“What bad words have you been saying about your only son?” I wonder if she knows Jett and Payton have been seeing each other. Both Mom and Dad have been vocal about their opinions on Jett and his bad decisions. It doesn’t mean they don’t love him anymore. One phone call to Mom and she would be there for him, but there is no denying if ever it was broken down to sides, they’d stand by Payton.
“Ask me no questions and I’ll tell you no lies.” I hold her eyes, the same green as mine, and wait to see if she elaborates. She doesn’t, so I put a pin in the conversation for later and move on.
“So what are you guys doing here?” I let Arabella climb off my lap, and walk over to the corner where I keep a small box of coloring books and pencils.
“Well, Arabella and I are heading out to lunch. We tried calling you, seeing as it’s your day off, but then I remembered how much of a workaholic my only daughter is and I thought we’d drop in to drag you away.” She leans forward, her eyes gliding over my desk to see what I’ve been working on.
“Ha ha, and where is Payton in all this?” I pick up the notebook I was writing in and place it in the top drawer of my desk. I’m a little annoyed with Payton. I haven’t heard from her all week. I know she’s avoiding me, but I still have issues to go over with her.
One being I’m tempted to do the most stupid thing I’ve ever done and tape the crude, mean note I told her I wouldn’t write on apartment nine’s door.
Not that she wouldn’t be all for it.
“She had some errands to run,” Mom answers, unaware of the impending drama or my near future meltdown.
“Well, as much as I’d love to come to lunch with my favorite niece and mom, I already have something plan–”
“I’m serious, darling. You work too much.” She cuts me off, probably not believing I really do have plans.
“Please, I work a normal eleven-hour day like most people, Mom.”
“Statistics show people who work eleven hours a day or more have a 67 percent greater chance of suffering from coronary heart disease.” She folds her thin arms across the front of her, her cute little self being swallowed up by the chair.
Why couldn’t I have gotten my mom's genes? She’s so petite and angelic. At fifty-six, she’s all class and style. Blonde hair, fair skin and a fashion sense to rival the best of the best.
“I’m thirty years old, Mom. I’m not going to have heart disease. Relax.”
“I’m just saying.” She unfolds her arms and offers me an unapologetic shrug.
“What’s heart dibeebs?” Arabella’s sweet, high-pitched voice asks.
“It’s what happens when you work way too much,” Mom replies, a smug smile on her face.
“Do you have heart dibeebs?” Her head tilts to the side, giving me a once over, searching for this elusive heart disease.
“No, sweetie. Nana was being silly,” I assure her before Mom puts any crazy ideas in her head. I already get it from my friends and family; I don’t want it from my sweet Arabella.
“So, what are these plans of yours that are stopping you from lunching with us?” Mom drops the morbid work statistics and moves onto trying to wear me down.
“I have an outing with one of the boys. He’s been getting into a little trouble at school, so I need some one-on-one time with him. Give him some positive reinforcement.”
Mitch is our newest resident. He’s only been in care at Boys Haven for the last six months and since he’s been here I’ve grown a little fond of him. I know it’s not smart, getting attached to the kids who come through the doors, but something about Mitch has struck a chord with me.
He first entered the system with his older brother, Dominic, at nine, when his father murdered his mom. With no other living family, there wasn’t anywhere else for them to go. The first few years they were kept together—bounced around from foster care to group homes—but soon it became apparent Dominic wasn’t interested in playing by the rules. With a bad attitude, some serious anger issues and an opposition to authority, Dominic continued to find himself getting involved with the wrong crowd. The boys’ case workers tried to keep them separated, but Dominic’s hold over Mitch is strong. Always finding a way to drag him down. It’s only since Dominic turned eighteen and left the system that we've seen Mitch slowly come into his own.
“You get too involved, Liberty. You need to be careful.” Mom’s face takes on the don’t-mess-with-me look that worked so well back when I was a teenager.
“Mom….” I think I manage the same tone I used to reply with back then—bored with my best I-know-better-than-you attitude.
“I’m serious, Bertie. I worry about you.”