Page 14 of Mind Pucked

I hit submit and then move on to the next application. This one seems to only be asking for a resume and then a couple questions about my education and experience, but I see it doesn’t pay very much. I might as well work fast food for that wage.

I close the tab and roll my eyes, trying to stay positive.

“You can do it.” I feel silly, speaking to my self like this, but at least there’s no one around to hear in my own damn apartment.

A neighbor turns up their music, and I scowl at our shared wall. I turn up my own music. A song comes on that makes me want to get up and dance, but I’m stuck at this stupid computer trying to figure out what the hell to do with my life. A life that still feels like it’s in shambles after losing my brother.

I should be taking responsibility for myself, and for my future, but instead I feel a responsibility to my family to figure out what happened to Preston. I feel a responsibility to him, even though he was always my protector. If he is up there somewhere, really watching over me, he’s probably screaming about how he didn’t protect me all those years just for me to do this. This is not my job.

I roll my eyes and shoot him the finger.

I look at the three programs I have open for getting my certificate. One of them is really expensive, and I don’t want to ask my parents for any more money. They have it, and they’ll give it willingly, but I want to do something for myself for once. So, I close that one.

The next one has a payment plan. That’s promising. I start going through the website, looking hopefully at everything it has tooffer. This might be the one, though I’ll look at the other one just in case.

I’m in a trance, lost in the music I’m listening to—finally, now that the neighbor has gotten the message about their stupid death metal music blaring—when my doorbell rings.

I scowl as I go to answer it. I’m not exactly expecting anyone and haven’t ordered any packages. I sigh when I look through the peephole and see my mother standing on the other side of the door. She’s technically my stepmother, but I don’t think of her that way. My mom died when I was young, and my stepmom came into our lives not too long after, so both Preston and I have always just called her “Mom.”

She’s wearing all those frown lines she’s developed over the past year. Losing Preston has aged her and my father so much. They were so quick to talk about moving on and having him declared dead, but here they are looking worse than I do. It’s like they’ve turned into zombies.

And she’s been hovering ever since I came back to town. She immediately asked for my address, and she keeps showing up unannounced.

It’s a good thing I love this woman, because otherwise I’d be telling her off about my age and my privacy.

I plaster on a smile and swing the door open.

“Amelia, so glad you’re home.” She doesn’t wait for me to invite her in, just comes barging through so that I have to push the door open the rest of the way real fast. Her heels click against the cheap tile entryway, and the door creaks as I swing it shut. I have to give it a little extra shove with my shoulder to get it closed all the way before I can lock it.

She takes a few more steps into the apartment and looks around, as if it might be different than was the last time she was here, only five days ago. She has a bag in her hand, no doubt full of something to leave here. She never shows up empty-handed. And I don’t know if it’s just a habit after being a guest at a lot of important people’s houses, or if it’s charity. Either way, I wish I could tell her to shove it, but I just can’t hurt her that way. After all, I’m her only remaining child.

“Hi, Mom. You know you really should at least tell me when you’re coming. I want to make sure the place is clean and I don’t have any plans made…”

She waves me off with her manicured nails, almost scratching me on the nose. I have to dodge and weave like I’m in an MMA match.

“Don’t be silly. I don’t need anything special. I just need to see you.”

She turns to me as she says that, and she gives me the sad watery eyes. The ones I always feel so manipulated by, like a dagger to the heart.

I lead her into the living room so she can sit down, though she always sits on the very edge of the cushion. Maybe I need to get one of those plastic couch covers to make her feel better.

“What’s in the bag?” I ask, trying to make conversation.

She smiles and passes it over to me. I reach for it and take a look inside.

There’s some kind of store-bought dessert and some homemade dinner packed up into a couple of to-go bowls.

“Just a few things. Making sure you have your fridge and freezer stocked.”

I accept the gift, going to put it away in the kitchen, but I roll my eyes the whole way. “You do know that I’m grown and can provide food for myself, right?”

I turn toward her, watching as she wipes her clammy hands against her white slacks.

“I know that. I just want to be helpful. Let me spoil you. After all, you’re my only daughter.”

She gives me those puppy dog eyes again, and I resist the urge to remind her that I’m not just her only daughter, but her only child now. I’m constantly reminded of that fact when she pampers me like this in a way she never did before.

“So how’s Dad?” I ask, getting the elephant in the room out of the way. I haven’t seen my dad much since I came back to the States. Supposedly he’s depressed or something. Or he was, and counseling and medication helped him feel better, but now he’s having to do double duty at work to make up for the time he lost.

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