Between Mom and Jo

by Julie Anne Peters

  The kitchen is dark and drafty. As I switch on the overhead light, I find Jo sitting straight-legged on the floor, her back against the dishwasher. Lucky 2’s head is in her lap.

  I whimper. Jo turns her head and blinks up at me. “She’s gone. She died in her sleep.”

  We knew it was coming, but like Jo says, “You’re never prepared for death. You have to make every day of your life count.”

  I crouch down to hug Lucky 2, to say goodbye. Then the floodgates burst apart and I burrow into Lucky 2’s furry side, bawling my eyes out. Jo smoothes my hair. She’s crying too. She tries to comfort me, to tell me how special Lucky 2 is — or was — and how we’re the lucky ones to have had her. I know all that. But it helps for Jo to say it.

  When we’re both cried out, I stand and head for the stairs. “I’ll go tell Mom.”

  “She’s not here.” Jo swipes her sleeve across her nose.

  “Where is she?”

  Jo continues to stroke Lucky 2, not answering. She stares into the cold, empty kitchen, and so do I. I know where Mom is. I wish I didn’t.

  We bury Lucky 2 under the linden tree. She won’t be alone. There’s my first Kuhli loach and the clownfish and Gouramis. I bury every fish, to honor them, their lives, and what they brought to mine. We’ve saved a spot for Savage, but I don’t even want to think about him dying. That’ll kill Mom.

  As Jo tamps the burial mound with a shovel, Mom closes her eyes and bows her head. She got home around seven this morning. When I told her Lucky 2 was gone, she collapsed in a heap on the floor. Her face is still blotchy, and she’s clutching a fistful of Kleenex. I know she’s praying for Lucky 2. If there is a God, I thank Him, or Her, for all the good times we had together, all the years. A lock of Lucky 2’s fur is in my pocket to keep as a memento.

  Next to me Jo props the shovel under her armpit and blows a wet bubble of air between her lips. She does it again. It sounds like . . .

  Mom and I blink at Jo. Then I get it. I laugh. Jo continues bubble farting.

  Mom isn’t laughing. “You have no respect,” she snarls at Jo. Pointing to the grave, she adds, “That dog gave us the best years of her life and you make a mockery of it.”

  Jo stops blowing. Her face steels. She gazes across the mound at Mom and says, “Don’t talk to me about respect, Erin. Don’t you dare talk to me about respect. Or making a mockery of the best years of anyone’s life.”

  As if slammed by a fist, Mom stumbles backward. A chasm opens. It’s been widening for weeks now, maybe months. I can’t slow the rupture. I can’t repair the rip. I leap onto the mound, extend my arms in either direction to close the gap. “Can we get another dog?” I ask. “Please? We need a dog.” I look from Jo to Mom.

  Mom shakes her head.

  I clap my hands together in prayer. “Please?” To Jo. “Pretty please?” To Mom. I press my fingers to my chin and plead.

  Mom wraps her arms around herself. She says the same thing she always does: “No more animals.” Turning, she pads back toward the house.

  Jo and I watch her retreat.

  “We need a dog, Jo,” I tell her. “We could convince Mom, I know we could. We’ll get one from the pound.”

  “Not now, Nick,” she says.

  “A needy dog,” I go on. “An old one.”

  Jo stabs the shovel into the ground. She kicks a dirt clod, then veers off toward the garage.

  “A blind one,” I call. “Or deaf. One with missing parts.” Jo’s going to leave, probably be gone all day. “I bet they have a crippled one. A quadriplegic.”

  I want to chase her. Chase Mom. Lock them in a room together. Tie them up, bind them, make them talk, work it out.

  But I can’t. I can’t move. The earth won’t budge, and my feet are stuck.

  On Lucky 2’s grave, I sink to my knees. “Come back to us,” I say. I pray. “Don’t leave us like this.” It’s Mother’s Day. I have everything planned.

  Mom

  Something’s wrong. It’s too quiet. From the hallway, I fling my backpack into my room, pass through the kitchen, and thump up the stairs.

  Mom spins around and gives a little yelp. “Nick, my God.” She presses a hand to her heart. “You scared me. What are you doing home already?”

  “It’s a teacher in-service day,” I tell her.

  “Oh.” She frowns. “I forgot. Did I know?”

