Page 72 of Bad Boys Don’t Date Clumsy Girls

Chapter Twenty-Seven

“Why hasn’t your boyfriend been around?” Mom asks.

She needs exercise to avoid blood clots, but she’s still weak and unsteady, so we are walking up and down the hallway, which is crowded and boring.

Dylan only had to sneak out of school for three days. After that, she only needed the pain pills every twelve hours. And thank goodness, because that 2:00 am dose that Joel and I took turns waking up to dispense was a killer. Even though we only had to do it twice each, it felt like weeks. It’s been two days since Dylan last visited Mom, but I think she’s having a hard time figuring out time. She misses him and it’s adorable.

“Wait. Boyfriend?” I ask. “He’s not my boyfriend.” I snort. I don’t tell her I want him to be my boyfriend, but we can’t actually go on a date while I’m rushing home to take care of her all the time.

“He said he was.” Mom stops and rests a hand against the wall. She closes her eyes, so I know she’s combatting light headedness. I stop next to her with one hand hovering in front of her and the other behind, in case she topples.

“He did?”

“That’s how he introduced himself that first day he showed up.” Mom’s eyes open again, and she resumes her shuffling down the hall.

“Really?” It seems strange that he would presume that. Maybe he thought saying he was my boyfriend gave him more right to stop at the house to drug my mom.

Mom sighs and I can’t tell if it’s from pain or frustration or what. “Maybe he just said friend. I guess I thought you were dating because of the sweet way he talked about you.”

We reach the end of the hall and turn around to go back the way we came. Mom wobbles as she shifts one foot at a time to navigate the turn. My hands are constantly hovering near her, ready to catch her if she falls. It’s crazy to me how unsteady she is. I have taken so much for granted about my mobility. I had no idea until now, watching Mom struggle. “What did he say?”

“I don’t really remember, honey. This last week has been a blur. But whatever he said made me think he’s really crazy about you.”

Dylan hasn’t shared much about any of his visits with me. And now with Mom being cagey—or maybe simply forgetting—I still have no idea what they talked about or if Grandma yelled at him for breaking and entering. It’s frustrating.

Mom continues. “I guess I also assumed he was a boyfriend because he was here in the house. I can’t remember the last time you had a friend over.”

I frown. “You know why that is, right?” My pulse races. I can’t believe I just asked that question out loud. I see her eyebrows knit together. Maybe the question is too complicated for her mind right now. She can’t recall everything, even though she gets better each day. I’d be totally okay with her not being able to follow this conversation.

“Because I sleep during the day?” Mom glances sideways at me and the movement causes her to tip forward. I lunge to steady her.

“No, Mom.” Though I’m terrified, I feel like I must discuss this now. I swallow. “The screaming and yelling. The door slamming. The name-calling. It’s embarrassing, sure, but it’s also horrible to be around.”

Mom stays silent as she shuffles up the hall. When we get to her room, she points, indicating she’s ready to lay down again. I help her back into bed and get pillows propped behind her and around her.

“Do you want anything? Water? A pudding snack?”

Mom shakes her head—albeit slowly. She’s still frowning. “Ava.” She pats the bed beside her.

I look between her and the spot on the bed. I’m not sure we’ve ever had a sit-down kind of talk before and I’m afraid to do so now. But she just stares at me expectantly, so I finally perch on the edge of the bed, thigh muscles engaged and ready for flight.

“It has been horrible being a part of the fighting too.”

I gape at her honesty. She isn’t deflecting the issue or blaming it on anyone else. “I’m sure it has.”

She picks at the bedspread. “Mom and I have a lot of issues to work out. It goes way, way back to my own childhood and some horrible things that happened that I can’t forgive her for. But I’ve done such a bad job raising you and Joel and that is absolutely my fault.”

“Mom,” I whisper because this is the scariest conversation I’ve ever had. “You didn’t do a bad job.”

Her eyebrows arch and then knit. It moves the bandages wrapped around her head, and I wonder if it hurts her head to be that expressive.

“You didn’t raise us at all. You had nothing to do with our upbringing. Grandma pays the mortgage, she buys the food, our clothes, and our school supplies. She pays the bills—well, Joel helps now that she’s on a fixed income. But you have never done any mothering to us.”

Mom deflates. She looks so tiny covered by the mass of blankets and surrounded by pillows. It’s the most human and vulnerable I’ve ever seen her, and for the first time, I realize that she is flawed in a human way. She’s not a monster or evil. She’s just a very, very flawed human.

“I’ve always been a little jealous that you and Joel received a better version of Mom than I did.” Mom closes her eyes, and a tear rolls down her cheek. “I thought because I protected you from what happened to me, I’d done better. But I didn’t.”

I don’t know what to say, so I stare at the swirly pattern of the raggedy carpet.

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