Читать книгу Attention. Deficit. Disorder. - Brad Listi - Страница 25

It was only a matter of time before my parents and I wound up having “The Conversation” again. It happened on a Tuesday afternoon, a couple of days after the dawn of the new millennium. We were sitting in the kitchen, eating lunch. My sisters were off at the shopping mall, exchanging Christmas gifts, and my parents took it upon themselves to inquire about my plans for the future, my thoughts on steady income, an agenda, a career. It was here that I broke the news about the sale of my Exxon stock and my subsequent astronomical success on the open market. At that point, the ride was over. I figured I had nothing to lose. I came clean, told them everything. My parents were flabbergasted, to put it mildly. My mother asked me if it was legal. My father, though he tried not to show it, was fairly impressed.

“Well, shit,” he said.

Naturally, they were curious about what I was going to do next. I told them that I wasn’t sure, that my only real plan at the moment was to head back to Boulder and reevaluate my options. I told them that I didn’t have the mind to be making any big decisions for a while, and for the moment, that was enough to end the inquiry. They didn’t press me any further. In truth, they’d been good about that since Amanda’s death. They hadn’t really pressed me much.

Toward the end of The Conversation, I yawned and rubbed my eyes. My mother made a face and told me that I looked like I needed some rest. I nodded in agreement. I hadn’t been sleeping well. I’d been waking up frequently in the middle of the night, staring at the ceiling. All I could think about was Amanda waking up in the middle of the night, staring at the ceiling. I thought about Amanda tiptoeing down the stairs. I thought about Amanda at the abortion clinic. I thought about Amanda and me, watching those fireworks on that hillside in Marin.

I thought about Amanda sitting there behind the wheel, lost and broken with the engine running, waiting in the dead of night.