Page 14 of Maddox
“Fine,” she says, sighing dramatically. “What about Friday?”
“What about it?” I mumble, wincing when a rock digs into my calf. How the hell did I get here?
“My math,” she says, and I eye her sideways.
Is she serious? She blew me off the last time. Still, I need the money. Ugh.
“I have to work,” I finally say.
“Where?”
“Salty’s.”
“What time do you get off?”
The following few days are quiet beyond my shifts at the diner and avoiding Micah who seems to have an extra sensory ability to sniff me out wherever I go.
Tonight, I have the night off, thank god.
While I make myself scrambled eggs for dinner and Joey watches another fucking game on T.V., I eye him quietly.
My parents split up when I was five years old. I don’t remember much that far back. It’s mostly images that I can’t piece together, like a slideshow without sound.
Whenever I used to ask Mom, she would get this weird, pinched look on her face and I guess I stopped because I was afraid, I was hurting her feelings.
All these years later though, I can’t help but wonder who she was before us, before me.
Strangely, I never considered this until recently. I guess because in my mind, she didn’t have a life that didn’t include me.
These selfishly infantile thoughts popped like a balloon though and now I can’t see past the fact that not only is there a history she’s never shared but it includes secrets I suspect she also never intended to.
A plume of smoke shoves me from my thoughts and with a wince, I turn off the stove and move the pan to a different burner.
From the couch, Joey eyes me with a frown before turning back to the television.
Every time I’ve tried to ask Joey about Mom, he acts like he’s suddenly fucking deaf or something, but Joey could be the key to filling in those missing pieces.
This is why I finally clear my throat and say, “Joey?”
“Hm,” he grumbles, crumpling the empty can of beer between his hands before tossing it toward the trash bin by the wall.
Wrinkling my nose, I stare at the pathetic creature before me and wonder what he was like back then. I mean my mom must have found something redeeming about him but for the life of me, I don’t see it.
Of course, he misses, and it rebounds off the wall, spraying droplets of beer before bouncing along the floor and resting beside the trash can.
Immune to the mess he just made, he reaches into the cooler by the couch and grabs a new beer.
I’d like to give him the benefit of the doubt, but he doesn’t seem all that interested in me or her. I hate that I even have to ask but if I want answers, this is my chance and silently groaning, I say, “Where did you meet Mom?”
When he eyes me sideways, I go back to my eggs, praying that for once he will answer my fucking questions.
“Out,” he grunts, and I roll my eyes. Dick.
Why can’t he just act like a normal human fucking being and tell me about them? It’s my history too.
Were they hopelessly in love? Or did they get stuck with each other when they realized they were going to be parents?
I’m assuming the latter but again, I didn’t know him back then.
