Читать книгу Treading Lightly - Elise Lanier - Страница 9

“Jesus, Mom! What the hell happened in here? It looks like a testing sight for curling devices.”

“Don’t say ‘Jesus,’ Craig.”

“Why not?”

“Because we’re religious,” she said distractedly, while plucking at an errant wisp of hair, making it stand up straight.

“No we’re not.”

“Oh. Right. Well, it’s blasphemous.”

“No it’s not.”

“Well, don’t say it anyhow. And before you ask your next question, it’s because I said so!”

“So, what the hell’s going on?” he persisted.

“Now that I cut my hair, I don’t know if I need the three-eighth-inch curling iron, the half-inch curling iron, or the five-eighth-inch curling iron to fit my curls. My old hot rollers won’t stay in. It’s too short. Oh, and don’t say ‘hell’ either.”

“How come? You say it all the time!”

“It’s not attractive coming from the mouth of a twelve-year-old.”

“I’m almost thirteen,” he claimed, throwing her a sideways glance that would have weakened a lesser opponent. “And it’s enchanting coming from your mouth?”

“Hell, yeah!”

Her attempt at irony didn’t escape him. “Okay, Mom, I get it. Let’s not overdramatize things.”

She burned her finger on the hot curling iron, grimaced and cursed. “Why stop now?”

“Yeah,” he said, snorting a laugh and stubbing his huge, adult-sized, boot-covered foot into the bathroom rug. “Good point. So what’s for dinner?”

She could handle his mood swings—they mirrored her own. Perimenopause and the teenage years were a lot alike. Well, except for the drooping, the sagging and the bloating. On the bright side, her pimples weren’t as bad as his. On the not-so-bright side, he applied his makeup far more artistically than she applied hers. But both only wore it for large-scale social occasions; another thing mother and son had in common. “Spaghetti.”

“Again?” he whined.

“Well, did you remember to take something out of the freezer?”

“I didn’t know it was my job.”

“It’s both our jobs,” she said, trying the five-eighth-incher out for size.

“Why don’t you just take it all out of the freezer so we’ve got it on hand?”

“Tried that once. It all went bad.”

“Oh,” he said, eyeing her newly made curls. “Those are too big. They look loopy. Yours are tighter. Like those springs you find in a pen.”

Janine grabbed the half-inch curling iron to try out the smaller size.

“Mom, the small one! Try the small one,” he said with abundant annoyance. “You’re just wasting your time with the other two.”

She put down the half-inch and grabbed the three-eighth-inch iron, watching him from the corner of her eye. “Since when are you so concerned with how I spend my time?”

“Since I’m starving to death!”

“Ah,” she said, a slow smile spreading across her face. “I should have guessed. You’re so good to me, my son.”

“It’s all about you, Mom.” He grinned.

“Yeah, right.” She tried the three-eighth-inch barrel and had to admit he was right. It worked the best. “Hey, do me a favor and go put a big pot of water on the stove, would ya?”

“Yeah, okay. Whatever. Anything to get some food around here,” he muttered on his way out.

“And throw some salt into it,” she continued. She knew he was rolling his eyes. “And don’t forget to put a lid on it, or it will take forever to come to a boil.” That was one of the few culinary tips she knew.

Twenty-five minutes later they were headed for their usual positions at the kitchen table.

“So why the big interest all of a sudden, Mom?” Craig said as he simultaneously pulled out and hopped onto his chair from behind. It was a slick move she’d often wondered how he came up with. It also prompted frequent prayers to the gods of the family jewel keepers that he wouldn’t hurt himself. One false move and she’d never have grandchildren. Time and again she’d told him not to do that, but he always ignored her, laughing at her concern and insisting it was his signature move.

Each time he did it, she’d cringe, but with a teenage son, one had to choose one’s fights cautiously. After all, motherhood was a long haul. A very long haul. It wasn’t just that wonderful and all-too-swift period of cute, gurgling baby noises and patty-cake. Sure, it was that too. In the very beginning. But that only lasted a short while. Then you’re given a few years to prepare yourself, ready yourself—at least as best you can—for…this: your child’s unswerving, non-stop, express train ticket headed straight to puberty. Some called it adolescence. To others it was known as the “front lines.” A chosen few simply referred to it as “hell.”

She’d learned a long time ago, that if you fought every battle that came up, a mother—particularly an overprotective one—would be dead in no time. That clearly in mind, she decided not to comment on the hopping-over-the-back-of-the-testicle-crushing-chair move. She figured if he ever did miss, he’d be humbled, humiliated and racked with pain—which was far more of a deterrent by example than any “I told you so” ever was.

“What do you mean? Why, all of a sudden, my big interest in what?” She sat down with a heavy sigh. “Please pass the Parmesan.”

He handed her the tall, green bottle. “All the hair-curling stuff. You’ve always had the equipment and never used it before.”

Out of the mouths of babes. Her mind couldn’t help pondering the depressing thought that she had lots of equipment that hadn’t seen any use for a while. “I don’t know, it just feels funny.” Her hand flew to her head, and patted.

“You did a good thing, Mom,” he said, while slurping up a stray strand of spaghetti.

She watched her son lick sauce off his mouth with a quick flick of his tongue. “Yeah, I know. Thanks.”

“I wonder who’ll get it,” he said, before shoveling in another huge mouthful.

She had the urge to tell him to take human bites, but didn’t. “I don’t know. They handle it like an adoption.”

He nodded. “Have any regrets?”

She swallowed and then added more Parmesan cheese to her mound of spaghetti before answering. “Yeah, marrying your father.”

