As he makes his way up several flights of steps to the sidewalk, where another gloomy, wet December dusk has fallen, his pocket vibrates.
Ah, cellular coverage has resumed. Pulling out his phone, he sees that he missed three calls while he was stuck underground. Predictably, one is from Bob.
The others are far more important.
Rowan was late getting home after spending fifteen minutes in the car talking to her sister. Mick was already upstairs when she got there.
Now she’s back behind the wheel with him in the passenger seat, wearing his busboy uniform and a jacket she insisted he put on because it’s chilly out. He grudgingly agreed.
“You begged me to buy you that coat,” she reminds him as she drives toward Marrana’s. “And it cost a fortune. Now you never want to wear it.”
“That’s not true.”
Rather than argue, she changes the subject. “Did you eat?”
“Yeah, I had cereal. I couldn’t find anything else.”
“I’m sorry. I meant to get groceries over the weekend, but . . . you know. There was a lot going on.”
“I know,” he agrees, although of course he can’t possibly know what’s been going on: that his mother is neglecting to feed her family because she’s been caught up in this . . . this ugly . . . thing.
“I’ll stop at the store right now, and when you come home later, I’ll make you anything you—-”
“Mom, it’s okay. I ate.”
“Cereal isn’t dinner.”
“I’ll get something at the restaurant later. It’s fine. Really.”
No. Clearly, it isn’t fine. Mick has resumed staring out the window on his side of the car. Something is bothering him. She wants to ask what it is, but is afraid to.
What if he’s figured out what she’s been up to?
Oh, come on. Since when do kids his age waste two seconds brooding about anything that doesn’t directly impact themselves?
Having raised two and a half teenagers, she’s fairly certain that whatever is on Mick’s mind has nothing to do with her. More likely it’s something involving school, or basketball. Or a girl.
When she pulls up in front of Marrana’s, he yanks down the visor and looks into the mirror. From the corner of her eye, she can see him finger combing his hair.
Definitely a girl.
He snaps the visor back up and pulls off the jacket, tossing it into the backseat before reaching for the door.
“Wait, Mick—-it’s cold outside.”
“So? I’m not going to be outside.”
“So . . . what, you’re going to tunnel underground to get over to the door?” she asks dryly, and is rewarded with a brief smile, a flash of the easygoing boy he used to be.
“I’ll be fine, Mom. You have to stop worrying about everything.” Again, he reaches for the door.
“Wait.” She touches his arm, reluctant to let him go just yet. “Anything special you want me to pick up at the store for you?”
“Nah. See you later.”
With that, he’s gone.
Watching him disappear into the restaurant, she basks in a moment of maternal normalcy as precious as the marital normalcy she’d appreciated on date night at Marrana’s with Jake. If only she could go back to the time when her kids’ tribulations were all that kept her up at night.
Whenever one of them decided the world was coming to an end, she felt the same way. Fretting along with her kids about breakups and SAT scores was nothing compared to realizing that someone might want to destroy her happily--ever--after.
She looks at the dashboard clock. She has plenty of time to go to the supermarket. Jake has a late meeting and won’t be home for at least another hour, maybe two. She can make a nice dinner for a change. Not that she’s hungry, despite the fact that she hasn’t eaten since breakfast, and that consisted of a few bites of an apple.