What Rose Above

Thirteen

In another life, I might have prided myself in worming my way out of trouble. But time and time again, I was proven to be an absolute numbskull when it mattered most. Case in point: It'd have probably been in my best interest to provide an answer for my mother, and fast. Time was ticking as was her patience. But truth be told, I didn't have an answer.

Well, not one that I was willing to give.

So, what did I do? The only thing I could think to do. I stood patiently, my fingers recoiling into my itchy palms, while I desperately searched for a way out of this conversation. The relentless questioning never ended—spitting out like rapid fire aimed to wound. She paced the kitchen, the bridge of her nose pinched tight between two of her fingers. Her glasses raised atop her forehead, forgotten and of no use. Finally, she dragged her hands down her face and turned.

"There's been a strange person stalking my house, is what you're saying?" she said.

"Yes, I think so." The more I repeated it, the worse it sounded.

"Nope." She laughed and flung her hands in the air. "I'm too sober for this." She then brought them back down, a loud slap echoing off her thighs. Her legs moved fast as she set her sights on the cabinets, rummaging through for a bottle of her strongest wine. The wine glass followed.

My chest tightened. I swallowed and licked my chapped lips, my fingernails scraping against my palm now. But the pressure eased some when I saw she only filled a quarter of the glass. She took a long sip of the velvet-red substance. Her eyes drifted closed, then flickered back open.

"How long has this been going on?" she asked, more calmly.

"It hasn't even been a week," I said.

That seemed to calm her nerves some. "And Christian? How long did he know?"

"He only found out yesterday. After we left the house."

"And when was I going to find out?" She massaged her temples as if she was in pain. It might've been a headache coming along. I gave her a lot of those.

"Today. Christian said there will be police officers patrolling our house from now on. It's only temporary, I think," I mumbled and picked at my chipped fingernails, "he was going to tell you himself a little before the police arrived."

"Does your father know what's going on?"

"Not yet. Should I call him and tell him?" I winced.

"No"—she held her hand up—"I'll handle it." I could tell she didn't want to. For the most part, they'd been civil these last couple of months. There hadn't been any arguments. Not even a minor disagreement. They avoided each other unless me and Junior were involved, and it was best that way. But this situation was yet again inching into dangerous trenches between them.

It wasn't all of my fault though. For once, at least.

My mother cried, "Why the hell is this happening?"

I refused to speak. If I did that long enough, maybe my guilt would subside.

"Mommy? Tyler? Is something wrong?" We'd been occupied with our conversation for so long, we hadn't noticed Junior's footsteps creeping into the kitchen. His Spongebob pajamas clung to him, his TV remote dangling in his hand.

"No, baby," my mother cooed. "Are you done cleaning your room?"

"Yeah." He nodded eagerly. "Can I watch TV now?"

"Go for it, champ." She smiled and shooed him away.

When his footsteps were nothing more than faint echoes retreating upstairs, my mother let out the breath she'd been suppressing.