Page 39 of Landon & Shay: Part One

She made pancakes that tasted like baking soda, a burnt lasagna, and an extremely hideous coconut cake—my three favorite foods, completely butchered at the hand of my mother.

Maria would’ve been horrified. Shit, I was horrified, but she was there, trying—failing miserably at the cooking thing, but trying nonetheless.

Those nights, I knew she was right down the hall, just two doors away from me.

I knew her heartbeats were under the same roof as mine, beating the same rhythms as mine. I knew I wasn’t alone, and for the first time in a while, I was able to sleep.

I felt high with her being home—the kind of high pot couldn’t get a person.

Saturday morning, she was leaving, so I woke up early to cook her breakfast. I couldn’t really take any more burnt meals, and I figured it would be a nice gesture. Maria had taught me quite a few things in the kitchen throughout the past year.

Every time I made them and flipped the pancakes without messing them up, I felt like she was right there with me, patting me on the back, and sayingjob well done.

As I cooked the pancakes, Mom dragged her suitcases into the kitchen. She had one more suitcase than when she arrived, and I would’ve questioned why, seeing how she’d be home in less than two weeks for my birthday, but I’d learned from an early age to never question why a woman carried so much shit with them when they traveled. Once, on a family weekend getaway, Mom had brought five swimsuits. Five swimsuits for three days.

Somehow, she’d managed to wear every single one, too.

Some she had worn twice.

“Why does it smell like real food in here?” she questioned. “Mmm…” She walked over to the countertop, picked up a few pieces of the sliced bananas I’d prepped, tossing them into her mouth with the chopped walnuts. “Since when do you cook?”

Since you left me home alone to fend for myself.

I didn’t want to be a dick, though, not with her leaving soon. The last thing I ever wanted to do was make her feel like shit for being a shitty parent sometimes, even though, honestly speaking, she was a shitty parent sometimes.

I was sure I was a shitty son sometimes, too, but she never gave me hell about that.

That was part of being human—being shitty on accident sometimes. It was part of the human DNA.

“I’ve picked up a few tricks here and there,” I muttered. I left out the fact that Maria had taught me because I didn’t want Mom to feel like there was a woman being a better mother to me than she was. She was sensitive about that kind of stuff.

“Well, it smells amazing—and not burnt.”

“It’s my lucky day, I guess. I’ve burned my fair share of things.”

“You must get that from me,” she joked, walking over to kiss me on the cheek.

I volunteered to drive her to the airport, but she told me if I went with her, saying goodbye would be too hard. I understood, I supposed. I was feeling emotional enough to beg her to stay a little longer, and I didn’t want to be the dramatic dick asking their mommy to stay with them. Besides, she’d be back home soon enough for my birthday. It wouldn’t be too awful having her gone for a few days, because she’d turn around to come right back home to me.

“Can I have a hug?” she asked, and I obeyed.

She held me tight and pulled back to stare at me longingly with tears building up in her eyes. Then she hugged me again. I hated when she cried. It always made me feel hopeless.

“Come on, Ma, don’t get emotional. I’ll see you in a bit. Plus, you’re going to make me burn the pancakes.”

“Yes, sorry. It’s just…” Her eyes darted away, and her small frame shook a little.

“It’s just what?”

She shook her sadness away and smiled. “It’s nothing. I’m going to go put my hair up and wash my face. I’ll be right back for breakfast.”

She placed her purse on top of one of her suitcases.

As I was flipping her pancakes, her purse fell over, knocking all her girl crap across the floor. I put the spatula down and went to pick up a tampon I wished I hadn’t seen. The idea of your mom using tampons was an oddly disturbing thing. Moms weren’t supposed to have periods and crap. That was gross to think about.

I picked up the rest of her crap, too; lipsticks, change, pens, plane tickets.

My eyes darted across the roundtrip tickets, and I felt a knot in my gut.

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