Chapter 3
three
ONE YEAR LATER
AMANTHA
Did it make me a bad mom if I ordered pizza for the second time this week? I was willing to risk it. Come to think of it, I was sure there was a package of frozen broccoli stuffed somewhere in the back of the freezer. That would balance things out nicely.
I gathered the few scattered tissues beside my pillow and blew my nose with a fresh one. Dropping the tear-stained evidence into a garbage can, I strode out of my bedroom.
I slowed past the living room, where Mom was hanging tinsel on our recently purchased Christmas tree. She had sold my childhood home to move in with Anthony and me a few months after Dad’s funeral last year.
Dad’s memorial was exactly what he would have wanted. Mom served his favorite homemade mint lemonade, and a Minnesota Vikings flag was draped over his casket. The memory of it all caught in my throat.
I had never known the hollow misery of death. It was a surreal understanding that I could never understand. The surgeon had told us if Dad had come into the hospital even an hour earlier, they might have been able to do more.
So why couldn’t the clocks go back an hour? A daylight savings time to save my father?
Grief settled inside my home like an insidious roommate refusing to leave.
However, the simple sounds of Mom’s clanging pans and shuffling footsteps lifted my spirits a little.
Before she moved in with us, the house had felt too quiet with just me and Anthony.
And when he stayed with Ryan every other weekend, the silence suffocated me.
I couldn’t imagine surviving this dark season of loneliness without her.
The upcoming holiday season was an agonizing game of charades, where we acted as though everything was normal. Joyful, even. But deep inside, I was sure that at any moment, Dad would open the door. We would hear his deep, rumbling voice again as he stomped his snow-covered boots.
Mom’s blue eyes caught my reddened ones on the other side of the glowing Christmas tree, and her mouth pulled into a sad smile.
We didn’t need words to know how the other was feeling, so I returned a small, watery smile of my own and tipped a shoulder.
I heaved a sigh and continued to head for the freezer-burnt broccoli.
From above my dining room table, a glimpse of a cerulean hummingbird’s wing made me pause. A peaceful breath filled my lungs. Familiar comfort radiated from my favorite hummingbird’s portrait. The memento of my younger, passionate self made me smile.
Maybe Linda is on to something after all.
An orange football suddenly whizzed by, ruffling my sloppy ponytail.
Trepidation hit, rivaling the force with which the prohibited football hit the painting.
My lungs froze, only daring to exhale once the wobbling masterpiece slowed to a stop.
Footsteps dashed back down the hallway before my son’s bedroom door closed with a thud.
Not today.
I squatted by the dining room table, grunting as I retrieved the football. An escaped wavy lock of hair fell into my eyes, and I blew it away in frustration. Hadn’t I told Anthony a million times that footballs weren’t allowed in the house? I wrestled some semblance of calm into my voice.
“Anthony, will you please come here?”
Moments later, he shuffled into the dining room with small steps and tentative eyes. His stubborn cowlick stuck up in the back like Dad’s, threatening to prick my tear ducts.
“It was an accident.” Anthony swallowed, balancing while scratching the back of his ankle with his shoe.
Regardless of my crumbling life, Anthony didn’t deserve to be unloaded on. He had suffered over this last year, too. So I screwed my eyes shut, trying to remember whatever the first pages of Gentle Parenting for Beginners had advised.
“Sweetie, footballs are limited to outside play only. If you continue to ignore that rule, any ball thrown will be confiscated. That is my…” I hesitated, recalling page four. “Boundary.”
Anthony’s freckled face pinched tight. “Boundary? What does that mean?”
I paused, not quite knowing the answer myself. “Umm... It means you need to respect the rules in this house or there’ll be consequences.”
“Well that’s stupid. Dad lets me do whatever I want at his house!” Anthony folded his pale, lanky arms over his Green Bay Packers t-shirt that Ryan bought. Ryan must have gotten a kick out of sending Anthony back home to me with it.
My nostrils flared. “Yeah, well your father never cared about consequences,” I snapped before I could stop myself.
Stay calm.
I’d have to get better at biting my tongue. The last thing Anthony needed was to get caught in the crosshairs of our nasty divorce. I took another deep breath and said, “Your father can make the rules at his house, but you already know the rules in mine.”
“Yeah, well your rules suck,” Anthony muttered and stalked away. All I could register was the slam of his door and the “Gaming In Progress” sign settling against it with a knock.
Gentle parent, gentle parent… Aw, screw it.
