Because of You

Detention

I lay on my bed, staring up at the ceiling.

Though it was early December, I had the fan on, and watched the blades cut through the air, its rhythm matching the pace of my thoughts.

My mother was seeing someone.

I didn't want it to be true. Didn't want to have to picture her in the arms of a man who was not my father lodged in my head, but I couldn't shake it loose. Somehow, the idea of her being involved with someone else had never occurred to me. As far as I was concerned, Dad had been her soulmate. They had been like Thalia's parents in that respect; Dad never forgot their anniversary or her birthday. And then there were random days when he'd come home with a bouquet of flowers, just because. A nothing present. And she'd kiss him for it, long and languid until I'd make a choking noise and they either broke apart laughing or ignored me altogether.

I squeezed the pillow I was clutching tighter to my chest.

I wished I could take those choking noises back now, and give them their few extra moments. Their time had been limited. Their kisses numbered.

I couldn't bear thinking of someone else standing in my dad's place. It was wrong, like a red sky or a barking cat. I couldn't get my mind around it. I was grasping at water and trying to hold on.

Thoughts I didn't want to think flipped through my mind like a Juke box. I wondered how long she'd been seeing him, I wondered if he bought her flowers for nothing occasions. And selfishly, I wondered how many times she was with him and not at work, as I sat at an otherwise empty table, eating day-old leftovers by myself.

Every question hurt. I wanted to cry, but I didn't. Instead, I buried my face into my pillow and screamed.

*********

I had questions, but I didn't want the answers to them. If I ignored it, I could almost pretend that I hadn't heard the phone call. Maybe I was wrong; it was only a misunderstanding. Logically, it was possible. But I'd heard it in her voice. Lighter, happier. I knew, because it was how she used to speak to dad.

I tried to banish the queries from my mind, but when mom got up early the following morning, dark thoughts crept into my mind. Would she be going straight to work? Or would she be making a stop along the way? What about after her shift? During her break?

I resisted the urge to scream again.

I'd woken up unbearably early, but was running late to school, feeling foggy-headed and glassy-eyed. The day had only just begun and already I wanted it over.

I wanted to skip class, but I didn't want to stay in this house, left in the endless cycle of painful wonderings, so I grabbed my bag. But when I passed my Mom's bedroom door, I stopped. I stared at it. The need to know ran through me like that liquor, dulling my senses and making stupid actions seem very plausible.

I shook my head to myself. I used to think I would never be a snoop and nearly left for school right then.

But I also used to think my mom wasn't a liar.

I went into her room.

Other than a few clothes that littered the floor, it was clean. Traces of antiseptic and hospital clung to the air. Her bed was made, sheets wrinkled in haste.

It was stupid, but I half-expected to see a pair of men's shoes lying around. My dad had been an environmental scientist and always wore sneakers. What kind of shoes did the man my mom was seeing wear?

I didn't know what I was looking for but I headed for her drawers. Guilt pummeled me as I opened them one by one, but the ache in my heart overpowered it as I rummaged through meaningless things; socks and jewelry I'd never seen her wear, old cards still tucked inside their ripped envelopes. Nothing. I suddenly felt ashamed, but not enough to regret looking. Not enough to stifle my rising anger.