  My eyes skitter around the room. Something’s different.

  Mom says, “I wanted to have this done before you got home. But since you’re here, would you mind giving me a hand?” She hitches her chin toward the bed.

  That’s when I realize she’s moving furniture. The tall dresser is positioned in the middle of the long south wall, where it wouldn’t have fit yesterday because that’s where the bookcase was. It’s been moved over by the closet, where the cedar chest was. I don’t see the cedar chest.

  “I want to move the bed over there under the window.” Mom clutches the right rear post. “Help me push?”

  “What’d you do with the cedar chest?” I ask. “And the TV?” The little portable TV I like to watch when I’m home sick. When Jo lets me come up here and crash. The TV’s gone.

  Mom gets impatient. She grunts with the effort it takes to budge the bed. The frame’s heavy. It’s oak, four-poster. They’ve had this bed as long as I can remember. As long as I’ve been alive. When Mom doesn’t reply, I repeat, “Where are they?”

  She exhales exasperation. “Jo took them,” she says.

  “Where?”

  Mom straightens and sighs. “Sit down, Nick. I need to tell you something.”

  My heart rips. A black hole opens up.

  My first thought, my only thought is, No.

  Mom perches on the mattress and pats the spot next to her. “We should’ve had this talk a long time ago.”

  I stay where I am, arms limp at my sides.

  Mom pulls a loose tendril of hair over her head and tucks it back into her ponytail. “Jo left,” she says. “We split up.”

  The synapses in my brain spark, misfire, disconnect. An electrical storm shorts out my consciousness. Still, the news seeps in.

  One word escapes my mouth. “Why?” It hovers, as if suspended in space.

  Mom wipes away the sweat on her forehead. “It wasn’t . . .” She expels a short breath. “It didn’t work.” She hesitates and peers up at my face. She can’t hold my eyes. “We weren’t good for each other anymore.”

  “You were good for me.”

  “Oh, Nick.” Mom stands. Her arms reach out, but I back away. I stumble, stagger. To the wall. The closet. I wrench it open. Jo’s half is empty. I slam the door.

  “Where is she?” I say. I screech, “Where!” I don’t give Mom time to answer. I storm down the stairs. To the garage.

  I fling open the door.

  Beatrice is gone. All our tools. The paintgun. No.

  No!

  “Where is she?” I shrill at Mom, who’s in the kitchen pouring herself a glass of iced tea.

  She startles and spills tea on the floor as she closes the refrigerator door. “I don’t know,” she says, grabbing a sponge from the sink. She mops up her mess. “She said she’d call you later.”

  I charge into the living room. The furniture in there has been rearranged too. Things are missing. Pictures. The CD player — it’s gone. I run to my room. Everything’s the same. Except . . . it’s not.

  Everything’s changed.

  The phone rings, and I cover my ears. I’m never talking to her. Never. My door is barricaded with my body, my hunched-over rock-hard body. The roaring in my head makes me dizzy, and I squeeze my knees to my chest to anchor myself.

  Mom’s voice is soft, but I can hear her through the door frame. “Yeah, he surprised me. I forgot he only had a half day today. What?”

  She listens.

  “No, not tonight,” she answers. “He needs time. We need time alone.”

  No, we don’t. I scrabble to my feet and fling open the door; stalk t
o the kitchen. I’m going to cuss Jo out so bad. Mom too. Tell them what liars they are. They promised. Jo broke her word. She’s a liar and a coward. They both are. How could she just up and leave without telling me? Without taking me.

  As I round the corner, Mom says, “Thanks, Kerri. I don’t know what I’d do without you.” In a lower voice, an intimate voice, she murmurs, “Me too.”

  The dizziness returns, and I wobble. I clutch the table for support. Mom sees me and smiles. “Hey, you want me to call Papa John’s and have them deliver? You can get pepperoni. I’ll just close my eyes and pretend it’s tofu.”

  I say the first thing that burbles to the surface. “Go to hell.”

  Mom’s eyes balloon. She comes at me.

  As I’m fleeing, she catches my shirtsleeve. “Nick.” Her fingernails dig into my arm. “None of this is your fault.”

  I whirl on her. “I didn’t think it was.” I wrench away. “You’re the one who screwed it up. You ruined everything.”

