Chapter 3 Austin - Doing a Favor
Chapter 3
Austin - Doing a Favor
I hustled across campus to my next class. Woodworking gave me my last requirement in Liberal Arts towards my degree. I enjoyed sanding and shaping a plain block of wood into something beautiful. Right now, I worked daily on a jewelry box to give to my mom. I had the basic structure of the box finished. The design I envisioned in my head incorporated decorative swirls and the word Mom on the top of the box. I drew swirls with a pencil on a piece of scrap wood to practice with the wood burner before I attempted my skills on the top of the box.
Wood shop always smelled like home to me, the sawdust, the sharp tinge of varnish in the air, and slightly burnt wood. It brought back memories of watching my grandpa repair a broken chair or build shelves for my grandma’s sewing room. As I worked, I thought about the dilemma with my project for Music Composition. I loved country music a lot. My grandparents played George Strait, Johnny Cash, Wille Nelson, and Dolly Parton records on their giant living room stereo. They filled their house with music, and I discovered that many of these songs spoke to me on a personal level. But when it came down to writing a song myself, my mind became instantaneously blank. I couldn’t think of anything unique, or how to express my feelings .
Sydney and I had a few weeks to work on this project, but, given the current variables, I didn’t feel confident about a favorable outcome. Usually, I could get a passing grade with minimal effort. But this wasn’t a research paper on Albert Einstein or the Civil War. Most of the time, I could charm my way through group projects and not do any actual work. Most chicks didn’t mind doing the work for me. This time it was different. Sydney didn’t seem swayed by my usual tactics, and I couldn’t Google my way out of it. For the first time, I found myself having anxiety about a group project.
When I got to my grandparent’s house, I didn’t feel like cooking. Instead, I grabbed a Stouffer’s lasagna out of the freezer and popped it into the oven. Mom and I usually ate at the breakfast nook in the kitchen. Over time, our dining room had morphed into a craft room. She had half-finished projects all over the solid oak table, which had a transparent plastic cover to shield it from paint, glue, and glitter. Mom loved to give handmade gifts for holidays and special occasions. I couldn’t wait to give her my own handiwork for Mother’s Day.
Now that I lived at the Kappa Sigma fraternity house, I came home twice a week, on Wednesdays and Sundays. I made dinner for us and made sure to have leftovers for Mom. The long hours she worked at the bank didn’t leave her enthusiastic about meal prep when she came home. My Consumer Science teacher in middle school, Mrs. Hollis, got me interested in cooking. And maybe the Food Network helped, too. I absorbed it all like a sponge—by the end of seventh grade, I was creating my own meals without a recipe. If I didn’t cook, I knew Mom was getting takeout or eating cereal.
Our antique upright piano sat in the far corner of the dining room, neglected more often than played. It belonged to my grandma, and my mom couldn’t part with it. My grandma played the hymns for the choir and congregation during Sunday service for decades. Even after she retired, she would fill in at local churches when they needed a substitute pianist. Sometimes I went with her. She loved to play, and it made my heart happy to watch her. Mom had taken lessons as a kid and could still play a few hymns and Christmas carols, but she didn’t have the passion that I saw in my grandma .
I slid onto the bench and uncovered the keys. My hands rested in the air above them, willing my fingers to create musical magic. Nothing happened. I closed my eyes and tried to concentrate. Still nothing. I’m going to fail Music Composition. There are no original thoughts in my head. I can regurgitate thousands of songs without hesitation. Why can’t I come up with something myself?
My phone started ringing, and I raced back to the kitchen counter to retrieve it. I didn’t recognize the local number on my screen. I took a chance.
“Hello?”
“Hey, is this Austin?” a familiar female voice asked.
“Yes.”
“Good. It’s Sydney.”
“What’s up? How’d you get my number?”
“We exchanged numbers in class.” She hesitated. “I shouldn’t have called.”
“No, no. It’s fine. I forgot to put your number in my contacts list.”
“Oh, okay. Could I ask you for a favor?”
“Sure, shoot.”
“I need a ride to work after class tomorrow. Are you busy? I mean, I know this is out of the blue, but I asked Danny, but he had an early shift at Burger Burger and he said to ask you since your shift starts the same time as mine and—”
“Sure. No problem.”
I heard her sigh.
“I appreciate that,” she said. “My dad needs to put new brakes on my car. My mom has an appointment and can’t let me borrow her car to get to work.”
“No worries, really. I have my woodworking class after Professor Nelson’s class. I’m done at 2:30. Does that work for you?”
