My mom whips her pointer finger in my face. “You have a snotty disposition, and I will not put up with it. You’re not better than me.”
“I didn’t say I was.”
“You might as well. Just because I don’t drive a fancy truck or I don’t wear designer clothes.”
“Millie doesn’t wear designer clothes.”
“I was talking about the other one.”
“Just back off the Scotts and Maxine, okay? They were very nice to you today.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” Mom stands up and blows her smoke toward the ceiling. “You say that like I should be grateful they were kind?”
“That’s not what I meant.”
She paces the length of the living room, her eyes never leaving mine. “You just make sure your new uppity ways are temporary. I can see it did you a lot of good, living with rich people.”
“Rich?” I laugh. “A pastor and his wife — rich?”
“You don’t think I saw the way your pastor and wife looked down their noses at me? I saw it.” She takes another drag off her cigarette. Millie would freak if she knew I was on the receiving end of this nicotine pollution.
I prop my foot on the table, my ankle throbbing after my trek up the steps. “You’ve barely seen me in a year and a half.” I swallow hard. “And this is how you want to spend our first day together? You didn’t so much as pick up the phone until a few months ago, and this is what you most want to say to me?”
Her pacing stops and she plants a hand on one hip. “I’ve listened to enough of this. I don’t want to hear any more.”
“You know what I want, Mom? I want us to get along. I want this to work. And I want you to want me to be here. I don’t want to be here just because the state said you could have me back. I want to be here because you wanted your daughter — missed me, needed me.” I hoist myself up and grab my crutches. “Because you love me and give a crap about me.”
On sore, shaking arms, I lean into my crutches and hobble back to my room.
I settle onto the bed, grab the phone the Scotts let me keep, and text Frances.
TELL ME U R DOING SOMETHING MORE FUN ON UR SAT THAN DODGING CIG SMOKE & FIGHTING W/ UR MOM.
In less than thirty seconds, my phone beeps with her reply.
WE MISS U ALREADY! NOTHING XCITING HERE. BBQ CHICKEN COOKOUT 2 RAISE $ 4 DRIVE N.
I shut my phone. I was so busy this past week getting ready to leave and having mini-meltdowns that I was totally out of the Bubba’s Big Picture loop. I should be there, selling chicken and stinking like cheap BBQ sauce. That would be so much fun. I wonder if Charlie is there.
I stay holed up in my room for another two hours, listening to my iPod, flipping through photo albums of In Between, reading, and just doing everything I can to avoid Mom time. This is so not how I pictured my homecoming, you know? She barely acts happy to see me. We’ve been separated almost a year and a half, so you’d think she’d be a little less bitter and a lot more joyful. I know I’d be glad to see me.
God, how do I deal with this? You threw me into this mess. I guess I thought Mom would come out of prison and rehab all fixed. She’s so not fixed. It’s like you let me live on the green grass side, only to jerk me back to the side that’s . . . um . . . grassless. Anyway, kinda need your help here. Are you even still on the job? I feel like you have totally forgotten about me. Like you gave me all the attention you could and now you’re done. Well, I’m still here. And I need some serious God intervention.
I startle at a knock at my door. “Katie?” Mom peeps her head in. “We’re going to eat dinner in an hour.” Her gaze flits across my room and takes in all the stuff I brought with me. Stuff the Scotts bought me.
She eases in and sits next to me on the bed. “We’ll have a guest for dinner tonight.” Her hazel eyes wait for my reaction.
“Your boyfriend?” It’s everything I can do to keep a neutral tone.
Mom unwinds her hair from its ponytail and shakes it out. “Yeah.” She smiles big. “You’re gonna love him. He’s very nice.” She sighs. “Very cute.”
I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror behind the door and groan. “Mom, I’m tired. I look like something the dog threw up, I probably smell, my makeup’s disappeared, and I’m all out of politeness and manners.”
“I noticed.” She waves her hand. “But you’ll love John.” She clutches my knee. “He’s amazing. He understands where I come from — he gets me, you know? I think . . . this might be the one.”