  Her face looks stricken. Sick.

  So what? I slam my bedroom door in her face.

  I waited. I waited all night. The phone never rang. That house was a ghost ship. No inhabitants. No music. No TV. No certainty my door would open a crack and she’d stick her head in. “Goodnight, Nick. Sweet dreams.” I didn’t know where her head was.

  Jo was gone. For good. I knew it; felt it in my gut. I stared into water, ocean, my saltwater tank. The undulating coral, mesmerizing repetitive motions and movements of fish, back and forth, back and forth.

  I closed my eyes and wished. I wished so hard my chest hurt. My teeth hurt. I wished for Jo to keep her promise, for time to turn around. Go back. I wished for bones that didn’t break, or hearts, or homes. Or people.

  Mom

  She knocks on my door. “Nick, you’re going to be late. I’m leaving in ten minutes.”

  Go to hell, I think. Go away.

  It’s been the same every morning for a week. She stands at my door. Lingers. I hear her breathing. Dragon fire. A thick slab of wood separates us. Physically, anyway. “Nick?”

  Silence.

  Finally, she clues in.

  A few minutes later the front door closes and locks.

  She doesn’t know I’ve been up and dressed for hours, waiting. Waiting for her to leave. For the phone to ring.

  I’m hungry, so I wander into the kitchen. Overnight the poltergeists moved objects again. The coffeemaker is at the edge of the counter. The toaster is missing. Cobwebs cling thick on the ceiling.

  I can hang around here all day, but it’s too creepy. And boring. At least at school there’s math and biology, motion, noise, distraction.

  I walk the halls in a vegetative state. No one talks to me, no one tries to engage my senses. Which isn’t unusual. I don’t really have any friends. Besides Jo. This girl in English smiles occasionally, and last week I was considering maybe smiling back, nodding. I wondered if she’d think I was hitting on her, or recognize the possibility. But not now. The thrill is gone, as Jo would say.

  I hate girls.

  When I get home there’s a message on our voice mail. My heart pounds as I punch in the code to retrieve it.

  “Hi, honey. I’m just calling to check on you. Make sure you got to school. I might have to work late —”

  I hang up. Who cares?

  Thursday morning Mom tricks me. I hear the front door close, but when I emerge she’s standing in the living room. She ambushes me. “How long are we going to play this game?” she asks.

  Shut up, I think. I step back into my room. She lurches and snags my backpack. Which I drop at her feet. And shut the door.

  “Nick.” Her hand slaps the wood. “Goddammit.” She pounds the door. “Talk to me.”

  Now? Now you want to talk?

  I stare at the door. My eyes bore holes into the wood. I conjure up my pyrokinetic powers to burst the door into flames.

  “It’s not my fault she hasn’t called,” Mom says. “I think you should be prepared for the possibility she may never call.”

  “Shut up!” I explode out the door. “She’ll call!” My hands grip Mom’s shoulders and I push her back, back into the living room. She’s against the fireplace and I’m in her face. “She’ll call.” We’re eye to eye. I want to hurt her. I want to hit my mother where it hurts.

  I drop my arms. I’m shaking visibly. A tremor rumbles under my feet and knocks me off balance. I stumble, grope for substance, solid ground. Any hope to hang on to.

  My pack. I grasp it by the front pocket and head out the door.

  She doesn’t chase after me. She doesn’t yell or call my name or say something stupid like, “Let’s talk about this.”

  Too late, Mom. Too late.

  Lucky 3

  I’m in the middle of an algebra test when the intercom blares: “Nicholas Tyler to the office.” I freak. Not because everyone’s looking at me. No one gets called to the office unless it’s an emergency. I’m rattled. Should I leave my stuff? There’s only ten minutes left in class. Mr. Wagner, the teacher, says from his desk in back, “Bring your test to me.”

  I was on the last problem anyway. I gather my papers, my scratch sheet, and backpack. Wagner looks pissed. “Leave quietly.” He hates disruptions. Hustling down the hall, I’m thinking, They found the body. That’s why she didn’t call, because she rolled Beatrice in a ditch and she’s been dead for a week, and nobody knew. Nobody cared.

  I care. I should’ve called the cops and reported a missing person. Mom should’ve called. She should’ve cared.

