room, I heard the TV
come on. That sense of depression and captivity sank down on my shoulders
again. I’d heard the game show channel incessantly for all the years I’d lived
here after Dad had died.
She
slept, watched TV, and worked. That was her life. Mine was the mirror-image: I
lay awake all night, devoured books, and did schoolwork with a religious
fervor. I’d always known getting a scholarship to college would be my way out.
It
still would be. It was a promise to myself I intended to keep.
3. HOME
N othing
in my room had changed, as I’d expected. Some of the people in college had
talked about how their parents had converted their rooms to offices or gyms the
minute they'd moved out. It took everything I had to not snap at them. Normal
parents were taken for granted too much.
My
mom had made the bed—or just left it made all these years—in my old white and
turquoise polka-dotted comforter and pillowcase set. In the corner, my desk was
empty, ready for a computer I didn't have. I'd done all my college work at the
library or on Tessa’s computer when she wasn't using it. My parents had been
too poor for a computer when I’d lived at home, and of course, after...the
accident, the thought wouldn’t even have occurred to Mom. Not that we’d have
been able to afford a computer on her waitress salary.
My
bookshelf, at least, still held some of the old volumes of my favorite poetry
books. I was looking forward to reading them before bed later tonight. I got
strength and comfort from those verses, like some people did from the bible.
Lying
down on my mattress, I stared at the popcorn ceiling, forcing myself to breathe
in and out, in and out. The mini-blinds were closed, but I knew what I'd see if
I looked out my window. Our gravel side yard, a rural road, and then nothing
but miles and miles and miles of woods with snow-dusted mountains hulking in
the distance.
And
the animals.
I
sat up, the horror of what I’d seen earlier crashing back down on me.
When
I walked out to the living room, Mom was still staring at the TV. I sat down on
the recliner beside hers—the one that used to Dad’s and was now nothing but a
reminder of what we’d lost—my eyes gazing at the screen unseeing. Was she even
aware of what she was watching, or did the noise work as an anesthetic?
"Do
you have to work today?" I asked at last.
"No."
Her eyes never left the screen.
Reaching
for the remote, I turned the volume down. She didn’t react. “Mom...” I waited for
her to look at me. It took about thirty seconds before she finally did. “I saw
something on the way in. At the overlook. There were a bunch of, of—dead
animals. Looked like they’d been ripped apart and burned.”
She
stared at me, the look of complete apathy in her eyes unnerving. Finally I
said, “I thought I might call the sheriff’s office.” But even as I finished, I
knew it was pointless, me telling her this. I honestly didn’t know if she even
understood what I was saying.
Reaching
out, I took her cold, thin hand. Was I seeing her differently because I’d been
away so long? It was so obvious now that my mom wasn’t doing so well. She was ill, just like I’d thought when she’d open the door; she didn’t just look it.
There was something very, very wrong with her.
She
continued to stare at me as I looked into her eyes, hoping for just a flicker
of something . I wanted to tell her that I was sorry I hadn’t called or
come home for the holidays. I wanted to tell her that I was sorry I’d left
angry, that I hadn’t really said goodbye. I wanted to tell her I’d left to save
myself, but I’d been selfish, and I should’ve realized that maybe she needed
saving too.
But
I said none of those things when I released her hand. “You know, living in
college, I learned to cook a little. I can make dinner tonight if you want."
I tried on a smile.
Her
eyes wandered back over to the TV screen and stuck there. "All right."
When
dinner was done, I
come on. That sense of depression and captivity sank down on my shoulders
again. I’d heard the game show channel incessantly for all the years I’d lived
here after Dad had died.
She
slept, watched TV, and worked. That was her life. Mine was the mirror-image: I
lay awake all night, devoured books, and did schoolwork with a religious
fervor. I’d always known getting a scholarship to college would be my way out.
It
still would be. It was a promise to myself I intended to keep.
3. HOME
N othing
in my room had changed, as I’d expected. Some of the people in college had
talked about how their parents had converted their rooms to offices or gyms the
minute they'd moved out. It took everything I had to not snap at them. Normal
parents were taken for granted too much.
My
mom had made the bed—or just left it made all these years—in my old white and
turquoise polka-dotted comforter and pillowcase set. In the corner, my desk was
empty, ready for a computer I didn't have. I'd done all my college work at the
library or on Tessa’s computer when she wasn't using it. My parents had been
too poor for a computer when I’d lived at home, and of course, after...the
accident, the thought wouldn’t even have occurred to Mom. Not that we’d have
been able to afford a computer on her waitress salary.
My
bookshelf, at least, still held some of the old volumes of my favorite poetry
books. I was looking forward to reading them before bed later tonight. I got
strength and comfort from those verses, like some people did from the bible.
Lying
down on my mattress, I stared at the popcorn ceiling, forcing myself to breathe
in and out, in and out. The mini-blinds were closed, but I knew what I'd see if
I looked out my window. Our gravel side yard, a rural road, and then nothing
but miles and miles and miles of woods with snow-dusted mountains hulking in
the distance.
And
the animals.
I
sat up, the horror of what I’d seen earlier crashing back down on me.
When
I walked out to the living room, Mom was still staring at the TV. I sat down on
the recliner beside hers—the one that used to Dad’s and was now nothing but a
reminder of what we’d lost—my eyes gazing at the screen unseeing. Was she even
aware of what she was watching, or did the noise work as an anesthetic?
"Do
you have to work today?" I asked at last.
"No."
Her eyes never left the screen.
Reaching
for the remote, I turned the volume down. She didn’t react. “Mom...” I waited for
her to look at me. It took about thirty seconds before she finally did. “I saw
something on the way in. At the overlook. There were a bunch of, of—dead
animals. Looked like they’d been ripped apart and burned.”
She
stared at me, the look of complete apathy in her eyes unnerving. Finally I
said, “I thought I might call the sheriff’s office.” But even as I finished, I
knew it was pointless, me telling her this. I honestly didn’t know if she even
understood what I was saying.
Reaching
out, I took her cold, thin hand. Was I seeing her differently because I’d been
away so long? It was so obvious now that my mom wasn’t doing so well. She was ill, just like I’d thought when she’d open the door; she didn’t just look it.
There was something very, very wrong with her.
She
continued to stare at me as I looked into her eyes, hoping for just a flicker
of something . I wanted to tell her that I was sorry I hadn’t called or
come home for the holidays. I wanted to tell her that I was sorry I’d left
angry, that I hadn’t really said goodbye. I wanted to tell her I’d left to save
myself, but I’d been selfish, and I should’ve realized that maybe she needed
saving too.
But
I said none of those things when I released her hand. “You know, living in
college, I learned to cook a little. I can make dinner tonight if you want."
I tried on a smile.
Her
eyes wandered back over to the TV screen and stuck there. "All right."
When
dinner was done, I
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