Becoming Brett

26. Status Quo

Food sloshes around in my Uncle Dillion's mouth, bits and pieces tumbling about frantically as he smacks his lips together. Jowls blubbering, his graying mustache holding the remnants of the mustard covered sausage he just pulverized while stating a list of what's wrong with democrats.

The list is lengthy apparently.

I poke my food around my plate, already anticipating where this political chat will end up. Everyone at the table is a Republican except for one person. My dad's younger brother, my uncle Chris is the only one brave enough to show up to family functions and disagree with the masses. I feel for him but not enough to ever say I agree.

"Those Democrats..." uncle Dillion rambles on. "Looting and rioting."

"You can't trust Fox News Dillion." Uncle Chris says. "It's all biased."

My grandpa starts in about how the media is the devil, filling our young minds full of trash. He even goes as far as to gesture down table toward me as an example. What little remaining appetite I had is gone but I stab a piece of diced potato and stick it in my mouth anyway.

All I have to do is play along. Hide the fact that I'm everything they hate. I'm not even completely convinced Uncle Chris wouldn't disown me.

"It's the younger generation that's raising hell." My dad says.

"As they should." Uncle Chris barks. "God knows you old stale republicans won't change anything."

I fight the urge to smile, my eyes meeting Uncle Chris's and he winks. Features softening even though moments prior he was asserting himself in the conversation with heated passion coursing through him. Now though he looks easy and relaxed as we share a moment and I wonder if he does it just to rile everyone up.

Whatever his reasoning is, it does just that. Noise erupts across the table as my dad, grandpa and Uncle Dillion start to loudly explain why democrats are crazy and immoral.

"They slaughter babies." My grandma chimes.

Uncle Chris belts out dry laughter. "Oh come on mom, that's not true."

My mom and I are the only ones that don't participate at the table. In fact my mom hardly ever voices her opinions. Letting my dad be the one who dictates what our family viewpoint is. Maybe I'm just as bad, hiding behind him and his views to try mask what I am.

But I'm just trying to keep status quo, at least until I can get out of here.

Uncle Dillion is about as red as one can get it as his voice increases in volume to stretch over Uncle Chris'. The louder everyone gets the more I shrink back into my chair, the food on my plate a muddle mess from me pushing it around with disinterest.

My mom notices, her hand closing around my wrist gently to draw my attention. It works but before I look up at her I take a second to study her hand, her fair skin against my olive tone, her slender delicate bones, the warmth that radiates through my skin. The calmness and comfort that she brings.

She's stillness while my dad is tumultuous. They're black and white. I've often wondered if my mom sought my dad out because he was everything that she isn't.

Her head nods slightly toward the kitchen, a subtle of way giving both of us a momentary reprieve from the aggressive bickering that is our backdrop and I take it. Offering her a small smile before she politely dismisses the both of us.

We wait until we make it to the counter, the white granite and pristine cabinets make the place glow under the light. My moms dark hair glossy and smooth in its perfect bun.

"I just needed a little a break." She tells me.

I sit on a stool as she moves about the kitchen, busying herself with tedious cleaning. The kitchen is spotless. Everything in its place, meticulous and organized and complete perfection. Until you open the cupboard or the drawer and you see the spatulas thrown about tangled up with the serving spoons and the tongs. Or the mismatched coffee cups stacked precariously because for some reason my parents like to hoard coffee cups.

It mirrors my life almost to a T.

Everything looks status quo but it isn't. It's lying. Just like me.

"You didn't eat much." My mom comments, glancing over her cardigan covered shoulder. The navy material is faded and dull, hiding her slight frame. "Are you feeling okay?"

"Yeah, I'm okay." I lie, I'm not.

Listening to my family berate people makes me feel sick. Hearing their harsh judgements, listening to the sins and the crimes these people are apparently making. It all makes me hate myself more.

"Are you sure?" She asks.

She turns, I have her undivided attention as she leaves whatever she was tidying to come to my side. Her hand reaches my back, soothingly, the other reaching up to tangle with my curls.

"When you were little and your tummy hurt or you were sick or needed comfort, you'd lay down on the couch with your head in my lap and I'd sit there and rub your back while I played with your hair. You'd always fell asleep fast, forgetting all about your troubles."

I lean into her a little, my body wanting nothing more than to collapse into the safety that she used to provide when I was young. But it's been a long time since I thought I could offload my fears onto my mom. That she could carry them, that she could love me through them. It's been a long time since I've truly been myself around her.

"Yeah." I say quietly, trying to mask the sadness that's crept into my soul. "I remember."

And I sit there, letting her comfort me because I'm certain there will come a time when she'll learn the truth about me and Ill no longer be on the receiving end of her comforting touch.

The thought makes me want to cry.

I don't, maintaining the status quo.

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So it got cold guys. Get ready for my consistent bitching about being freezing. Also face to face starts for my oldest today. Let's throw a party I survived virtual first grade! 🥳