He rolled his eyes. “I meant about cutting off your long hair.”

Maybe a little. “Nah. It’s only hair.”

“Not to the girl who’ll get it,” he said, hitting her reason for doing it to begin with square on the head.

“Yes,” she said wistfully, imagining the joy of the sick and horrified hairless teen who would receive it. “I suppose.”

They ate in relative silence, a habit they’d gotten into over the past couple of years. “So how was school?” she asked before the meal wound down. She knew he’d lock himself in his room for the rest of the night, and they’d shared such a nice moment before, she wanted to extend it.

Wanting and getting were two different things when one had a teenage child.

“What is this? Twenty questions?” he asked, his wall of attitude now firmly placed around him.

“It was one question.”

“One too many,” he said snidely.

Yes, their Hallmark moment was over. “What’s the matter, Craig, did I hit a nerve?”

He rolled his eyes. “Everything you do hits a nerve, Mom.”

A smarter woman would have quit while she was ahead. She went on. “Oh yeah, I forgot. But help me out here, a little. You’re not failing anything, are you?”

“No,” he said sullenly.

“Anything I should know about?”

“No.”

“Any teachers want to see me?”

“No.”

“Doing drugs?”

“Jeez, Mom!”

“Answer the question and it’ll be the last one I ask.”

“For tonight.”

“So, sue me for caring about my kid!”

He rolled his eyes again.

“Well?”

“Well what?”

“Drugs?”

“No!”

“Good. And can I trust you?”

“You said that would be the last question.”

She shoved a huge forkful of spaghetti into her mouth. “I did, didn’t I. Okay, you don’t have to answer that last one.”

Like her, he shoveled a large forkful of spaghetti into his mouth.

“Just nod.”

“Mo-om,” he cried, spitting bits of spaghetti and sauce on his side of the table.

“Don’t talk with your mouth full.”

He finished chewing and swallowed hard, eyeing her mischievously. “You’ll have to forgive me, my mother never taught me manners.”

“Don’t try to change the subject, Craig.” She wasn’t going to let up until she had her answer, and he must’ve known that, since he’d lived with her for his entire lifetime.

Capitulation was inevitable. She’d wear him down eventually. It was easier to answer and move on with life. “Yes, Mom. You can trust me. I don’t do drugs.”

“Okay, just checking,” she said with a smile.

“Anything else you want to drill me about?” He took a swig of his soda from the can.

“No. I’m good for now. Eat your spaghetti, dear. And didn’t your mother ever teach you to use a glass?”

“We don’t have any clean ones.”

“Oh. Okay. I’ll have to buy some more.”

“You could break down and wash some, Mom.”

She opened her own can of soda and took a swig. “What? I’m the only one that lives here? Your hands are damaged?”

“It’s easier to give in than argue,” he said with a smirk as he pushed over the ever-present pad of paper that sat on their table, and handed her the pen that stayed permanently on top of it.

She wrote: Buy More Glasses!

As she pushed the pad away, the phone rang and Craig reached to get it. Janine didn’t bother answering it anymore after three o’clock. It was always for him, and never for her, so why bother.

“Hey, Dad,” she heard her son say after a brief pause. He listened for a while then looked at her cautiously.

Here it comes. It was another one of those conversations that was going to make her out to be the bad guy. She could see it in her offspring’s eyes. She could feel it in her stomach. Either it was that, or the half pound of pasta and tomato sauce sitting like a brick down there.

She ate too fast. Always did. It was a trait her ex-husband had pointed out frequently. Of course it didn’t help that after a long while of hearing him constantly assert that she ate too fast, she responded with a concise remark of what she thought he did too fast! True, it’s not the most high-minded or confidence-building thing to criticize about a man, but any man should know not to criticize a woman about her eating habits. Both were hitting below the belt, if you’d ask her. So she’d always considered it a fair comeback. He didn’t.

But he was never a match for her. She’d overpowered him from the moment they’d met. When they were first together and newlyweds, he’d told her he thought her assertiveness and aggressiveness was sexy and exciting, but after a while, he’d changed his mind.

For her, when they’d first met, she’d thought his shyness and passive-aggressive, soft-spoken ways were endearing. Plus, it was easy to always get her way. But after a while, there was no way around it for her. She’d only perceived him as “wimpy.”

Wimpy, but very manipulative. It was that passive-aggressiveness that threw her off every time.

She wasn’t used to that because she’d always called ’em like she saw ’em—saying what was on her mind. She was always up-front. There was never a hidden agenda when Janine was involved. She let everything show. Whether the other person wanted to see it or not.

Her ex-husband, on the other hand, played so many head games she never knew what his intentions were, or what he was getting at. All through their entire marriage—and their divorce—she had never known what he was trying to accomplish. He’d always had an order of business—of that she was certain—but she was never privy to it. And obviously, by the one-sided conversation she was hearing from her son, her ex was up to his usual scheming, underhanded tricks again. Which only goes to show, she thought to herself, a leopard never changes his spots.

It reminded her of a story.

One day a man found a frozen snake in the forest. Feeling sorry for it, he took it home and nursed it back to life. He defrosted it—or whatever the hell it is you do to a frozen snake to nurse it back to life—and gave it water and food.

As soon as the thing unfroze, the man was hand-feeding it with love and care when it suddenly bit him.

The man said, “How can you bite me? I nursed you back to health! I gave you water by dropperfuls and even hand-fed you!”

The snake looked him in the eye and said, “Thanks, buddy, but you’re forgetting one thing.”

The man said, “What’s that?”

The snake said, “I’m a snake.”

She wondered what Martin was up to now.