back from school and all I want is to crash for a few hours, Mom calls me into the kitchen like a home-cooked meal is a surprise.
“Son, dinner’s almost ready.”
I watch her pull out meat loaf from the oven.
“It’s four thirty.”
“Early bird special,” she says, and chuckles.
I head up the stairs, but she’s not letting me get away easy today.
“Where do you think you’re going?” she says from the foot of the stairs. She’s still wearing those oven mitts. Makes her look ridiculous.
“Getting a hoodie, Mom.” I point in the direction of my room. “It’s cold in here.”
“Are you feeling all right?”
Enough with that—but she won’t stop with the questions. Like she really cares. Whenever she’s around, she tries to be supermom. Whenever she’s around, it’s usually because she lost a case, so she’s feeling depressed. Feeling depressed for my crazy mom translates to: smother Hunter. Turning up the parenting to 150 percent hurts everybody.
At the dinner table, I can’t sit still.
Mom asks me if I feel okay.
“Just cold, Mom.”
She doesn’t seem to be having a problem.
I look at the placemat she set for Dad.
“He showing up?”
Mom makes excuses: “Dad is busy saving lives.”
Yup, saving lives, like some kind of Superman. I take a bite of meat loaf, dry and bland like any other store-bought thing. But I know what’ll happen if I don’t eat it.
Mom asks me about school.
“It was like any other day.”
“Getting close to graduation!” Mom grins, bringing a piece of food to her lips.
“Yeah.” I pick at the food. Watch as even Mom pretends to like the food, that small piece going in her mouth and back out into the napkin. She does it when she thinks I’m not looking.
I look down the hall, the one leading upstairs, expecting to see something. I don’t know what, but my eyes keep floating back to that focal point.
Meat loaf, eat another piece of meat loaf.
“Refill, hon?”
This is the kind of stuff that bothers anyone. I can get my own water. I can pick up after myself. I’m eighteen and she’s treating me like I’m ten.
I get up from the table without saying a word.
As I do, my gaze floats back to the hall. I do a double take when I see it. It’s not really, um... let me try to explain. It’s still the hall, and the stairs, and the little side table thing my mom put there for decoration. But what I saw was something else. Kind of like a blotch where evening light should pass.
Course, I could have just said it was a shadow.
Shadows are one of the symptoms. But it’s more than that. When I look, I feel something looking back. It’s you, isn’t it?
It’s got to be you.
But I don’t want my mom to suspect anything, so I refill my glass with water from the tap, which is nasty but I’m not really thinking straight right now, and I sit back down to eat.
A chill runs up my spine.
I chew, looking at Mom while I’m sure you, whatever you are, look on at this pathetic scene. It’s really sad, you know? No dad and some depressed mom about to take enough pills to feel fucking fine.
I zip up the hoodie.
It’s a different kind of cold. You’d think “cold spots” means what it sounds like, but it’s kind of different. My mom isn’t cold. But I am. My mom isn’t shivering. But I am. My mom isn’t being watched. But I am.
My inner stupid’s excuse is that I’m just really, really tired. It’s common to feel more sensitive to temperature when you’re tired.
Yeah, but this is different.
This is the start.
It’s not just broken vases and doors opening in the dark.
I focus on the meat loaf because it’s all I can do to block out what’s happening. You kind of just want to ignore things when they’re so intense, you know? You just want it to go away.
Mom looks down the hall. “Son?”
Stop calling me “son.” I have a name.
I don’t say anything. Another chunk of dry-as-hell meat loaf. I point to my mouth: Can’t talk. Eating.
Mom asks me about Becca. Oh, shit—Becca.
We were supposed to meet up before classes started today. We do that every day. I was supposed to meet her at the water fountain after school. She needed a ride home...
So you know how it feels to have lost track of time? That’s totally how I feel. I’m kind of scared, not because Becca will be mad—she will—but because I didn’t even notice. The entire day passed by and I didn’t even notice.
Another shiver.
Never even thought about her all day.
“Son?”
“Huh?” I’m staring and stabbing at my plate. “Yeah?”
“I was asking about Becca. She hasn’t been to the house lately. Are you sure you’re all right?” Mom being Mom.
“Yeah, I’m fine, really.” Another mouthful. Like she’d know the difference. Becca was here the other night. But Mom wasn’t. This isn’t anything new. It’s a fact that I’m the one who got used to Mom and Dad being so fake about how our family works and they didn’t. Years and it’s all still the same.
It’s beyond annoying.
I look down the hall, eyeing the area near the stairs, like it’s impossible to look away.
Mom maybe says more, but next thing I know, I’m bringing my plate to the sink and Mom’s saying from the table, “Just leave it in the sink.”
The sponge in hand, I tell her, “I’m washing my own dishes, Mom. Like I do every single day.”
Turning the faucet to warm, it feels so damn good, the hot water on my freezing cold hands. I let the water run through my fingers. Feels so good. The best. I close my eyes and get lost in the feeling until Mom shuts the faucet.
She has her hand on my forehead. “Oh
