Count The Stars

thirty-seven

        "Come sit, Elijah," my mum said when I walked in late after practice. It was a few days after I spilled everything to Blake and from the looks of it, he hadn't said a word to anyone. Oliver and the guys on the team were treating me like normal— well, as normal as they could be— and nobody around school mentioned anything to me.

        I took my time taking off my shoes and grabbing dinner before going to the table so I could think up some excuses for whatever I was about to be blamed for. It really was unpredictable with my family. One minute, they would be congratulating me on something, and the next I'd be sent up to my room for fucking up. I noticed this early on in my life and ever since then, I'm always extremely cautious when my parents want to talk. I prepare for the worst and don't let myself get excited for the best.

        But, after a minute or two of stalling, I made my way over to the table to find only mum tapping her fork on the untouched vegetables all over her plate. I took a seat at the far end of the table. "Hi, mum."

        "How was practice, love?" She asked, shifting a bit in her seat.

        I could tell she didn't really care. She was just looking for a way to stall what she really wanted to bring up. Luckily for her, I was also desperate to avoid conversation. "Fine. I played more forward," I told her. We had one final match that had been postponed all winter until the snow melted, and now that the slush had settled into the grass on the field, it was just about time to play. I knew I would be a jittery mess until the match finally came in only a week.

        "That's brilliant," she said.

        I nodded as the silence slowly suffocated us, enveloping the kitchen into a bubble of awkward.

        "I've got homework," I told her, beginning to stand up.

        "Wait!" She demanded, startling me. I'd never heard her put so much power into her voice. I was used to the mum who's voice got lost in a crowd. "I've got to talk to you before your dad gets home."

        I have to admit, I was intrigued. My mum was a very posh lady. She always kept her cool and put her outward appearance over everything. She smiled a lot, never went outside unless she looked presentable, and most of all, never talked back to my father in public. Or in private, for that matter. It made her a bit of a pushover for helicopter mums and people like my father, but she handled it alright, always keeping her light voice even. I never expected her in a million years to disagree with my dad and act on her own morals . "Alright," I said, sitting back down slowly.

        She took a deep breath, a kind smile suddenly appearing on her thin lips. "I disagree with what your father says about... you know..."

        "The Izzy Montgomery thing?" I asked, trying not to sound too hopeful.

        "No."

        "...oh."

        "Your anxiety. I know it's not fake. Your not that kind of person, Elijah."

        My split second of disappointment disappeared almost immediately. Since I was diagnosed when I was younger, I was sure my dad had convinced my mum I was faking it for attention. I really thought she believed all the bullshit that was coming out of his mouth.

        "You believe me?"

        She nodded, her thin smile growing. "I always have."

        "If you've always believed me, why didn't you tell me?" I asked, mostly thinking out loud. "I've been living with this since I was little with no one to turn to because I thought everyone would call me a liar. But you're telling me that all this time I'd been all alone, suffering for no reason?" I didn't realise what I was saying until it came out, and when I did finally hear it, I felt guilt punch me hard in the chest. But as I looked on my mothers colouring face as she glanced down at her twiddling thumbs, I could tell she had been feeling that same guilt my whole life.

        "I-I didn't know it had gotten so bad-"

        "It's always been bad, mum. It never got better."

        She lifted her blue eyes from the table and took a really good look at me. "Never?" She asked.

        I shook my head slowly. "Not really, no."

        There was a minute of silence where her eyes traveled across my body, examining everything like I was a huge mystery to her, and I guess I was. I think it was then when she really noticed the deep, purple bags under my eyes, and the cuts healing slowly on my fingers, and my leg that wouldn't stop bouncing. Then finally, after an agonising wait, she glanced back up into my eyes. "You were diagnosed when you were ten," she said softly, "seven years ago. You would have these awful tantrums nearly twice a day for hours. I thought it was just because you were a stubborn little boy, but they never stopped. When I finally took you to see someone, they told me that you were having panic attacks. Panic attacks, Eli! Can you imagine how I felt, after years of telling all your primary school friends and their parents that you were just stubborn, learning that you were having these... these massive episodes that no child should have to deal with," She explained.

        "I was sick to my stomach. I felt like such a terrible mum. I spent a whole year after that around you, never letting you out of my sight. I worried constantly when you were away at school and even when you were at home with me and your dad. I did everything I could to make sure that I could keep my eyes on you and help you the best that I could whenever you'd have another anxiety attack."

        She went quiet for a moment. I placed my hand on top of hers and she smiled weakly. "But then... but then someone said I was giving you too much attention. They said I was fuelling the fire every time I held you when you cried. I didn't want to believe them, but they told me it was best for you. So, I'd leave the house whenever you'd have another tantrum. I wouldn't pick you up at school whenever the nurse called and told me you ran out of class crying. It was so hard, but I thought it was best for you. And after a while, I didn't see you having them anymore."

        I scowled, knowing exactly who she was referring to. My father was not a caring man, I knew that, but the thought of him telling my mother I was attention seeking and convincing her to leave me alone when all she wanted to do was help made my head hurt.

        "It never stopped," I told her, "I just found ways to deal with it outside the house, I guess."

        "I sort of assumed so, but I didn't want to bring it up to your dad," she sighed, running a hand through her thin, greying hair. "Now that I really look, though, it really hasn't changed much since when you were just a kid crying on the floor. Do you still do the thing with your fingers?"

        I knitted my brows together and placed my hands on the tables. "You mean the scratching thing? I've always done that?"

        "Oh yeah. Your little hands were always attacking each other. The doctor said it was a coping mechanism, but we should try to get you to stop. I didn't know it would last that long," she said.

        "Did I count?"

        She chuckled. "All the time. Your father hated taking you on the tube or uptown because you would always count things out loud. Once, we drove to visit your cousins in London and you counted every single tree we saw on the way there."

        I couldn't help but laugh. It felt good to see my mum smile with me. "I was so annoying."

        "Your father was not happy," she pointed out, her shoulders shaking as she chuckled.

        We laughed— genuinely laughed— about my annoying childhood until my father pushed the front door open, demanding my mum start dinner. Still, it felt good to have my mum back, even though I never realised I lost her.

<><><>

Sweetie boi and his mum

How do you guys feel about this? It's kinda the first time Eli's mum talks without his dad in the way, so we see more of her. Idk.

As always thanks for readinggggggggg bye

~Teddy