8. Then
Then: October 10th
I t’s a rare occasion when I cook a meal for my family. I don’t do it often, but I enjoy doing it, surprisingly. Mom cooks most of the meals because of Dad’s busy work schedule. He’s an accounting manager, whatever that might mean. He’s always gone before I wake up in the mornings and never gets home before six in the evening.
Mom still hasn’t made an appearance. Dad will be home any minute and wonder where she is. I haven’t made up my mind yet if I’m going to tell him about our girls' day of playing hooky. He doesn’t know I skipped school and drove myself home from the mall across town. He also has no idea that, likely, Mom might still be there if she stayed to watch a movie.
There is no point in trying to call her or send her a text because she doesn’t own a phone. She said once that all the people she needed in her life were right here, meaning me and Dad, so what is the point of carrying a device around?
Dad had bought me a phone for my birthday last year. I was nervous when I opened it, waiting for Mom’s reaction, but she didn’t act bothered by it in the slightest. She didn’t act overly excited, but she didn’t seem disappointed either. I took that as a good sign.
Tonight I’m making one of her favorite meals, one she taught me how to make a few years ago. It’s simple, but the dish takes a lot of time to fully prepare. Timing everything to come out at the same time can be tricky. I’m making meatloaf in the oven, cornbread, green beans cooked with bacon and brown sugar, and a chocolate cake for dessert.
Today has been a lot of fun, other than Mom whining like a child when I said I was ready to go home. She doesn’t deserve this kind of treatment, but I still love her despite everything. I want to make this for her. But I also just want her here.
I’ve got flour and bacon grease on my apron, and I haven’t stopped moving for the past hour and a half, making sure everything is going to come out at the same time.
Dad is the first to get home. He walks in through the garage. It’s early October now and all the leaves have turned. We’ve already had a few snowfalls, and Mom doesn’t enjoy being out in the snow. I wonder who she will end up getting a ride home with. I just hope she makes it home okay. I push away the worry for now and serve Dad a plate of steaming food.
Taking the plate from me and walking over to the table, he looks back at me, beaming. “Thanks, Sweet P. This all looks amazing! Is Jo here?”
Jo is what he always calls Mom, short for Jolene.
His eyes shine with a trace of worry, but he doesn’t move from his seat as he shovels in a large bite.
“No, not yet. I’m sure she will be here any minute.” I have no idea when she will arrive, but I hope it’s soon.
He wipes his mouth with a napkin and nods, as though we’ve gone through this routine a hundred times. Only we haven’t. She’s always home in time for dinner, no matter what.
He pats the chair beside him, indicating that he wants me to come join him. It feels wrong to enjoy this meal I worked so hard on without Mom here, but I decide to sit down anyway. There’s enough food that we will all be enjoying its leftovers for the next several days.
Dad and I don’t usually talk much during our meals together. Usually, Mom carries the conversation. She always has something new to say. I’m not sure how that’s possible since she doesn’t have a phone or job, yet she never runs out of things to talk about. Dad and I can only make so much small talk before the conversation runs dry. Bone dry.
He clears his throat and gazes up at me with his steel-gray eyes. “There’s something we should talk about, sweetie. Uh, about your mom.”
My mind races. What about Mom? Is she okay? Does he have any idea where she is?
I stare down at my plate of food, my appetite suddenly gone. “What do you mean?” I ask.
“Well, have you noticed anything different about her lately?” He asks.
Different about Mom? I don’t know. Was I supposed to notice something about her that wasn’t there before? What am I missing?
“Well, she hasn’t been herself lately,” he says after I sit there in silence for a few minutes.
Mom is rarely ever “herself.” Some days she’s Fun Mom and we skip school and go for ice cream. Other days she’s Tired Mom and needs some extra sleep. And then there are days she’s Busy Mom and she’s everywhere all at once. Everywhere but here, tonight, with us.
Despite whatever “Mom” she is that day, she’s still my mom, and I can’t imagine a world without her. I don’t want to think about that. She’ll come back home, she always does .
“Just spit it out, Dad. What’s wrong with Mom?” I’m getting frustrated and impatient. I’m never that forward with him, but I feel like we aren’t getting there fast enough, and I need to know.
He swallows his bite and pauses, eyes staring into mine. But he doesn’t look angry. Dad rarely ever gets angry. Sometimes, I wish he would. It would make him seem a little more human and a little less robotic.