I level her with a droll stare. “You’ve known each other a matter of months.” And do you know how many “the ones” I’ve had to hear about over the course of my life? Many.
“Love can’t be measured by time.”
“Yes, actually, it can. You’re just now getting on your feet. This is so like you to just jump into something.”
She stands up. “Now look, I don’t know what happened to my daughter, but I sure wish you’d get her back. I will not allow you to speak to me like that. I am the mother. You are the child here.”
Really? I’m almost seventeen and she finally gets that concept?
“I’m just worried about you. Is that so bad? I can’t take any more shuffling around, Mom. Remember that?” She blanches. “Remember when the police came and got me for the last time, and they didn’t bring me back? Instead they took me to some state home and dropped me off. Do you want to know what that feels like?”
Silence descends on the room. The only sound is the hum of my laptop in the corner.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I know I haven’t always been the best mother.” Her breath hitches as she sits on the bed again. “But I have tried.”
Yeah, tried to screw my life up. Tried to ruin my existence.
“I just thought you would be glad to see me happy. I was excited for you to meet John, but if it’s going to bother you . . . then he doesn’t have to come over tonight.” She touches my cheek, her expression hopeful and ridiculous.
“Fine,” I sigh. “He can have dinner with us.”
She jumps off the bed and squeals like she’s twelve. “Great! He’ll be over in thirty minutes, so do something with that face.”
I take a quick shower in the lone bathroom in my mom’s room, and when I step out, I feel somewhat refreshed.
“Make sure you’re dressed!” my mom calls out. “John’s here!”
Crap. I clench my towel around me. It’s a skimpy towel at that, covering the important stuff and that’s it. I was barely in there ten minutes. This is so par for the course.
I gather my dirty clothes, suck in a deep breath, and fling open the door. I pogo on crutches through the master bedroom and hurl myself through the living room.
“Katie, I’d like you to meet — ”
“Hi, nice to meet yooooou.” My armpits thoroughly abused, I zip straight to the kitchen and back to my bedroom. I slam the door and breathe again.
Clothes. Must get clothes. My mom’s boyfriend just saw me half-naked. What if my towel was flapping? Perfect. I’m the teenager, yet I need to have a conversation with my mom about boundaries.
I grab some clothes, lie down on the bed, and slip into them. So much easier than trying to stand up and balance on the stinking crutches. I give my hair three minutes under the blow dryer, secure my locks in a knot, then shuffle back to the living room.
Where my mother’s dream man sits — right next to her on the couch. I look him up and down. Surprisingly, not bad — for my mom’s taste. She usually gravitates toward the overly tattooed, worn-out pony-tail types. This guy wears jeans that are a tint of this decade. I find that quite redeeming. His solid polo shirt is nicely tucked in, and for the life of me, I cannot find a single tattoo. Even a simple “Mother” tattoo would be acceptable, but this guy’s got nothing. Well, not that I can tell in a quick survey. It’s not appropriate to stare at your mom’s boyfriend for too long. Unless he has something hanging out of his nose, then he’s just asking for it.
&nb
sp; “Hi, Katie.” He stands up and helps me into the chair across from them. “I’m John.”
We shake hands, his grip calloused and less refined. Like he’s used to manual labor. Hopefully not the drug-selling sort like my mom.
“So . . . you two met in your substance abuse support group?” My mom’s eyes bulge. “Do you normally pick up chicks there, John?”
John sputters then coughs. “Er . . . uh, no. First time for me.”
“First time to be there or first time to snag a girl in group?”
“Katie!” My mom, ready to leap from her spot on the couch, stills when John rests his hand on her arm.
“It’s okay.” He inhales deeply. “I’ve been going to this group for almost a year now. I attend twice a week. And yes, that was my first time to ‘snag a girl’ there.” His hesitant smile chips away at some of my resistance. “We didn’t plan it. Your mom and I struck up a friendship the first time she came to the support group. You need friends in our . . . situation.”
“And what is your situation?”
