Come Crashing Down

CHAPTER 2

"Where are you keeping your spices?" Mom asked.

"What spices?" I asked, shifting my eyes around my counters.

"Like rosemary and thyme...those sorts of things."

"I have salt and pepper."

My mother's tight-lipped smile did a poor job of hiding her worry. As if by not having spices, I could therefore not provide for myself in other areas of life. Did she wonder how I even brushed my teeth on my own?

"We'll go grocery shopping again sometime this week and pick up the basics," she answered while nodding. She was nodding because my answer didn't matter. She had said a statement and then nodded to herself in agreement.

I ground my molars together, wondering if pieces of the calcium could chip off and get lodged in my throat. What a strange way to go.

"You don't have to do that. I can go by myself." I tried to keep my tone calm and collected.

My father turned away from the stove where he was preparing egg whites and a vegetarian version of bacon. "Pumpkin, why don't you let your mother help you?" His hard stare told me to pick my battles carefully. What he didn't realize was that maybe I'd been storing up past battles in my head for too long and soon all the battles were going to break through the surface and turn me into a maniac.

But who was I to deny my mom her thrills in life: keeping me alive, and now apparently making sure my food was flavorful.

"Sounds fun. I guess I could use some spices," I relented, feeling a wave of fatigue hit me out of nowhere. I shuffled back toward the table and sat, trying to ignore the worried glances from my parents.

"I've been on my feet all day, decorating the apartment and shopping with you guys. Don't look at me like that." My stamina still wasn't where it should have been for a healthy nineteen-year-old, but I was getting there. Having them look at me like I was a baby bird wasn't helping.

"So are you enjoying your apartment?" Mom asked, trying to change the subject.

I had moved into my own place a little over a month ago. It had taken a lot of lobbying, and even a well thought out power-point presentation, before my parents even considered the idea. We ended up compromising. I was allowed to get my own place if it was down the street from their house. So, there I was, sitting in my one-bedroom crappy apartment two minutes from my childhood home, and I loved it. It was freedom. That chipping paint was mine; the creaky floorboards were my home.

"I really like it."

"Have you met any of your neighbors?" my dad asked, flipping the eggs.

I considered lying to them, just to put their minds at ease, but instead I decided to withhold the truth. There's a difference. I didn't want to tell them I had met my neighbors to the left: an old gay couple, one partially blind man, one partially disabled veteran. It was quite an interesting amalgam until the blind man hammered drunkenly on my door the other night. Literally hammered, with a hammer. He was demanding that I give him back the thirteen dollars I'd apparently stolen from him. I had no clue what he was talking about. I never answered the door and he had eventually wandered back to his apartment.

"No, not yet, but I haven't left the apartment much," I lied.

"Hmm, I'm sure you'll meet some nice people soon," my father promised as he slid the eggs and faux bacon onto a large serving plate and brought it over to my kitchen table/desk/collector of random items. Currently, a distressed owl candle holder and a pile of medical pamphlets served as a centerpiece for our breakfast.