The Sins of the Stepbrother

Living Arrangements

"You've got to be kidding me," my mother said, standing at the foot of my bed where I lay picking sleep from my eyes. Her arms, dainty and pale like my own, were crossed against her chest. Her freshly-waxed eyebrows were knitted together and her breathing was impatient. I had only ever seen her like this twice before. The first time had been when my great aunt Kim had married her sixth husband; the second at my father's funeral. Both times her firey gaze had made me uncomfortable.

I averted my eyes this time too and pretended to care about the window shade. Light peeked through it, casting white lines against my duvet. When I spoke, my voice wavered. "Good morning, Mom."

She scoffed. I didn't need to look to know that she'd placed her hands on her hips. "Why are you not dressed, Joseph? Chris will be here any minute. I've been calling you for at least half an hour. Were you up all night?" I glanced at the hardcover book on my bedside table. Before I could discreetly knock it to the floor, my mother had ahold of it. She grimaced at the cover. "Bloodstream? This seems a bit -- what's the word -- macabre for you."

"Dad liked it," I mumbled before tossing back the duvet and hopping out of bed.

My mom seemed to soften at the thought of my father, her late husband. I didn't dare look at her but her voice let me know I'd struck a chord. "Joseph." She sighed, looking for the right words. My mother had always been one for finding the right words. I suppose it came with the territory of being a college literature professor. "You know I loved -- love -- your father. And he loved you. I'm not trying to replace him."

"Could've fooled me," I snapped back, admittedly a little harsher than I had meant to.

"I see." My mother replaced the book on the stand and moved past me to the open door. She stood in the threshold for a moment, hand on the doorknob, and stared. I followed her gaze to the framed photo on my dresser. "You look a lot like him, you know. The same dark curls and undereye bags. I guess that's one of the countless things you got from him. You both loved to read late into the night."

I could feel tears stinging my eyes then, the memory of my father a heavy cloud over today. In the photo, my father sat in a lawn chair, a hand shielding his eyes like a visor from the sun. He smiled widely at the camera, in the sort of way that made his eyes squint. In his free hand, he held a tattered copy of Night. He had read it a billion times -- his claim -- and was hardly ever seen without it. Now, it sat beside the photograph. I wasn't sure why. Maybe some symbolism of his adventures in the afterlife. He had always said he wouldn't be caught dead without it. I wanted to make sure of it.

"Joseph?" My mother's voice was cautious. I could sense a fear in her of me slipping into another attack. She didn't have to worry about that.

I blinked my tears. "Can you go? I need to get dressed."

"Sure. I'll call you when they're --" My mother paused, hearing the doorbell ring throughout the house. "Speak of the devil."

As soon as my bedroom door shut, I snatched my father's photo and flung back onto my bed. I held the black frame above my face and stroked a finger against the glass. "You'd know what to do about all this, Dad. I mean, I never thought Mom would get remarried. I'm a little mad at her, to be honest. I wish she would have just stayed a widow forever. I guess that's a little selfish, huh?" The photo didn't respond. It wasn't like I expected it to.

A knock sounded from the door suddenly and pulled me from my self-loathing. My mother's voice sounded like a princess's, cheery, and sing-songy. "Joseph, honey, come down to the kitchen. Chris and Tom bought lunch for us."

I rolled my eyes. Chris and Tom. That's all I had heard for two weeks since my mother had come home from a date to announce that she was engaged. The ring, an impressive diamond, made me seethe with anger. Multiple times I was tempted to flush it as she slept, but I knew it would only cause more harm. Besides, her "fiancee" probably would have just bought her another one. By the sound of my mother's stories, Chris was a man of expensive tastes. This is why I was surprised to enter the kitchen, now fully dressed in a sweater and khakis, to find a buffet of pizza splayed out on the bar.