no more chips, honey. Do you know how many calories are in one potato chip?”
If she had done the shopping, there would be none in the house. Glen had dropped by the house earlier with three bags of groceries in his arms. Ann appreciated his kindness, but she’d failed to tell him not to bring over junk food. In the past two weeks, David had packed on another five pounds.
They were a strange pair, this mother and son. David turned to food for comfort. When Ann was under stress, however, she couldn’t eat.
“Here,” he said solemnly, handing his mother the bag of chips. “Maybe you’d better keep these in here so I can’t get to them.”
Ann got out of bed, meaning to walk him to his room. She was shoving the bag of chips into her night-stand drawer when she thought better of it and handed them back to him. “Things have been pretty tough lately. You can go on a diet next week, okay?”
While David changed into his pajamas in the bathroom, Ann ran her hand over his sheets, brushing away a sprinkling of cookie crumbs. She sniffed, checking for the odor of urine. The sheets were still fresh from two days ago, and she was relieved. If David could only make it an entire week, the therapist thought, he might break the bed-wetting pattern.
The tiny bedroom was unbearably cluttered, in contrast to Ann’s. The kid was a virtual pack rat. When he was about nine, he’d saved every scrap of aluminum foil he could find, making a silver ball more than a foot in diameter. As there was barely enough space in his room for his twin bed and his small pine desk, Ann had snatched the horrid ball of foil and tossed it into the trash one day while David was at school. This was a pattern. In order to keep his room inhabitable, his mother had to wait until his interest in one set of junk waned and then secretly dispose of it before another set took over the room.
She glanced at the bookcase along his bed. She hoped the model planes would go next. They were impossible to dust, and David hadn’t asked for a new model kit in years, not since he glued his finger to his nose with Krazy Glue.
Then a strange sight caught her eye. Since his father’s disappearance, David had picked up every book, magazine, and newspaper article he could find relating to UFOs. Although he didn’t voice his opinions out loud, Ann knew that he had harbored his own theory that his father had been kidnapped by aliens. It was certainly more agreeable than thinking his father had been viciously murdered and left somewhere in an unmarked grave. If an alien took his father, David must think, an alien could return him.
Since his mother’s shooting, however, he had been forced to deal with reality. Yes, she thought sadly, seeing the posters of flying saucers crumpled up on the floor by the trash can. He never voluntarily removed something from his room. “You really want to throw these away?” Ann asked when he returned from the bathroom. “I mean, if you don’t, you’d better put them in the closet or they’re on their way to the dump.”
“Yeah, get rid of them,” David said, flopping on the bed once Ann stood. “There’s no such thing as aliens. And spaceships are dumb. Freddy says they’re just trick photography.”
Stroking his hair, Ann bent down and pecked him on the cheek, her heart heavy with emotion. His father had been murdered and his mother had been shot. No child should have to deal with such harsh realities. Guns, Ann thought, shaking her head, eyeing the wall above his bed, lined with sports pennants. When were people going to wake up and get rid of guns? How many more people would have to die before adequate gun-control laws were passed?
“You don’t have a Raiders pennant,” she said, crossing her arms now and giving him a stem look. “Why did you do that to Glen, refuse to accept the one he bought you at the stadium? That was cruel.”
“The Raiders suck,” David said, turning on his side in his bed. “I just went to the
If she had done the shopping, there would be none in the house. Glen had dropped by the house earlier with three bags of groceries in his arms. Ann appreciated his kindness, but she’d failed to tell him not to bring over junk food. In the past two weeks, David had packed on another five pounds.
They were a strange pair, this mother and son. David turned to food for comfort. When Ann was under stress, however, she couldn’t eat.
“Here,” he said solemnly, handing his mother the bag of chips. “Maybe you’d better keep these in here so I can’t get to them.”
Ann got out of bed, meaning to walk him to his room. She was shoving the bag of chips into her night-stand drawer when she thought better of it and handed them back to him. “Things have been pretty tough lately. You can go on a diet next week, okay?”
While David changed into his pajamas in the bathroom, Ann ran her hand over his sheets, brushing away a sprinkling of cookie crumbs. She sniffed, checking for the odor of urine. The sheets were still fresh from two days ago, and she was relieved. If David could only make it an entire week, the therapist thought, he might break the bed-wetting pattern.
The tiny bedroom was unbearably cluttered, in contrast to Ann’s. The kid was a virtual pack rat. When he was about nine, he’d saved every scrap of aluminum foil he could find, making a silver ball more than a foot in diameter. As there was barely enough space in his room for his twin bed and his small pine desk, Ann had snatched the horrid ball of foil and tossed it into the trash one day while David was at school. This was a pattern. In order to keep his room inhabitable, his mother had to wait until his interest in one set of junk waned and then secretly dispose of it before another set took over the room.
She glanced at the bookcase along his bed. She hoped the model planes would go next. They were impossible to dust, and David hadn’t asked for a new model kit in years, not since he glued his finger to his nose with Krazy Glue.
Then a strange sight caught her eye. Since his father’s disappearance, David had picked up every book, magazine, and newspaper article he could find relating to UFOs. Although he didn’t voice his opinions out loud, Ann knew that he had harbored his own theory that his father had been kidnapped by aliens. It was certainly more agreeable than thinking his father had been viciously murdered and left somewhere in an unmarked grave. If an alien took his father, David must think, an alien could return him.
Since his mother’s shooting, however, he had been forced to deal with reality. Yes, she thought sadly, seeing the posters of flying saucers crumpled up on the floor by the trash can. He never voluntarily removed something from his room. “You really want to throw these away?” Ann asked when he returned from the bathroom. “I mean, if you don’t, you’d better put them in the closet or they’re on their way to the dump.”
“Yeah, get rid of them,” David said, flopping on the bed once Ann stood. “There’s no such thing as aliens. And spaceships are dumb. Freddy says they’re just trick photography.”
Stroking his hair, Ann bent down and pecked him on the cheek, her heart heavy with emotion. His father had been murdered and his mother had been shot. No child should have to deal with such harsh realities. Guns, Ann thought, shaking her head, eyeing the wall above his bed, lined with sports pennants. When were people going to wake up and get rid of guns? How many more people would have to die before adequate gun-control laws were passed?
“You don’t have a Raiders pennant,” she said, crossing her arms now and giving him a stem look. “Why did you do that to Glen, refuse to accept the one he bought you at the stadium? That was cruel.”
“The Raiders suck,” David said, turning on his side in his bed. “I just went to the
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