“Anthony you get your sorry butt back here and apologize!”
No response.
I swung an exasperated look over my shoulder at Mom, whose lips seemed to twitch in amusement. She gave an encouraging nod before turning back to the Christmas tree. I could have sworn I heard a mumble that sounded a lot like “Deja vu”.
My bare feet pounded on the oak hardwood before I shoved Anthony’s door open.
The sight caused my temperature to spike.
A crumpled blue comforter lay across his bed.
Gaming controllers cluttered his nightstand, kept company by a stale mug of who-knows-what.
A black duffel bag leaned against his dresser, indicative he hadn’t unpacked since getting home from Ryan’s.
Anthony settled on his giant beanbag and reached for a controller.
I crossed the room in two long strides and snatched it up before he could grab it. My hip jutted out as I planted my fist atop it.
“Anthony, you are not allowed to speak to me like that. I expect a full apology, or you can kiss video games goodbye.”
Anthony’s blue eyes hardened, his jaw snapping shut in obvious defiance.
I was so mad that I entirely forgot the advice on diffusing situations from page five. Deciding to delay my lecture until it came back to me, Anthony’s unpacked weekend bag fell prey to my frustration.
Among the swaths of basketball shorts and pajamas I yanked out, my fingers brushed the edge of something hard. My eyebrows drew together as I pulled a familiar picture frame out.
He takes this to Ryan’s every other weekend?
Delight fluttered in my chest as I looked down at my younger, jubilant self holding a chunky baby and kissing his cheek. The birthday hat atop Anthony’s head was lopsided, as was the blue frosting lining his angelic smile.
Warmth melted away my irritation. Surly attitude or not, I adored the scowling boy behind me. Exhaling the rest of my anger, I instructed Anthony to scoot over before flopping beside him on the beanbag.
Propping myself on my elbows, I said, “Sweetie, I know all this…” There were simply no words accurate enough to represent the awful this.
“All this has been so hard for you. And I’m sorry for shouting.
You didn’t deserve that. And everything else that’s changed recently.
” My lips ruffled his cowlick with a kiss.
Anthony softened, leaning against my side. “I’m sorry too, Mom. Your rules don’t actually suck that bad.”
A belly laugh burst out of me. “Uh, thanks?"
A small smile tipped his mouth, though his voice grew serious. “And I don’t think you deserved what happened either, Mom.”
“Oh, honey.” My eyes began to prickle.
“I mean, I’m old enough to know that Dad should have kept it in his pants.”
“Anthony Frank Willis!” My shocked laughter rang out, equal parts horrified and amused. “Where on earth did you hear that?!”
“Grandma talks really loud.” He shrugged.
My lips twitched. Mom could be just as sassy as me sometimes. Deciding it best to change the subject, I took his hand.
“We’re going to get through this, but it may look a little different than we expect. We’ll find a new normal, I promise.” Two arms unexpectedly wrapped around my neck, pulling me close. My heart wrenched against his.
I smoothed his hair, patted his back, and whispered, “We both know how tough you can be, but it’s important to remember that moments of weakness don’t change that.”
Anthony’s tough-guy act splintered as he pulled away. “I just miss him, Mom.”
“I know, sweetie. But you’ll get to go to Dad’s again next weekend, I promise,” I said.
“Not Dad. Grandpa.” Anthony’s brimming eyes dropped to his lap.
My eyes smarted at the mention of Dad, and I fought to get the whisper out. “Me too, Anthony. I miss him every day.”
Anthony’s small hands pressed against his face as he lay back on the beanbag.
The familiar gesture told me exactly what he needed.
Privacy. He always wanted space when he became emotional, needed time to sort out his feelings before he could put them into words.
So I stood, kissed the top of his head, and headed for the door.
“We can talk more when you’re ready, okay sweetie? I love you.” I wiped a few escaped tears with the back of my hand.
Before the door closed, I heard a hushed, “Love you, Mom.”
I leaned against the wood paneling and took a deep breath. What would Dad say if he could see me now? I knew what he’d do—what he’d say. He’d brush my tears away with a calloused knuckle and say, “What are you, Squeaks? Tough as nails.”
Another deep breath filled me with resolve. I didn’t feel tough by any means, but if Dad thought I was, maybe I could be.
Anthony’s first birthday picture still in hand, I clung to the evidence that life hadn’t always been a dumpster fire. Collecting a few more frames on the way to my bedroom, I sprawled across my bed, laying them out one by one.