Page 107 of Rockstar Baby
“You can’t take it with you. All your money and your gold records and your fancy house won’t keep you out of the grave.”
“Padraig,” my mum snapped. “Can you let the boy alone for an hour before you start in on him?”
“Start? I’ve been saying the same things since he flew out of here. Barely a man and gone to a country where he knew no one. Didn’t want his roots. Had no use for them. Now you’re back at our door.” He sat down heavily at the table and stabbed his spoon into his stew, splashing it. “Being happy to see him doesn’t change the fact I still have half a mind to paddle his behind.”
This was why I came home so readily. Five minutes in and threats of violence ensued.
And I hadn’t even had lunch yet.
I accepted the loaf of fresh bread my mother offered, but I didn’t sit. I couldn’t. “What would you have me do then? Stay here and beat my clothes on a rock and grow a vegetable garden?”
The quick flush in my mum’s cheeks made me rue the words. Yes, she did those things. Not out of necessity, but because they made sense to her. Air-dried clothes were so much nicer than those from the dryer. Homegrown vegetables tasted better in her stew.
When I stopped ranting long enough to taste it, I had to agree.
“You have talents we don’t. There’s a reason the world listens to you. You have something to say. Now sit if you’re going to eat my stew.”
I sat. And I ate like a starving man.
The next time I looked up, my mum was watching me from the other side of the table. I hadn’t even noticed her take a seat. I’d been too busy inhaling her stew and swallowing her glorious brown bread nearly whole.
“Padraig, go fish.”
My father’s head snapped up. Like me, he’d sucked down his stew and was breaking off another piece of bread. “Pardon?”
“You heard me. Take the boat and go cast a line.”
The boat? He had a feckingboat?
Maybe I really hadn’t visited for three years. My younger sister round with a baby, my father with a boat. My brother might’ve run off with a harem of pole dancers for all I knew.
“Is Thomas married?”
My mum frowned at me. “He’s in university. Don’t you even remember the age of your own brother?”
The disappointment in her voice knocked me down half a dozen pegs. I reached out to cover her hand with my own. Her skin was soft enough to tease out more memories than I could stand from the hope chest I’d buried them in. “I remember. It just seems so much has changed.”
My father rose. “Maybe you should come around more often.”
“Yes.” I swallowed deeply. “I should. I will.”
He grunted. “Promises. Don’t make ones you can’t keep.”
“I won’t. Idon’t.”Which was why I never made any, unless I was absolutely certain I would never break them.
My father finished off his piece, then shoved the remaining heel of bread in his pocket, nearly ripping it from my mouth. He’d gone halfway down the hall before he came back and set it on my napkin. I stared at it as if the thing might bite. “You need to eat,” he said gruffly before he stomped off and shut the front door behind him.
“He loves you.”
“Not so sure about that.” But I tore into the bread just the same. “You clearly thought he must be serious about the paddling, which is why you sent him away.”
“No, I knew you’d never tell me about the girl if he didn’t leave.”
I choked on the bread and a chunk of it splattered in the remnants of my stew. Precious few bits were left, mostly just detestable carrots. “Girl? What girl? I don’t see any girl.”
My mum cocked a brow and dug into her own stew. “You were always a rubbish liar.”
“It’s not a lie. I don’t see a girl here, do you?”
