February 12, 2013: Tuesday
Dear Brian,
Did I tell you about the notebook I bought last year over summer vacation? Well, I’ve gotten more since then because writing is really relaxing and helps me calm down when I’m upset. I make a point of writing stuff down in it on a weekly basis, but this time that didn’t help make me feel any better. That’s why I’m writing to you.
Last Wednesday was my birthday, but apparently I’m the only one who seems to remember that sort of thing nowadays. At school during lunch I headed down to the convenience store across the street and bought myself a mini chocolate bar. After digging around in my pocket, procuring exact change, I started back towards school, peeling back the wrapping paper.
“Happy birthday to me,” I muttered grimly, nibbling on a corner of the Kit-Kat Bar. Lame, I know. But if I don’t do it, who will?
When I got home, the house stunk like smoke; and I had a sudden flashback of a dark figure slumped in the overstuffed EZ-chair, cigarette dangling languidly from one slack hand. After a moment, the scene passed and, shutting the front door, I thought to myself, “Mom’s home.” Sure enough, pinching my nostrils together against the nasty smell, I found Mom sitting at the kitchen table, elbows propped up, head resting in her hands. She looked like… defeat wrapped in a neat little box (what can I say? Birthdays are on my mind).
At first I don’t think she noticed me—not when I scrunched my nose at her obviously butchered attempt at cooking dinner; not when I crossed the room and peeked into the sink to find a charred pan; not even when I let out a slow, heavy sigh between clenched teeth. Either she didn’t notice me or she ignored me (not like that’d be a huge surprise). Only when I lifted the pan, turned it in my hands to assess the damage, and then let it drop back into the stainless steel sink with a
clang—only
then did she lift her head to stare at me.
“Hey, Mom,” I mumbled to a pair of dull, blue eyes, the bite evident in my voice.
For a couple of seconds, she just sat there, as if it took her brain too long to process my simple comment. Finally, she offered, “Happy birthday, Benny.” (I long ago gave up on getting her to call me Ben.)
I guess I was kind of surprised at that: didn’t really expect her to remember, considering she didn’t last year. Without fail she’ll remember your birthday—and Simon’s ever since he died. Oh, sure, she won’t come out and
say it, of course; but you can still tell that she remembers. The whole day she’ll walk around grumpy and bitter. If you were here you’d realize what I mean, how important it is to
keep away from her on those kinds of days. Then again, if you were here, she wouldn’t act like that to begin with, so…
After a while, I finally managed a gruff, “Thanks,” and then glared down at my feet. If she thought she could reconcile with me after all these years, she was seriously mistaken. It would take more than one “happy birthday” to make up for all the times I had to make my own dinner at night. It would take more to make up for every night that I tucked my
self in, that I had to close my eyes and pretend I had someone hovering over my side, pressing a feather-light kiss to my forehead. It would take more than just a simple “happy birthday;” it would take more than Mom could give me at all.
Eyes hard, I raised my head to find Mom’s eyes averted, staring almost in fascination at her interlaced fingers. I’m not sure which I would have preferred: to see her indifferent enough to look at me without shame or to see that she didn’t care enough to meet my gaze. I’d probably have been pissed if she was still looking at me, too; but to watch her avoid my dark eyes like that… I couldn’t stand it.
I asked (almost demanded really), “What are you doing home?” and I’m not sure if she caught the bitter undercurrent in the words. I hope she did, though. I hope she heard it, and I hope it
hurt.
Watching her shrug wordlessly—listlessly—I felt as if our roles had been reversed somehow. As if I were the parent and she were the stubborn, annoying preteen. Just as I opened my mouth to retort, she answered my question. “I was going to make pancakes for your birthday since I know it’s your favorite.” She gave a hollow smile.
Right. My favorite. Sure. When I was, like, seven maybe. But I guess that’s the me she knows, huh? She stopped playing the mom-figure a bit after you left, and now all of a sudden she wants to get rehired for the job.
At first I wasn’t going to tell her that I hadn’t craved pancakes in years, but to be honest I wanted her to know. I
wanted her to realize just how badly she screwed up to the point where she hardly knew the only son she had left. Vindictive, I know; but after all these years, aren’t I entitled to get back at the person who stole my mother from me? Yeah, Mom stole herself from me, just like Simon stole himself, just like Dad. In fact, you’re the only one who got kidnapped—God kidnapped you without giving you a choice. But the rest of the people that ditched me—the rest of the family—they left of their own volition. I guess I’m not as loveable as you are because Mom and Simon used to stick around while you were home.
So even though I knew it would make her feel absolutely rotten, I muttered, “I hate pancakes.” With my eyes locked on the table, I saw Mom’s hands clench, her arms stiffen. Biting my lip, I forced myself not to apologize. I was pissed, okay? And she deserved it.
She reached out a trembling hand to grip mine, but I shrank away. “Sweetheart… I’m so—”
“You’re not sorry,” I snapped, glaring. “If you were so sorry, you’d have done this years ago.” Standing up, I almost left the room before her subdued voice stopped me. Though I didn’t turn around, I closed my eyes to hear her out.
“Benny, please, sweetheart. I know this has been difficult for you.”
This? What was
this? This past month? This past year? This past lifetime?
“But you have to understand,” she continued, nearly begging, “it’s been hard for me, too. So hard.” Her eyes misted, but that just fueled my anger. Seeing her so close to tears like that reminded me of all those nights when I was little: Mom locked in her room for the majority of my life after we heard the news about you. While she got to have a mental breakdown, I had to turn into the Man of the House (oh, how I hate that title). I had to be the strong one; I had to try to comfort her, even though I needed someone to let
me cry.
Not daring to speak (I figured I’d save it and write it in my notebook instead so I wouldn’t hurt her even more), I started to walk away. What I didn’t expect was for Mom to get up and follow me. When I tried to close my bedroom door, she shoved it back open before it clicked shut.
Eyes pleading, she asked, “Why are you upset, Benny? What did I do wrong?”
Was she
serious? Did she actually believe she was doing a great job as my mother? Did she think she was even a
good one?
Glaring at her, I vaguely wondered if I actually hated her more than I did Dad. Right then it certainly felt like it. With my hand gripping the doorknob until my knuckles turned white, I yelled, “You want to know what you did wrong, Mom? You aren’t supposed to call me Benny, okay? I
hate that dumb name; it’s for a five-year-old, and I am
not five! You’re not supposed to think that my favorite food is still pancakes when I haven’t eaten those in forever! You weren’t allowed to fall apart!” Then, I slammed the door in her face and burst into tears for the first time since Simon’s funeral.
Like I said, a week has already passed; and she hasn’t called me Benny since then. But she hasn’t called me anything else either because now she seems to be avoiding me at all costs. I feel like an idiot for yelling at her like that. Sure, I was pissed; but I shouldn’t have screamed. Not when Mom’s so fragile nowadays. I hope she forgives me. Do you think she will, Brian?
Love,
Ben