Page 4 of Satan's Spawn
Exquisite portraits. Most of her, some of me, some of Potato our chihuahua.
Mom is a sucker for fine art and free spirits, so when the literal version of both came along she had no choice but to fall in love with him.
Her exact words.
They’re cute, except when they’re not, because although the apartment we’ve been living in is new construction, the walls were built like crap, and you can hear everything from her bedroom.
Gross.
They’ve been married for a few months, but we still haven’t moved into Roman’s monstrosity of a house on the hills, so he’s been spending most of his nights in our place despite the abundance of room they’d have in his.
As if being summoned, Mom strides into our kitchen throwing her blonde hair up in a messy bun, cotton robe open to reveal a white t-shirt stained with a variety of paint. “Morning, baby.” She says, her usual bright smile plastered on her face.
With my elbows planted on the table, I look down at her fluffy slippers and chuckle, bringing the mug of green tea to my lips.
“Another messy night?” I eye her shirt.
She instinctively tightens the robe around her waist, her face turning red. “Oh, yes, Roman needed a hand with his current piece.”
From the sounds I heard taking place in the spare bedroom turned studio, I’m pretty sureshewas the current piece.
I choose not to embarrass her even more, though.
“How’s it coming along?” I take another sip, relishing in the warmth even though it’s pretty hot outside.
Mom reaches into the cabinet above the sink to grab herself a mug. “Oh, it’s just beautiful. He’s already got a buyer set up.”
“That’s amazing…so I guess it won’t be making it to the gallery.”
She clears her throat, and it takes a few seconds before she responds. “No, my love, it won’t be.”
That was weirdly ominous.
I return the mug to the table.
“What’s up, mom?” I ask, an eyebrow raised as I fold my arms. “That tone is a mixture between ‘I have bad news’ and ‘please don’t put eye drops in my coffee because of it.’”
A nervous chuckle commences, and I already know I’m not going to like what her answer will be.
“Well, it’s definitely not bad news. It’s good news.”
“For who?”
With her back to me, mom picks up the coffee pot, which I brewed for her, and pours some into the cup. “I’d like to think for all of us, Rebecca.”
Great. She’s calling me by my full name.
This can’t be good.
I drag out a long breath, still recovering from the long list of thoughtless decisions she’s been making the past two years after my dad died. First, the used corvette, which cost us a quarter of my father’s life savings. It took a lot of convincing on my part for the owner to give a full refund, but I got him to do it.
Then there was her roommate phase, where she insisted we make some extra money by renting out the spare bedroom in our apartment. Which lasted all of two months because my mother decided she hated the idea, and kept trying to raise the rent immediately after our first “tenant” moved in.
Mom was always impulsive, but after dad’s passing it only got worse. Because she was not only impulsive—but also lonely, grieving, and trying to find her way in a world without her husband, who was her only other sounding board besides me. I barely had time to feel the loss of him because I was so busy putting out the fires she wouldn’t stop lighting.
I love her, though, so I always did it. No question. No matter how exhausting the process.
Fast forward to six months ago: enter Roman, a middle-aged man with a sweet smile brightening his salt and pepper hair who also has a lot more common sense and self control than my dear darling mother. He’s a kind soul who has been keeping her happy and grounded, so I decided this is one of her fires I wouldn’t bother trying to snuff out. Not even when they got married three months after meeting.
