Hopeless Sam

08 The Costumes

Part I Autumn

I'd run home as fast as my legs could carry me, beating Kathy's record by taking the stairs three at a time. When I'd unlocked the door and removed my coat I could tell my mother was home. Her coat was hung next to mine, and one of her heels was sat on the shoe rack. It was only when I'd closed the door behind me that I hadn't brought the brick with me or taken a picture of it. Sighing I kicked my sneakers off missing the mat entirely. 

As I walked into the kitchen I could hear her sleeping. In the kitchen, I set my spare key next to her purse. I'd been gone 45 minutes, and she was already out. She'd left all the lights on but it was hard to tell if she was just tired or if she was leaving them on for me. I flicked off the lights and slid into the little dingy breakfast nook where my mother kept her ancient computer and the printer. 

Brushing my fingers over the keypad the screen flared to life. The number 2 hovered over the email icon on the desktop. Stooping lower, I clicked the icon. The computer was no longer signed into my account, but my mother's. I immediately felt bad for snooping until I saw who one of the emails was from. 

From: Janice Cohen

To: Candace Dale-Cohen 

Candace, 

John hasn't seen his son in four years. It was understandable after the accident that you needed to separate yourself from it all, especially when it came to John and me, but this is unacceptable. I can no longer be civil, Samuel is John's son as much as he is yours. John is much too polite to say it to you, but Sammy needs to come home. His siblings are here, Loretta is here, his Grandmother is here. His father and I are here. The only thing in NYC he has is you, and compared to all the Georgia offers him it's not a lot. Please explain this to him, Samuel listens to everything you say. Be the voice of reason for our son, explain to him why he needs to come home.

-Janice 

Closing the email, I work on processing what I just read. It was my mother's worst fears coming to fruition and she hadn't even told me about it. The email was three days old by the looks of it. As I shut off the computer, removing any trace I'd been spying when I noticed the printer was humming. 

I pulled out the tray in hopes of seeing Etta's photo but it was gone and I had a hunch where. I slipped out of the nook and through the dark kitchen to my mother's door. I prodded it open slowly to avoid it creaking, and stuck my head inside. 

My mother was curled up, tangled in her sheets as if she was having a fitful sleep. Just as I had suspected the grainy photo was propped up on her nightstand next to the only family photo she'd taken from the house. Her trash basket was filled with used tissues she'd poorly tried to hide. 

It was like the accident all over again. I was only 12 when it happened, but I remember it like yesterday. She'd locked herself in her bedroom, having the maid bring her all Etta's photos. I'd brought her lunch once. I'd never seen her such a mess, and I'd never seen it again. Gramma said she'd gone crazy, and my father wanted her to leave after she'd failed to show up at the funeral. Something I knew she regretted. 

When I'd snuck in to bring her the tray of food my Aunt had made the whole room was covered in photos, the walls, the tables the bed even in the en suite. She'd tried to clean herself up but you could tell she'd shoved the empty bottles of wine and tissue boxes under her bed. She was wrapped up tightly in her robe, her hair messily wrapped on top of her head. She'd smiled at me weakly, thanked me for the lunch, and sent me on my way. 

I scanned her room for any wine glasses, and audibly sighed in relief when I couldn't see any. I closed the door and slinked off to my room. The house was silent, and my small room felt claustrophobic. It was probably the size of a larger walk-in closet. My bed was shoved in a corner, and the walls were painted a peeling green. A dresser acted as a collect-all for my stuff. A signed baseball, a photo of Etta and me in scout uniforms, a bunch of Kathy's hair ties, some loose change, and scraps of paper. The drawers were covered in Kathy's doodles, some were smudged and worn with age. The floor was littered with laundry and old school work.