“Nothing is wrong with your mom, okay? She just has these episodes sometimes, where she can’t control what she does or says. She’s started a new medication that we are hoping helps her.”
Episodes. I’ve never heard him call them that before. I don’t think he’s ever said anything about the way Mom acts. He just loves her anyway, like I do. Like I always will. Maybe it's different for him. Maybe she’s different with Dad. I wouldn’t know. I hardly ever see them together, even when we’re all “together.”
When Dad’s not working and it’s just the two of them, they’ve always seemed a bit off to me. They might be present in the same house, but it seems like they are two opposing magnets and they can’t get too close. If Mom’s cooking something in the kitchen, Dad is most likely in the living room watching TV or reading the paper. If Mom’s in her favorite chair reading a book, Dad will be somewhere else in the house making himself busy. It’s as though they’ve spent so much time apart they’ve forgotten how to be around each other. They exist but in opposite directions.
I wish I could remember if they’ve always been like this or if this is something new. I’ve only noticed their distance from each other recently. I haven’t been paying either one of them close attention if I’m being completely honest. I haven’t had a reason to. But Mom’s been so up and down lately, it’s almost like I can’t help but notice the smallest of movements between both parents now.
I don’t know what to say. “What kind of medication? Mom’s mentioned taking something before. She said they made her sleepy.”
He nods as he takes another bite. Mom still hasn’t come home. Worry is starting to creep in. What kind of side effects does this new medication have? Where is she?
He doesn’t answer my question. Not directly anyway. “Yes, that was the one before. This one should be better, but she just started taking it a few days ago. We’ll have to wait and see. Just… you always do a great job with her, Sweet P, but let me know if you notice anything weird, okay?”
He’s starting to scare me. What is he not telling me? “Weird how?” I ask.
“Oh, nothing serious. Just, you know, some of the moods she gets in sometimes. She’s good to you, right?”
I nod my head. This conversation is making me uncomfortable.
“Okay, then. Good. Let me know, okay? Did she say when she thought she might be getting home?” he asks as he tugs lightly on the collar of his shirt. His neck is red and blotchy as though he’s been scratching at it. Is he more worried than he’s letting on? What’s going on?
I honestly have no idea what to tell him. She’s now thirty minutes late.
“I don’t know, Dad. She should have been home by now, but she isn’t. I’m going to my room,” I say, quietly excusing myself to finish what’s left on my plate in my room. I’m too numb to cry any tears. I lie in bed awake, waiting for my mother to come back home.
It’s nine p.m. when Mom finally walks in through the door. I lay in my darkened room and listen to Dad and Mom talking. I can’t hear what they are saying, just the cadence of the talking through the closed door from elsewhere in the house. Ten minutes later the talking turns to shouting. I’ve never heard either parent raise their voice before. First, it’s Dad I hear yelling. Soon after, it’s Mom yelling back even louder.
It’s not until I hear something shatter that I leap out of bed. I find Mom standing in the living room with broken glass surrounding her. Dad slams a door somewhere else in the house, and Mom stands there frozen and stunned. Someone had taken the glass bowl that sits by the front door that holds our keys and threw it onto the ground.
After I clean up the mess, I pause, considering what I should do next. Dad hasn’t come out from wherever he’s retreated, and Mom remains frozen in her spot. Her eyes are wide and her hands are trembling at her sides. I gently walk her over to the couch and make a spot for her to sleep. When I start to wrap the blanket around her I bend down to kiss her cheek. Her arms loop around me in a warm embrace.
Like an earthquake, she begins to break. She sobs into my hair as she holds me. I don’t let her go until she’s calmed herself down.
“He’s mad at me. Really mad this time,” she chokes out in broken breaths against me.
I don’t know what she’s talking about, but figure now isn’t the best time to ask. Right now she needs me.
I don’t want to leave her so I make a spot to sleep in her favorite cozy chair. It’s an ugly thing, this chair. I’m pretty sure she told me once that she bought it at a yard sale soon after I was born. It’s a light green color covered in flowers of every shape and color. It rocks and reclines, probably part of why she loves it so much. The fabric is worn and frayed, like a loved stuffed animal, and maybe that’s exactly what it’s like to her. I keep my eyes open as long as I can manage. And like a song on repeat, all I can hear as I close my eyes are the broken cries of the mother I love.