Page 110 of Anger

We questioned Mom about her parents and other family, but she would never answer us. She just got upset to the point where we dropped the subject quickly.

Then again, that was nothing compared to when we asked questions about our dad. Mom flipped her shit then and would only tell us that we have the same father, but he took off. She refused to give us so much as a name.

We both took those mail order DNA tests, hoping to find someone in our family, but the results came back to show we share the same parents, but that’s it. No hints were given about our family.

“We don’t know when her mental issues started, Kane. Maybe she started running then, and just never stopped. Is there anything about when she resurfaced again?”

“No,” he sighs into the phone. “Just that, but I’m going to keep digging.”

I sigh along with him. “So this is the urgent info? Don’t scare me like that. I thought something bad happened.”

Kane is quiet for far too long, his mind finding a linear path like all men.

“You sound tired. Bad night at work? How’s school going? Why haven’t you called Mom?”

Always with the same questions.

His linear path focused directly on me.

“I’ve just been working a lot and studying for upcoming tests.”

“You need sleep,” he suggests. “I can send you some extra money so you don’t have to work so much.”

“No. Save that money for taking care of Mom. You two need it more than me.”

“Okay,” he answers, drawing out the word. “That still doesn’t answer why you haven’t called Mom. It takes ten minutes, Ames. She just wants to hear your voice.”

Except the thing is, her voice is very much like mine. Not just that, but mom and I look alike. Many of our preferences are the same. And many of our habits are the same.

It worries me that our minds are the same, and one day, I’ll be running from some dreamed-up threat, never staying in one place long enough to consider it home.

How do I know I don’t have the same mental illness as her? I’ve researched that a few times. Schizophrenia can be genetic.

Talking to Mom comes with a resurgence of my fear that, one day, I’ll be just like her.

“I’ll call when I’m less busy.”

His voice is disbelieving. “When do you think that will happen?”

Glancing at the cash I pulled out of my bag and dropped on my bed, I consider all the different tethers tugging at my life.

“I don’t know. In a few weeks?”

“I’m holding you to that. If you don’t call her soon, I’ll drive her down to see you. You know how she gets.”

Yeah, I think.

I know exactly how she gets, which is exactly why I’m avoiding her.

“Get some sleep, Ames. I’ll talk to you soon. Love you.”

“Love you, too,” I say before ending the call.

When silence hits, I close my eyes only for all the questions to come rushing back.

But one sticks out the most among them all.

One question.

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