  Then Jo’s standing there, loitering in the front hall, jingling her keys. When she sees me, a smile streaks across her face.

  I don’t smile. I stop dead in my tracks. I want to run to her, throw my arms around her, cry for happiness. I want to run from her, leave her, abandon her the way she did me.

  I will them to, but my feet can’t stay planted. One moves, then the other. They slog ahead. Forward. In front of her, they stop.

  Jo’s smile disappears. She twirls her key ring on her index finger. “Go ahead and say it.”

  “I hate you.”

  Her eyes fill with tears. “Yeah. I don’t blame you. I messed up.” She sniffs. “Story of my life.”

  This makes me so mad I explode. “Am I supposed to feel sorry for you or something? Am I supposed to forgive you? Pretend nothing ever happened and we’re all buddy-buddy again?” My eyes sting, and my face is burning hot. Fists ball at my sides.

  Jo smirks. “Pretty much.”

  “Well, fuck you!” My voice reverberates off the walls. The urge to hit her is strong. But she’ll beat the crap out of me. Instinctively, I fling my backpack at her, narrowly missing her thick skull.

  “Hey!” she yells, dodging the missile, then grabbing my wrist. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

  “What is going on out here?” Mrs. Mendoza, the vice principal, barrels out of her office. She nearly trips on my backpack.

  Jo lets go of me and spins around. “Sorry. Uh, minor family squabble.” She retrieves my pack and, shrugging at Mrs. Mendoza, says, “Can you believe the foul mouths on kids these days? I don’t know where he gets it. Must be at school because we don’t allow that kind of language at home.”

  “Bullshit,” I hiss under my breath. “What home?”

  Jo flinches. To Mrs. Mendoza she says, “Can you believe a kid would talk to his mother that way?”

  “You’re not my mother.”

  Jo fixes on me and holds my eyes. I have to look away.

  Mrs. M looks baffled. She’s speechless, for once. Jo loops an arm around my shoulders and clamps down on my upper arm. “We’ll just continue this discussion outside.” She smacks me in the chest with my backpack and steers me toward the door.

  “Hold on.” Mrs. M quick-steps in front of us. She blocks the door with her massive bulk. “Could I see some identification? I’ll need proof you’re his mother.” She scans Jo up and down.

  “Proof?” Jo clicks her
tongue. “What do you mean? Like, stretch marks?” She chuckles, sort of nervously, and rolls her eyes at me.

  “I’m required to check our files in the office before you leave with him.” Mrs. M studies Jo. She orders us, “Follow me, please,” and reaches for my arm.

  I lurch away. “She’s my mother,” I tell her. I huff for effect.

  The bell rings, and instantly we’re swallowed in a tsunami of students, all shrieking and rushing for the doors. We lose ourselves in the squall. Out on the front walk, Jo says in my ear, “Who stuck a burr up her butt?”

  I don’t answer. I grind my teeth. I’m still mad enough to beat her bloody, but she’s here, at least. At last. My anger morphs into relief. As we head for the parking lot, I say, “What are you doing, kidnapping me?”

  “Yeah, sure.” She unlocks the passenger door on Beatrice and swings it open for me. “Kidnapping includes ransom. Who’d pay a friggin’ dime to get you back?”

  I show her my tongue. She slams the door behind me and climbs in on her side.

  “Where have you been?” I ask.

  She acts like she doesn’t hear.

  “Where!” I shout.

  Jo turns and looks at me. “Away,” she says finally. “Dealing.”

  “That’s not good enough.”

  “Well, it’ll have to be,” she snaps. “It’s not always about you, okay? I had some shit to work through. You think this is easy for me? Give me a break, will you?” She looks ready to cry. Beatrice splutters to life, and Jo backs out of her space. We pull out of the parking lot, and I drag my eyes away from her. For a moment.

  I ask, “Where are we going?” Home, I hope. This was all a bad dream. A sitcom episode. In the side view mirror, I watch Morey Middle School diminish in the distance.

  Jo answers, “To our new place.”

  She must feel my spike of joy because she adds, “Don’t get excited. It’s no movie star mansion.”

  The understatement of the century, I discover, when we pull into a crappy apartment complex twenty minutes later. Jo drives under a dilapidated carport.