Page 2 of Acts of Contrition

“That’s great! Where?” I ask, giving her a hug she only half-heartedly returns. I have a bad feeling about this job, but I know better than to tell her not to take it.

“There’s a man who comes into the restaurant; he needs an after-hours assistant. You know, paperwork and things he doesn’t want to leave for the next day but the nine-to-fivers won’t stay overtime to do,” she explains.

And she’s lying. I know she’s lying. I can’t say how, but I know. “Well, I guess I am old enough to stay home alone in the evenings,” I say.

“It’s not five nights, just three, but it will put us ahead,” Mom says, and then she smiles, though it doesn’t reach her eyes.

“Thank you for working hard,” I tell her. “And I will do anything you need to help. All the chores, whatever.”

Mom looks at me with weary eyes. “I know. That’s what I hate; you need to focus on being a child as long as you can. It goes away too quickly.”

How do I tell her the child she knew died the day she found her father’s stinky, soiled, rigor mortis-still corpse?

Chapter Two

Diana

MOM WILL WORK Wednesday, Friday, and Saturday nights. That may change as workflow changes, or so she tells me. I don’t know; I’ve never been in an office or know what this guy does to figure out what changes would even happen.

Her first night of work is this week, and she looks much better going to this job than to cook, in a flared skirt and silk blouse with makeup on. Her leg taps the table leg as I eat dinner, and I note that she doesn’t eat much.

“Mom,” I say, startling her.

“Dammit.”

“Sorry. I just wanna say you don’t need to be worried. You’ll do great.”

She manages a smile. “Thank you, honey. And thank you for being able to take care of yourself. I know I won’t come home to the place burnt down or worse.”

I smile back. “You can trust me!” And she can. I’d rather do my homework and get in bed and read than anything else.

She gets up and kisses the top of my head. “Be good. See you in the morning.”

I don’t see Mom in the morning; she’s still asleep when I’m ready for school. So I just leave her a note and head in. I’m sure she worked hard, right? She deserves rest.

It’s when she comes home from the job at the diner I panic: she looks like death warmed over with thick, dark circles under her eyes.

“What’s wrong?” I ask, hugging her tight.

She hugs me back, but weak. “I’m just not used to this, honey. It’s okay. Give me time to adjust.”

And she seems to adjust. Sort of. She still looks awful but as time goes by, she’s functional. The bills are paid. She’s back to making jokes again. In my childish mind, I fully believe we are going to be okay.

One day when I am getting in from school, I find mom frantically cleaning.

“Um, what’s up?” I ask, putting my backpack on the kitchen chair.

“Mike wants to come for dinner!”

“Mike, your new boss Mike?”

“Yes, now help me once you get out of your uniform,” she says.

Mom even makes me dress well, in one of my dresses I usually wear to Mass on Sundays.

“He’s never met you; only seen you when you study at the counter at the diner sometimes,” she explains. “So look sharp, please, sweetheart.”

I do as she asks, knowing my first impression on her boss has to be important. I want Mom proud of me, and I want him to like me and approve.

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