Page 98 of Personal Foul

Charity

Driving someone else’s car always makes me nervous. And when it’s my boyfriend’s expensive sports car, that feeling is compounded.

Fortunately, my mom doesn’t live too far away. So my nerves are short-lived.

When I get home, Mom’s waiting for me. I texted her that I was on my way, and as soon as I park, she throws open the front door and runs down the front walk, her arms open wide.

Grinning, I hurry to meet her, closing my eyes as she squeezes me tight, and I squeeze her just as hard.

I hadn’t realized until this very moment exactly how much I’ve missed my mom. The semester has been so much more difficult and so much more stressful than any before. Even my very first semester with a stranger for a roommate, adjusting to a new schedule, and waves of homesickness, I didn’t have as hard of a time. I know I missed my parents horribly then.

This semester, I’ve been so focused on just putting one foot in front of the other that I haven’t had the time to really even take stock of my feelings. Even with Dylan, he’s been more of a pleasant distraction than a way to actually process.

And now, here, hugging my mom, it all hits me at once. The tears begin to flow, and this time I don’t even bother trying to hold them back.

When Mom realizes I’m crying, she pulls away and leads me inside. Her eyes are wet as well, her eyelashes spiky with tears, but she holds them back. When we get inside, she grabs a box of tissues from the entryway table, grabbing one for herself before offering me the box. She dabs gently at her eyes so as not to smear her makeup. I don’t even care about my makeup. It would have to be redone before the engagement party tonight anyway, so I’m far less careful. I’ll wash my face later.

Mom rests her hand on her chest, her gaze full of love as she looks me over. “It’s so good to see you, baby girl. I’ve missed you so much.”

“I’ve missed you too, Mom.” My voice is all wobbly with tears, and Mom pulls me in for another hug.

Eventually, we make it into the living room and sit down. My tears have mostly subsided, for now.

“Well,” she says. “I’ve managed to find a job.”

That sparks my interests, and I sit up straight. “What? When? What is it? When do you start?”

Mom’s grinning at my response. “I interviewed on Tuesday, and they called me back the next day to offer me the position. I start on Monday. I’ll be the receptionist at a dental office. It pays decently and has good benefits. And then, if I want to, I can work on renewing my teaching certificate. Now would be the best time to try to get a job in the fall, but my certificate expired a few years ago, so I’m not currently hirable. Plus, I need something that starts immediately. I can’t wait four or five more months before I start getting a paycheck.”

“Would you want to go back to teaching?”

Mom shrugs. “I don’t know. It’s been so long since I’ve been in the classroom. I always enjoyed teaching art. But I didn’t enjoy the political aspect of dealing with the administration and the district and wondering if or when the arts would get cut due to government funding.”

“You could teach at, like, an afterschool program or something, couldn’t you? Or at like one of those community art programs?”

She looks thoughtful at my suggestion. “Maybe. Or maybe I’ll start painting more seriously again. Sell my art and make some extra money on the side. Because let me tell you, working the front desk at a dental office does not bring in anywhere near as much money as your dad did.”

I can’t help chuckling a little. “You don’t say, Mom?”

That gets a weak laugh out of her as well. She looks around the house. “We’re going to have to put the house on the market. I’m still trying to get all the legalities figured out. Since we bought the house before the time period in question that they’re investigating, it wasn’t potentially purchased with illegally acquired money. So if we sell, I’ll have enough to get started somewhere else, and Dad will be able to pay his legal bills.”

I suck in a breath. Again, I shouldn’t be surprised. But I think some part of me was still hoping that this might all just blow over. They would decide Dad is innocent, and we could just go back to normal.

But it doesn’t look like that’s on anybody’s radar.

In a small voice, I finally ask a question that’s been plaguing me since I found out Dad was under investigation. “Is Dad going to go to jail?”

Mom doesn’t say anything for a long time, seeming to be weighing her response. At last, she says, “I really don’t know, honey.”

“Did he actually do something wrong?”

Mom shrugs and holds out her hands. “I also don’t know the answer to that. He says he didn’t. I want to believe him. But they’ve been investigating for weeks now, and he still hasn’t been cleared. If he’s done nothing wrong, wouldn’t they have figured that out by now? And based on what I’ve learned, it seems like the longer an investigation takes, the likelier it is that the person being investigated is guilty.”

Her words land like a punch in the gut. “Oh,” I say softly.

She scoots closer to me, wrapping her arm around my shoulders and pulling me close. Tears start leaking out of my eyes again. Slowly but steadily. Not the great racking sobs that tend to take over when I’m with Dylan. Thank god.

But it’s hard to hear that your dad might’ve actually done something illegal. And might be going to jail.

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