Page 31 of Everything We Give

“Tonight?”

“My flight’s in a few hours. I’m packed and ready to go.”

“But I thought you wanted me to go with you.”

“Next time.”

Her frown deepens. Worry clouds her eyes. “You’re not making sense, Ian. What does Spain have to do with your mom?”

“Everything.”

CHAPTER 9

IAN, AGE ELEVEN

“Did you have a nice sleep?” Ian’s mom asked when he entered the kitchen. She was sitting at the table, sipping tea.

“Yes.” Ian yawned, scratching his head through sleep-tousled hair, and fixed himself a bowl of Wheaties. He joined his mom at the table and shoveled a spoonful into his mouth. With an empty expression, she watched him chew. She might be looking at him, but she wasn’t seeing him.

Ian hated when she stared at him like that. His chest twinged and his chewing slowed as he watched her, waiting. Who knew who his mom would come back as when she retreated into her head? He noticed her uncombed hair and the shadows under her eyes, the misaligned buttons on her robe. She picked at her ragged nails.

Ian pushed the cereal flakes around in his bowl. “I heard the phone ringing. Was it Dad?”

She nodded and sipped her tea. “Yes.”

Ian exhaled with relief when it was his mom who answered. “What time will he be home?”

“He wants to stay for the press conference. He’ll be home late tomorrow morning.”

Ian slumped in his chair. He’d been hoping they could go fishing at the lake this afternoon like they used to. They’d wait for the fish to bite and his dad would teach him new tricks with his camera. Ian had read an article about time-lapse photography and wanted to give it a try. He didn’t have the skill or the equipment. His dad did, though. But now with the trip extension, they wouldn’t have time together before his dad left for his next assignment.

He missed his dad.

He missed spending time with him.

For almost a year after Jackie had abandoned Ian on the roadside, his dad had stayed home and worked for the local paper. Ian’s mom agreed to be admitted to the hospital, where they kept her under observation, as his dad referred to it, then released her with an order to see a psychiatrist. A woman had also shown up at Ian’s house soon after he arrived home from the hospital himself. She asked Ian all sorts of questions about living with his parents. That’s when his dad decided he needed to be home more. He didn’t want to be the negligent father and risk Ian being placed into foster care.

When Ian had listened to the woman with the beige wool suit and thick file tell his father he could end up in foster care, he swore to himself he’d watch his mother more closely. He’d make sure no one outside the house knew how often his parents used to leave him alone. He didn’t want to be taken from home. And for a year, life in the Collins house was almost normal. He and his dad went on adventures together almost every weekend. They’d go exploring after school, quick photo expeditions around their property.

But his mom started resisting her therapy and wouldn’t take her medication. His dad grew weary of arguing with her. They’d always argue until his mom started crying and his dad pulled her into his arms and just held her. A couple of times Ian swore his dad cried, too.

Then there were the overdue medical bills. Ian once overheard his dad explain to his mom that there was much their insurance wouldn’t cover and his job at the paper barely paid to put food on their table. He needed to start taking on more assignments or they could lose their home. Soon Ian and his mom saw less of his dad. And eventually, their routine reverted to the way it was before Ian had been lost.

Appetite gone, Ian took his bowl to the sink, overflowing with dishes. His mom often let the dishes collect throughout the day and washed them after dinner. Ian hadn’t seen them pile to this extent before. Pots and plates cluttered the sink and counter. The meat loaf from two nights ago and last night’s spaghetti had been left out to spoil.

His lip lifted at the milk curdling in yesterday’s cereal bowl and glanced over at his mom. She sat unmoving, staring beyond the kitchen window. A layer of dust from the plowed fields clouded the glass. Dried cornstalks had been cleared for the next planting cycle. The sloping landscape stretched toward the mountainous rise on the horizon.

“Do you want me to do the dishes?”

She didn’t answer, which worried Ian. She’d been detached since his dad had left earlier this week. She napped each day and had stopped reading. Ian came home with an A on his science test yesterday. She’d taken the test from him and uttered a simple “That’s nice, honey” before setting it aside without a further glance.

“I’ll wash them,” he muttered to himself. He doubted she was listening.

He cleared out the basin and turned on the faucet. Twenty minutes later, counters cleared and dishwasher loaded, Ian skimmed through his mom’s planner.

“Did you finish the shirts for Mr.Hester’s Boy Scout troop?” He glanced at her and she nodded once. Ian flipped the page. “Have you started Mrs.Layton’s costumes for the”—he squinted at the note—“Oklahoma!musical?”

The teacup clattered on the table. “Yes, Ian.” His mom’s voice took on a perturbed tone.

---