Page 91 of Kitty Season
“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He scoffs, then winces and lays his head against the back of the sofa. “They’re called Tim Tams, by the way. Not Tom Toms.And sure, chuck the pack over here. Not like I have to worry about a meal plan any more.”
“Says who?” I snap, adopting my standard spoiled girl pose, arms across my chest. Pout. Cocked hip.
“Uh, say the doctors.”
“Don’t ‘Uh’, me. I’m not an idiot. I know what they said.”
“Right, you do. You were there. You heard them. It’s too risky for me to play Quinn. I can’t play … ever. I’m not sure what part of that you don’t understand?”
I don’t want to cry. I don’t and I will the tears away, but when Brady stands and starts to head his room—his, I notice, not Troye’s, the one we now callours—he stumbles, barely catching himself on the wall, then hunches like he’s going to be sick. He’s had nothing to eat for hours now, so it’s just a raw, empty dry heave, but he coughs and grabs at his throat like he’s choking.
“Let me help you.” Again I’m there, dashing to his side to support him. This time, though, he shakes his head and pushes me away.
“I’m not an invalid, Quinn. I can walk to my room.”
“I know you’re not. I’m just trying to help.”
“Well, you’re not. You know what would, though? Leave. Go watch your beloved hockey boy. Give me some peace.” Without looking my way, he takes the few paces remaining between me and his room, enters, and slams the door behind him.
“Hi Mom,I can hear your driving, probably to the game, but?—”
“Quinn, are you okay? What is it? Is something wrong with Brady?”
“I don’t know.” I’m squatting on the floor in the tiny kitchenette, wedged between the refrigerator and the small dining table and chairs we bought when I came to stay one night and never really left. I’m not sure why I’m here, after I cleaned a little and it just seemed as good a place as any to have a breakdown. “He’s really mad, Mom. And he was sick before and all wobbly on his feet, and he looked at me like I was trying to poison him with Tom Toms, except they’re not called Tom Toms, they’re Tim Tims.”
“I think it’s Tim Tams, darling.”
“I don’t care about the stupid cookies Mom, I care about Brady hating me.” Mom patiently listens to a solid five minutes of uncontrollable weeping before I manage another cohesive sentence. “I’m not made for this Mom. I’m not supportive and understanding of people and their genuine problems. I’m a spoiled rich girl who cares more about her shoe collection than the people she supposedly loves.”
“Quinn Josephine Harris, you stop that nonsense right now. You are the most beautiful, most sweetest, most loving girl.”
“But I’m not. I was just about to interrupt you because most sweetest is grammatically incorrect. The most sweetest girl wouldn’t do that!”
“Preferring one to use correct grammar doesn’t make you any less sweet. Just look at what you’ve done for Lotte. You helped change that girl’s life. And Troye’s. You stood up and believed in him when very few people had, and you and he have now given Brady a family when his is an ocean away. Grammatically correct or not, you are the epitome of the most sweetest.”
My heart is aching, wanting to believe her, but struggling too. “You have to say that. You’re my mom.”
“That’s where you’re wrong. I don’t have to say that at all. You’re grown now. You’re an independent young woman. Youdon’t need me to blow smoke up your ass and I have no desire to do it. So when I tell you I’m proud of you, Quinn, you have to believe me. Like I said. You took a stand for the people you loved. You moved out. You got a job and you stayed in school. None of those things are the actions of a spoiled brat.”
“I never called myself a brat.” I sniff.
“I believe it was implied.” She pauses, both of us giggling. “Now, as for Brady. Sweetheart, there’s no polite way to say this. Multiple concussions are a heinous bitch that can sour the sweetest souls. He will be sore and sorry for a while, but like you’ve done for Lotte and Troye, you have to be patient, have faith, and always, always call your mom when you need her.”
“Okay,” I sniffle. “So I’m calling now, and I would really like you to tell me what to do.”
In the background, I hear Mom’s car slow, the beeping of the monitors as she parks, then the cutting of the engine. “Where is Brady now?”
“Well, you may not want to hear this, but we just had a fight, kind of our first one, and he went to his room. He hasn’t slept in there for weeks. We’re always in our room together, but he went to his and I think that’s bad.”
“Right, so what I want you to do is stay where you are till you’ve cried all you can cry. Then I want you to wash your face. Have a glass of water. A half dozen or so of those Tim Tams, then I want you to sit on the sofa and have a rest.” She stops speaking and I wait. And wait. And wait some more. “Quinn, are you still there?”
“I am. I was just waiting for what to do next.”
“Oh, well, you can do some online shopping, or read, but I suggest a nap.”
“But shouldn’t I go in there and lay with Brady? Or cook him something to say sorry, or?—”
