I ask a little later, as I scroll through the streaming options in search of something more suitable for a kid.
“Do I have to sit alone?” he grouses, still annoyed that the last time I made him come, he was seated between two strangers.
It was the only seat available directly behind the players’ bench, though, and I needed to keep him in my line of sight.
Every time I glanced over at him through the game, he was hunched down, skinny arms crossed over his chest and a scowl on his face.
“Probably,” I say on a sigh.
“I don’t want to sit with anyone unless they’re Jack or that cool guy,” he says stoutly, crunching down on a chip and scattering crumbs down his chest. Vacuum couch slots into place on my to-do list as I watch him brush them off.
“Cool guy? You mean Anthony?”
“Yeah, him,” Parker agrees. “Or Jack.”
“All right, well, it’s pretty last minute and I don’t know what Jack or Anthony are up to. They might be busy, so Miss Sue’s it is.” Resting back, I resume my search for something age-appropriate to watch. Maybe I’ll put on a nature documentary and call it a day.
I’m not, by nature, an angry person. I’ve got a long fuse—it takes a lot to get me mad, and I’m pretty quick to cool off once I do. Today is the exception to that rule.
I pound my fist against the door again. The fucking garage door is wide open—my mum’s cherry-red Volvo practically on display.
I know she’s here, which means she’s simply been ignoring the door to make a point.
I knock again, fully prepared to start yelling and really make a scene, when the door opens.
“Desmond, really,” she says crossly, somehow managing to look down her nose at me, even though I’m several inches taller than her. “What is the matter with you, knocking like that? I thought it was the police.”
“Did you?” I ask through clenched teeth, not waiting for an invitation before walking inside. “And what? Thought you’d make them wait?”
“Always with the dramatics,” she comments, closing the door. “You know, it’s not good etiquette to arrive unannounced these days. You have a cellphone, do you not?”
“I just came from the lawyer’s.” I press my hands to my legs in an effort to get them to stop shaking. I’ve gone way beyond angry, at this point. I’m livid. “Curious as to what the interview was about?”
“I imagine they simply wanted to know?—”
“—about all the men I’m apparently fucking in the apartment I share with Parker? About the ‘strangers’ that I’ve invited into his life? Maybe about a mental health issue I had when I was fucking fifteen years old ? Any of that ringing a bell?”
She purses her lips into a severe line. “I imagine all of those things would be pertinent to a custody battle. Particularly when someone lives the sort of…lifestyle that you do.”
“I haven’t had sex in four years, Mum!” I explode. “Bloody hell, you can’t just make things up! This is people’s lives we’re talking about here. My life. Parker’s life. What is wrong with you?”
“Don’t be crass, Desmond, I don’t need to hear about my adult son’s sexual escapades.”
“What escapades? There are no escapades! You just made a bunch of shit up, because you don’t like the fact I’m gay.
You’re a damn bigot, and now you’ve the audience you’ve always wanted.
” Stepping away from her, I put a hand over my face and try to calm down.
I hate yelling. I hate the fact that I have to have this conversation at all.
“I did no such thing.” She sniffs, infusing the noise with a great deal of disdain. “I merely brought some things to the attention of the courts that may help in determining a fit parent for Parker. I want what’s best for him.”
“Like the fact that I had an eating disorder growing up?” I drop my hand just in time to see disgust in the pinch of her mouth.
“Bulimia in a teenage boy. Ridiculous.” She scoffs. “You always were desperate for attention—running away and throwing up your dinner and…and coming out .”
She somehow manages to make “coming out” sound more like “committing murder.” I shake my head in mute disbelief. Has she always been this bad, or am I just misremembering my childhood after so many years trying my hardest to forget it?
“You are not mentally stable enough to parent a child. It’s my job to make sure they know that. It’s only right. Parker deserves a better life than anything you could provide, and you know that’s true,” she continues.
“You know what Parker deserves, Mum? He deserves to not worry about how his food is being paid for. He deserves to know that he’ll be loved and accepted no matter what. He deserves to be a kid, and not a goddamn pawn in whatever game you’re playing.”
“I love him,” she argues, voice hard.
“Sure you do,” I agree. “Right up until the moment he acts or believes in something you don’t agree with. You love him right now, because he’s young enough for you to control. Couldn’t manage it with me and Vic, could you?”
“Get out,” she says, pointing toward the door. “This is inappropriate. I won’t stand here and listen to this in my own house.”
“Don’t bother coming by to pick up Parker next weekend, he won’t be coming back here. I’ll see you in mediation, Mum.”
With that, I turn and leave out the front door, letting it go and hearing it slam behind me. I’m halfway across the lawn when my dad’s car pulls up, parking next to mine on the driveway. He gets out, and waves at me.
“Hello, son,” he says.
“Just shut up, Dad, fucking hell.” He looks so offended by the words, I very nearly laugh.
“Come for a visit?” he asks, as though I stopped by for tea and not a shouting match in the entryway.
“Nope. I came to find out exactly how repulsive a person needs to be to hate their own kid.” I reach for my car door just as Dad rounds the hood, looking as forlorn and confused as a kicked puppy. Limp noodle , Vic reminds me.
“Well, now, son, that’s not true and you know it. Your mother is simply concerned that?—”
“You know what would be nice, Dad?” I cut him off, one foot in my car and the other on the driveway. “It would be nice if you could act like you have a spine once in your life. It would be nice if you protected your grandson the way you never did your own kids.”
Without waiting for a reply, I drop into my seat and slam the car door. Fuck yes, Victoria’s voice cheers me on as I reverse down the drive.
“Fuck yes,” I repeat, fingers clenched tightly around the steering wheel as I point the car toward the nearest supermarket. I need ginger ale unless I want to be re-introduced to the burrito I had for lunch.
It’s there, in the soda aisle of the Publix, that Victoria catches up with me once more.
I’m debating the merits between sugar-free or regular when it hits me, like a neat little dagger slid between my ribs.
My sister is dead , I think, and wipe a hand across my face, surprised when it comes away damp.