“That’s fine. I can wait in the library for you. My boss doesn’t need me until three.”
“It’s funny that you called. I’m sitting at the piano, waiting for divine inspiration for our project. It’s not working.”
“I know how you feel. My brain is a blank page. Let’s discuss that tomorrow.”
The timer started blaring from its spot on the fridge. “I need to get dinner out of the oven. Sure, we can talk tomorrow.”
“That sounds great. See you then, Austin.” She hung up .
I set my phone down on the counter and silenced the timer. I cut a giant piece of lasagna and plopped it on a plate. The rest of the casserole went back into the oven to keep it warm. I grabbed a fork and a can of Mt. Dew, then plopped into my favorite recliner in the living room to watch TV while I ate my dinner.
Around seven, I heard the garage door, signaling my mom’s arrival. I peeled myself off the leather, picked up my empty plate, and skedaddled to the kitchen to dish her up a plate of lasagna. I folded her napkin into a triangle, like I’d done since middle school. I’d always liked setting a nice place at the table for her.
I opened the door to the garage and saw Mom fumbling in the back of the car. Her leg stuck out from the open back door. Wendy Mitchell stood at five-foot two inches. Her dyed auburn curls fell untamed around her oval face. She identified herself as a fat person and joked about it to hide her dissatisfaction with her appearance. Her work wardrobe consisted mainly of pant suits and sensible shoes.
She stood up and her brown eyes lit up when she saw me in the doorway. “Hi, sweetie! How was your day?”
“Same as yesterday,” I replied, holding the door open for her. “Yours?”
She trudged into the kitchen and dropped her gigantic tote bag next to the table. “Fantastic, as always. Let me see. One of my team members told me she is pregnant, and another one put in his two weeks’ notice. To top it all off with a cherry, my boss told me they need me at a three-day conference next month.”
“Conferences are the worst.” I wrinkled my nose and pulled a glass from the cupboard.
She collapsed into her chair in front of her dinner. She inhaled the aroma. “This smells amazing, thank you.”
“Thank Stouffer’s. I couldn’t bring myself to put in the effort tonight. I’ll make a meatloaf when I come to do laundry on Sunday.” I poured a glass of water from the Brita pitcher and set it in front of her plate.
“With real mashed potatoes?”
“Of course. Instant is for imposters.” I chuckled as I sat down across from her.
“You’re too good to me. You make my heart so happy.”
“You make it easy.” It made me feel good to make dinner for Mom. Her job required all of her energy. But whatever happened at work, she still came home in a good mood. I don’t know how she did it .
Still, I worried about her. She hadn’t been on a date since she and my sperm donor divorced. He made an unfortunate calculation one Wednesday, forgetting about the housekeeper, who found him and some lady in the shower in a compromising position. He tried to convince Mom that he slipped. What an idiot. You slipped when a woman was in the shower with you . Mom ended up having to pay him alimony, since she earned way more than he did. There’s nothing fair about divorce.
I tried to help her as much as I could. We lived in an old four-bedroom farmhouse that had belonged to my grandparents. We moved in with them when Mom filed for divorce. They saved up for years to take a first-class Alaskan cruise, and five years ago, they went. My grandma wanted to take one of those plane rides to see the mountains and glaciers from the air.
They had been gone for four days when we got a call from the CEO of the cruise line. Their plane hit a rockface along their travel route. The pilot and all nine passengers died.
We received a settlement from the cruise company. My mom used the money to put new cream-colored siding on the house, along with hunter green shutters and energy efficient windows. We ripped up the carpets and had the hardwood floors restored. It’s little consolation for the loss of my grandparents. They were a vivacious, loving couple, and I still missed them.
She waved her hand in front of my face. “Yoo-hoo! Earth to Austin!”
“I’m sorry, Mom. Were you saying something?” I shook my head to bring me back to focus.
She took a drink of water before answering. “I asked you how your music project is going.”
“I sat down at the piano earlier, but my fingers wanted to play chopsticks. I don’t think that’s going to help.”
“Probably not. But I’ve never known you to give up easily. I remember when you saw someone doing a flip off the diving board at the local pool and would not stop until you could do one, too.”
“That’s what you call ten-year-old foolishness, but I see your point. The showcase isn’t for another four weeks. It should come to fruition by then.” I stood up and took her empty plate over to the dishwasher.
“Are you leaving me now?”
“I’ll be back on Sunday.” I wrapped her in a hug from behind and kissed her on the top of her head. Then I made my way to the garage door. “No wild parties while I’m away, Wendy.”