John interlaces his fingers and rests his arms on his knees. “I’m a recovering alcoholic.”
“Uh-huh. And how long have you been sober? Five months? Five days? Five minutes?”
“Five years.”
Oh.
Still, why would he jeopardize his sobriety by hanging out with my mom? She’s not exactly a sure bet in terms of having it together.
“Katie, I think that’s enough rude questions for now.” My mom leaves us for the kitchen. “Save some of your obnoxiousness for later.” She shakes her head and digs into the fridge.
“It’s okay, Bobbie Ann.”
No! It’s not okay. Nothing is okay. There are red flags everywhere. Doesn’t anyone see them?
My mom boils water on the stove and reaches into the cabinets for a bag of chips. “How many hotdogs do you want, Katie?”
“Are they all beef?” I ask like Millie just took over my body.
Mom frowns. “What?”
“Er . . . just one. Thanks.” The Millie in my head tells me to read the hotdog package label, but I resist. The days of soy burgers and tofu dogs are gone. I’ve got to adjust to my life here — my overly processed, artificially flavored life.
We sit down to a dinner of hotdogs, pork-n-beans, Fritos, and tall glasses of fruit punch Kool-Aid. Once the plates are filled, I bow my head.
Then remember I’m not at the Scotts’. I peek through my lashes to find John and Mom staring at me.
“Is there something wrong with you?” My mom squeezes mustard up and down her bun, her eyes suspicious.
“Um . . . no. I was just . . . um . . .”
“Praying.” John’s easy smile catches me off guard. “Why don’t we all pray?” He reaches for my hand, then my mother’s.
Staring at the two of us like we’re alien life form, she sets her hotdog down on the plate. “Well . . . fine. Sure. Whatever.”
John lowers his dark head then thanks God for our food.
“When did you start doing that?” my mom asks.
My answer overlaps John’s. “Since I lived with the Scotts.”
“I always have. Just never have around you.”
Mom shifts uncomfortably in her seat, narrows her gaze at me and her boyfriend, then shrugs it off.
“So . . . John. Where’s a good place to go to church?” If I don’t find a church, I’ll never hear the end of it from James.
He takes a swig of fruit punch. “I think Maple Street Chapel is great. Very small, but a good pastor.” He daubs at his small mustache with a napkin. “It’s where I go. Been trying to get your mom to go for weeks, but she won’t.”
“I work on Sundays. Got too much to do.”
“You should go this Sunday, Mom. I’ll go. We can have a little more mother-daughter time.”
She considers it then shakes her head. “I have to work. I took today off. I don’t get three weeks’ vacation like the rich folk you know.”
“You don’t have to work in the morning, do you?” I prod. “Can’t you clean the beauty salon after church?”
Mom’s spoon clanks on the table. “I said I have to work. Surely God understands frivolous things like food, water, and electricity bills that need to be paid.”
“You could ride with me tomorrow, Katie. I pick up a few of my elderly neighbors, but I have room for one more.”
“I can drive my own daughter to church, John,” my mother snaps.
His forehead wrinkles in a frown. “Well, of course you can. Just thought it would be easier on you if I picked her up, since I’m going that way anyway. And then you could get done whatever you have to do before work.”
I feel an undercurrent here that has nothing to do with the earlier church tension. I lift my brow in question and lock my gaze on Mom.
She picks up her Kool-Aid and swirls her glass around, the ice clinking. “He’s just being a worrywart. I had a little fender bender last week in my car. No big deal. Just wasn’t paying attention.”
“I’m just concerned, that’s all.” John folds his napkin in half, then thirds.
“People have little accidents all the time. I just spaced out. I was probably messing with the radio. I don’t even remember.”
“It’s your second ‘little accident’ in three weeks.”
“I said I was messing with the radio. I wasn’t paying attention. I think I’m still perfectly capable of driving my daughter down the street to the church.” Mom stands up and grabs her paper plate. “I need to run and check on some things at the beauty shop.” She dismisses John with a nod.
