Page 76 of From Nowhere

“Sweetheart, come here.” Mom stands from her rocking chair and slides on her thick glasses. She’s lost most of her vision, which explains why her chin-length brown-and-gray hair is always ratted in the back and her button-down blouse is usually off by one or two buttons. She’s not the put-together Gina “Perfectionist” Laster she used to be.

Lola hugs her.

“How is school?”

“Almost over,” Lola says.

“Where’s Ruth?” I ask about her sister, who moved in to help my mom after my dad died.

“She had a hair appointment.” Mom holds out her arms to me, and I embrace her.

“I have a kitten,” Lola says with her eyes alight. “Well, he’s not really mine, but I found him, and sometimes I get to watch him. His name is Bandit Mouse Bernabe.”

Mom eases back into her chair and turns down the volume on the TV. “That’s a nice name.”

“Where’s Paxton?” Lola pokes her head into the kitchen, searching for Aunt Ruth’s parrot.

“He’s in the bedroom,” Mom says.

Lola skips down the small hallway to the bedroom.

“How’s she doing?” Mom asks.

I sit on the faded green-and-white striped sofa. “She’s good. Great, actually, now that she gets to have a part-time pet.”

“And therapy?”

“The same.”

“How are you? How’s work?”

“I’m good. Work’s good,” I say, leaning back and craning my neck to look for any sign of Lola. “I’ve met someone.”

Mom straightens in her chair. “Oswald, that’s great. Tell me about her.”

“She’s a breath of fresh air. Unexpected. And I can’t stop grinning when I’m with her. Her humor is refreshing. When she laughs, I feel it deep in my chest. And she seems to adore Lola.”

Mom presses her hand to her chest. “Do you hear yourself?” she says, with thick emotion.

“Hear myself?”

“You didn’t tell me her name. You didn’t tell me what she looks like. And you didn’t tell me what she does for a living. I hope this woman knows how lucky she is to have you. A man who really sees the parts of her that matter.”

I laugh. “You might be a little biased.”

“Perhaps. But you’re a hundred times the man your father was. God rest his soul. I loved him, but he wasn’t, well, you know.” She folds her wrinkly hands and nervously wrings them. It’s what she does whenever she or anyone else mentions my father. I feel indifferent about him. It’s the only way I can reconcile the way he died and everything he stole in the process. Anger and regret are a waste of time.

But I don’t want to talk about him. “Well”—I act like she didn’t mention my father—“just to give you a few of those details, her nameis Maren. She is beautiful inside and out. She’s a firefighter—a tanker pilot. And she’s never been married.”

“See how boring all of that is compared to you feeling her laughter in your chest?”

I hum. “True. Also, Lola thinks we’re just friends.”

“Why? Don’t you think she’s old enough to handle the truth?”

“She’s old enough to handle the truth but not old enough to keep a secret.”

“A secret from who?”

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