Maybe I should have told her the truth . . . no. No way. I can’t trust her with it.
I scrub both hands over my face, struggling to wrench myself around. “Mom . . . did you use the emergency money?” She’s pacing the kitchen now, moving dirty dishes from one spot on the counter to another. “Mom? Did you use the money to go out with Vic?”
“Sweetheart.” She rounds on me, eyes huge and rolling, and I know. She doesn’t even have to answer. I already know what she’s going to say. “This was an emergency. How else was I supposed to get myself out of bed?”
“We needed that money. I don’t have enough to pay the electric bill. We’re behind. You know that. They’re going to cut us off.”
Mom makes a disgusted noise. “So we live by candles for a few days. It’ll be romantic.”
“I’m not into romance.”
“Fine. I’ll make it back in a week. Vic’s going to help me find another job.”
I tense. “What kind of job?”
“Waitressing. Better place though.” She takes a cigarette from her crocheted purse, putting it to her lips and pausing as she remembers how much I hate it when she smokes. She stuffs it back in the box. “It’ll be so much better than before, Will. I promise. Not like that ridiculous cashier deal—and no Sipkins always staring at me.”
“And mouth-breathing.”
Mom smiles. “I’m going to get my act together. You’ll see. It’s going to be better. By the time your dad comes home . . .”
She crosses the kitchen, places her palm against my cheek. “I’m so lucky to have you, Will. You make me so much stronger. You’re such a good kid.”
It’s meant as a compliment. I think I’m supposed to be touched, but mostly I just cringe. We’ve done this for years. Maybe this was part of the reason he left. I am her Good Son, her “rock,” her “bright spot.” I’ve been that for so long, I’m not sure who I’d be without it.
What happens if everything you are is what you’re pretending to be? What happens if you check underneath the mask you wear for everyone else, you lift it . . . and there’s nothing?
She pushes away from me, eyes sticking to the drawings scattered across the table. There are plenty to choose from: Emily and her roommate drinking on their porch . . . the neighbor’s Labrador . . . Wolverine from the X-Men . . . but she picks Wick.
“These are beautiful, baby.”
“They’re okay.”
She picks up the top sketch and I stiffen, worried she’ll recognize the girl, but her attention sweeps to the others. “Remember when we used to paint together, Will? I taught you all your colors.”
“I remember.” I watch her fingertips tap the lines of Wick’s hair. “You’re not getting better, are you, Mom?”
She shakes her head, stops. Blinks. Blinks again. I’m not the only one surprised by her honesty.
“No, baby,” she says at last. “I’m not.”
“What are we going to do?”
Her smile is so small. “Take care of each other like we always do. We’re making it work, right?”
“Right.” It’s so automatic to reassure her I don’t stop to think about it . . . until now. If this is “making it,” then why do I feel like I’m drowning?
I stuff both hands into my khakis’ pockets, feel my phone. Still no return text from Wick. I’m going to have to find another way to earn Carson’s pay.
Mom wobbles a bit as she turns for her bedroom door, and I realize it’s going to have to be sooner rather than later. That means going directly to Bender. Which also means going to my uncle.
“Watch a movie with me?” Mom tugs at the loosened ponytail holder sliding down her hair. “It’ll only take me a minute to change.”
No, it won’t, but if I tell her I’m not interested, it’ll be another round of You’re Just Like Your Father and I can’t handle that right now. “Yeah. Okay.”
As soon as the bathroom door shuts, I dial Paul.
“Who is this?” My uncle sounds like I’ve woken him up. I have no idea if that’s because he just went to bed or because he never got out of it.
“Hey, it’s Griff.”
“Griff, my man. Heyyyyyy.”
“Look.” I pause, listening to make sure the shower has cut on and my mom can’t hear me. “I need work. Think you can help?”
“What kind of work?”
“I heard your friend Bender might need a hand.” I pray that Paul gets so wrapped up in the compliment that Joe Bender is his friend that he doesn’t think to ask me where I “heard” about anything.
“I could make a call,” he says.
Relief makes me sag. I plug our ancient VCR into the television and look through the pile of tapes lying next to it. “Great. I appreciate you doing that.”
“I’ll text you if he wants to meet. This number?”
“Yeah.”
“This could be a good opportunity for you,” Paul says, and there’s a scrape and puff on the other end as my uncle lights a cigarette. “You could forget about that pansy art shit and get a real job.”
Like you? I want to ask. “I gotta go, Paul. Keep me posted on what he says.”
“Will do—hey! Hey, Griff?”