I listen at my mother's bedroom door for the sounds of the sewing machine to die down. Once she's asleep, I'll do what I've been doing for almost a year now, slipping out into the night, living a second life. The one I can't when the sun is up and shining, when my mother's only remaining sliver of sanity comes from knowing I am home with her. Ever since dad died, she lives more in the tiny world inside her bedroom walls and less in the one outside of them. While I go through the motions all day, tending to the ranch, reading, riding, doing things to keep my hungry mind occupied-I am living less and less during the day and more at night.
I convinced mother that it would be safe for me to go to a local college during the day. I'm strong now, stronger than her. But if I am even a minute late returning home, it sets her off into a frenzy. I don't have to worry about that when she takes her pills and sinks into a deep sleep. My time belongs to me again.
The whirring stops.
“Sam! I'm taking my pills and going to sleep!” she calls out, thinking I'm in my room. I wait a few beats, then open her door.
“Good night,” I say. Ever since dad died, my stuttering has improved even more at home. I keep quiet at school, staying to myself. I sit in the back or on a bench on the quad and watch everyone else. Socializing, smiling, communicating. It all comes too easily to them, the way the words just pour out of their mouths. Now that he's gone, the constant tension I used to feel in my neck and throat has eased. I think I can do it. I think the words can come out of me with maybe a stammer here or there, but I can't bring myself to try. It's been so long since I've tried to make a friend, the thought of it makes my heart race and my palms sticky with sweat. So I watch. It's better than being alone at home. I fill in the blanks from a distance, pretending to be part of their conversations.
That's what I was doing yesterday, hypnotized by the moving lips of a cute girl talking to a guy, when someone called out my name.
“Hey, Sam!” It's distant, the voice, as if muffled by a smothering pillow. I'm so caught up in what I'm watching, I think it's just another part of the fantasy. “Sam!” the voice is right beside me now, and a hand slaps my back. I jump to my feet ready to defend myself. My mother's beliefs have been ingrained so deeply in my psyche, that even now that I'm not sure any of it was real, I don't trust anyone.
I spin around to meet the person accosting me. Scoot.
“Wh—what are you doing here?” I ask.
“I'm seeing a girl here. She used to go to school down by me, but she transferred. What are you doing here?”
“I'm taking classes.”
He tucks his chin in a bit, as if he's taken aback. Scoot went back to school a couple of weeks after dad died. He calls home every week, but I never told him about this. I don't know why.
“Well, that's great. What for?”
“Thinking electrical engineering,” I say. “Mom d-didn't say you were coming home.”
Scoot's smile morphs into a frown as he breaks eye contact. “I didn't tell her. Ya know, I was just going to visit for a night. I didn't want to make a thing of it.”
A thing of it. Mom is my burden to carry. Scoot does everything he can not to be bothered by us. Just like the rest of the family. The only difference is he has no choice but to at least call once a week.
“Yeah,” I answer.
Scoot glances down at his watch. “Shit, I'm already running late. I'll call later this week.” He slaps me on the shoulder. “I'm happy for you, man. You look—you sound— good.”
I give him a reassuring nod and watch him jog off.
Now that mom's gone to bed, my heart vibrates with anticipation. I have to be patient, make sure she's deep asleep. But this ritual, it makes me feel a type of thrill I have never known before.
I hop into the shower, a productive way to pass the time. Just as I am wrapping a towel around my wet body, I hear the house phone ring.
“Shit!” I hiss. It's unlikely she'll wake up. But a late night phone call will send mom into a frenzy of paranoia if I don't grab it. And who the fuck is calling at this time? No one calls this house, especially after eight.
I race to the phone. I hate the fucking phone. It reduces me to my greatest weakness.
“Hello?” I answer.
“Sam, it's me,” Scoot replies.
“Oh, ss-something wrong?” I ask.
“No, I mean nothing serious. You have any plans tonight?”
He's expecting me to say no. He knows how things are. And that's true as far as plans I can express openly.
“Mom's asleep.”