Page 6 of This I Know
I’m sure my mom, wherever she is in the house, just heard that, but I also know she’ll understand.
The picture is no more. It’s now strewn everywhere, like the pieces of my damn life.
Holy shit, I do not want to wake up today. I donotwant to wake up today,I think, as if it’ll actually make a difference.
I hear through my bedroom door: “Ethan!”
I pretend it didn’t happen, but finally I resign to my fate, violently shoving the covers off my body. I rub my eyes. It’s bright, and when I open them, the sunlight hits me like a slap in the face. She must have come in here when I was still asleep and opened the blinds.
I cringe but mange to get myself up, get dressed in the same clothes I wore yesterday, and trudge down the stairs.
It’s Saturday, but we always wake each other early. It’s a kind of pact of ours, a personal health movement, an accountability, same as our halfhearted attempts at drinking a green smoothie every day. If either of us fails, the other gives that person hell. We both share, genetically, the same susceptibility to be lacking in the will power department, so we feel like we owe it to each other.
My mom is eager to see me, and even from this far away I can tell she’s in a good mood. There are at least two things you need to know about my mom: the first is that she’s undoubtedly a morning person. I could slump down the stairs, disheveled and sloppy and an hour late for school and she’d be in bright spirits and probably do nothing more than laugh at my misfortune.
The second is that she gets over things in record time. Usually a good night’s sleep, and maybe an extra-strong cup of coffee (her personal brand of anti-depressant) is all it takes and she’s good to go … that is, until the next bad thing hits. And it always does.
I slip into the half bathroom off the kitchen hallway. I admit it: I’m avoiding her. But I’ve had all night to think about what to say, so as soon as I muster up the mental strength, I’ll do exactly that. Until then, I check myself in the mirror. Although I’m almost tall enough for the top of my head to reach outside the boundaries of the mirror, if I bend slightly I can clearly see the rest of my head. My dark hair is out of control. I was in need of a trim before all this happened, and I can’t see myself blocking out the time to get one any time soon. I guess that’s how it goes; when something so life changing lands in your lap, the trivial things like haircuts and dentist appointments and oil changes tend to get put on hold.
I run my fingers across my chin. My stubble has grown out, too, but I don’t have the energy to shave. I don’t care, either. Like I said – trivial things.
And anyway, I’m sure I’ll fit right in where I’m going.
Finally, I emerge and take a seat at the breakfast bar in the kitchen.
My mom doesn’t say anything. She opens and closes the fridge, busying herself, not caring if the door slams. I guess that’s better than destroying more rooms of the house.
“What are you up to today?” she says suddenly. She’s trying to be cheery. That’s good, but I hate that I’m about to destroy that.
“Today? I, uh…” I take a deep breath. “I’m going to see him.”
She turns. She puts a hand on her hip and raises her brow.
I spread my hands out in front of me. “You know … wherever he is.” Because I don’t even know.
“You’rewhat?” She brings her hand to her forehead. Her fingers knead her skin. “Ethan … I wasn’t expecting this.” She shakes her head. “I was expecting a lot after last night, but not this.”
“You don’t think I should?”
She laughs. “I don’t know why the hell you’d want to.”
“Because he’s my dad.”
She runs her other arm back and forth across the counter with a damp washcloth. That’s the third thing you should know about my mom: she fiddles when she’s uncomfortable. “I get it. I think.” She sighs and looks up. “But, Ethan, this just fucking happened. Why so soon?” The fourth thing you should know: she swears. A lot. “Where is this coming from?”
I lean back against the uncomfortable metal spine of the stool. “I don’t know.” I shake my head and cross my arms. “The closure thing, I guess?”
“The closure thing, you guess. Well, you’re eighteen. I can’t stop you. I told you that before. All I can do is let you know that I think this is a bad idea. A really, really bad idea. And I think you need to give yourself – and him – more time.” She hesitates. “And if I had my way, you wouldn’t have anything to do with that asshole.” She turns away, back to her faux-cleaning. “That’s it. I’ve said my peace.”
I walk to her and stop at her side. I lean over and kiss her cheek. “Thanks, Mom.” It’s more of a formality from me, to tell you the truth. Nothing my mom said particularly moved me. I just want her to feel better than she has been. Although she moves on so well, there must be something buried deep down that could use some comfort.
She smiles. “I don’t know why I ever worry about you.”
I smile back, all woozy with the idea of what’s ahead of me now that I’ve been given her semi-approval of the idea. “You worry about me?”
“You’re my only son and you’re eighteen years old. You’re handsome. You’re adventurous. You’re starting your life. Of course I worry about you.”
I look at her over my glass of milk. “Don’t call me handsome,” I say. I know she can see from the glint in my eyes that I’m half-joking. “It’s weird coming from you.”