He rises from his chair, his focus intense on my mom. “They’ll be closing about now.” She doesn’t say a word. John nods then moves toward the door. “It was nice to meet you, Katie. I’ll be seeing you around.”
“Yeah, I guess I’ll see you at church tomorrow.” Awkward. Weird. Uncomfortable.
John lets himself out the door as my mom grabs her purse.
“Where are you really going?” I know this woman.
She pauses, her hand on her bag. “I said I was going to run to work real quick.”
“Mom, it’s after six. Can’t it wait?”
“No, it cannot. I need to check on next week’s schedule and talk to my boss. I have to ask off for your doctor’s appointment.” She grabs her own cell phone and hustles to the door. “Don’t go anywhere and don’t open the door for anyone. And don’t do anything stupid like jumping off the front steps on your crutches.” She forces a smile. “Be back soon.”
From the kitchen window, I watch her drive away in her 1990 Cougar.
Heading the opposite way of the beauty shop.
Chapter twenty - five
WHO KNOWS WHAT TIME MY mom got in last night. As they say in Texas, she must’ve stayed out with the dry cows. Whatever that means.
I run my flatiron down the last section of my hair, and give it a small mist of spray. My stomach turns a small flip as I think of once again being the new girl at church, the new girl in town. Of course, it helps that this time I don’t have a rap sheet that says breaking and entering. I didn’t exactly make the best impression when I first landed in In Between. But still, I won’t know anyone. Won’t have anyone to sit with. Won’t be able to look up at the choir loft and see Millie’s sweet smile. Or glance behind me and catch Maxine sneaking bites of Cheetos during the invitation.
My crutches stab into the linoleum as I make my way across the trailer and into my mom’s room. I knock. Loudly. You never know. And in case her boyfriend came back with her last night, I don’t want to barge in and see something that will scar me for life.
I finally hear her rustling around, then her feet thud onto the floor. “What?” She cracks open the door.
“I’m going to church, remember?”
“Yeah?”
“You said you wanted to take me.” I wait for her brain to join us in the conversation.
“Oh, yeah. Uh-huh.” She lifts a hand to push back h
er tangled hair. “Gimme a sec. I’ll be right out.”
The door shuts, and I limp back to my room to get my toothbrush and beg God one more time for some confidence. Maybe I’m rushing this. I mean, do I really need to go to church the second day here? I’m sure James would understand my taking a Sunday off. I’m tired. I’m depressed. And my mom has satellite TV.
I brush my teeth over the kitchen sink, watching some kids do donuts on their bikes in the street.
“Do you want some breakfast?” Mom ties her knee-length robe closed and reaches for her coffee pot.
“Some of your turbo-charged coffee would be nice.”
“You can’t get that at no Starbucks.”
We share a tired grin. “Nope. Nobody makes it like Bobbie Ann Parker.”
“Got you some Pop-Tarts, too.”
“Aw, Mom. You do care.” But I will have to reconsider if she serves me the s’mores kind. The taste of graham cracker does not belong in breakfast. “So where did you go last night?”
She doesn’t bother looking up from the toaster. “Work. I told you.”
I hope it’s the legal kind. “You must’ve gotten in pretty late.” Or early, if you want to get technical.
“I stopped by the salon then had some errands to run.”
“What if child services had shown up?”
My mom stills. “Can we have one peaceful moment together? Is that too much to ask? Is it?”
“No. I worry about you, though.”
“Well, don’t.” She snaps up my Pop-Tart and plops it on a napkin. “John’s church starts in fifteen minutes. You’d better eat in the car.”
I ask her one more time to go with me, but she refuses. Mom throws on some sweats, then helps me out the door and into the car.
The drive to the church is a quiet one. My eyes adjust to the sight of Middleton like I’m stepping from dark to light. Like they need to refocus. It’s unexpected. It’s unfamiliar. And it’s not In Between.
“You’ve got your phone. Call me when you get done. I should have time to pick you up before I go to work.” She pulls up as close to the door of the small church as possible.
The Big Picture Page 17