Between Mom and Jo by Julie Anne Peters
“No,” I say. Mom isn’t listening — still.
“She’s irresponsible. She can’t hold down a job. She can’t take care of anything by herself.”
“She takes care of me.”
That quiets Mom — for an instant. “I never neglected you. Never.”
Now I close my eyes. “Mom.” She’s dense. “You’re my birth mom. I know that. I get that.” I open my eyes. “But Jo . . .” I hesitate because I don’t know how Mom’s going to react to this. She has to know, though. Deep in her heart I think she does, and that’s the problem. That’s what makes it so hard to say. “Jo’s my real mom.”
There, the truth is out. It’s been eating at me for a while. Since Jo left. The most important person in my life has been taken from me. It’s like she died, only worse. Because it isn’t death that’s keeping us apart. It’s life.
Kerri
Pans clang. Cupboards slam. Voices clash in battle. It’s war. The house is a battle zone.
Like the old days — with one difference. Mom’s the one yelling. Mom’s on the offensive.
Then, silence. Profound silence. The house settling. My consciousness lifting, billowing me away.
I bolt awake. Another day, or night, has passed.
Three days, I think it’s been. For three days Mom and Kerri haven’t spoken to each other. They don’t speak to me either, which is fine. Why waste words?
I like the yelling better, the slamming of doors. The silent treatment creeps me out. It always has.
Maybe now she’ll go. She can leave the big-screen TV, since it’s all I have to do all day. I’m out of marshmallows and hair dye. Mom removed the knives from the silverware drawer. She doesn’t realize how many other kinds of weapons there are.
I get up once in the middle of the night to raid the refrigerator. Kerri always brings leftovers home from the hotel, stacks of Styrofoam cartons, which I work my way through. There’s weird stuff like gnocci and black bean patties. Sweet and sour ribs. I plan to eat her out of house and home, literally.
Then I see her out back on the porch stoop, hunched over. She must sense me looking because she turns. We stare at each other. There’s an incoming message from her to me, but I don’t receive it. I shut down the communication station and return to my molehole.
In the morning Kerri tries to engage me in conversation. “Sleepwalker,” she says. “We’re out of chips for breakfast, but you can bagel it. I’m trying these funky combos like raisin and tomato. Blueberry basil.” She sticks out a fleshy tongue, then extends a plate with five or six bagels. “See if they make you hurl.”
When I don’t jump at her offer, she sets the plate back on the table. “I’ll bring something home from work for your midnight snack. What do you want?”
Is that a question? Does she really need me to answer? She knows what I want.
She says, “This is fun, isn’t it? Fun and games with family dynamics.”
Mom sweeps down the stairs in her power suit and pours a cup of coffee.
“Good morning,” Kerri says to her.
Mom’s eyes are swollen.
Kerri adds, “Would you like me to make you an omelet?”
Mom looks at her. They look at each other. I’m caught in the tidal wave of emotion that passes between them. They heave toward each other and lock in an embrace.
Casually, deliberately, I push a glass off the counter. It falls to the floor, but doesn’t shatter. It rolls near Mom’s foot.
She has to detach from Kerri to pick it up. She sets it in the sink and, averting her eyes from both of us, murmurs, “Thanks. I’m not hungry.” Her gaze hovers over the plate on the table. “Oh . . . maybe a bagel.”
That makes Kerri smile. Mom grabs a blueberry one and bites into it. “Mmm.” Her eyes pop. “Yum. This is delicious.” She and Kerri have another Magic Moment. They apologize. They kiss. They’ll talk later. Then Mom takes off, briefcase in tow.
Kerri hangs her head. “God. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”
Leave, I almost say. Set your hair on fire.
“I want to help you, Nick,” she says. “More than anything, I want to make this right. I just don’t know how.”
I almost say, Any idiot could figure it out.
I hear them upstairs. The bedroom door is ajar and they’re talking. Not loud. It’s late, after midnight, and I’m prowling around the house. I am a sleepwalker. Pathological liar that she is, Kerri didn’t bring home any new food. There are a dozen cans of Red Bull in the refrigerator and the same take-out cartons as yesterday. I’m starving. Out of habit, I open the back cupboard behind the stove. Someone replenished my stock of potato chips.
“No,” I hear upstairs. “He’s not old enough to know what he wants.”
“Erin. He is. I know you’re afraid. . . .”
Their voices garble. “. . . not what you think.”
I creep up the stairs with sharklike stealth. I want to know Mom’s fears. The night-light is on in the hallway between their bedroom and bathroom. Kerri’s afraid of the dark. That’s her bogeyman.
I move in as close as possible, right outside the door. I tread soundlessly. Inside their bedroom I note shapes: Squares and rectangles, a CD player and a mirror I haven’t seen before. They’re in bed, two lumpy shapes under the top sheet. Kerri’s on her side, propped on her elbow, facing Mom. My eyes follow her bumpy backbone all the way down from her neck to the bottom of her spine. She’s only halfway covered.
“I want him to have a family like I did,” Mom says. “I have such happy childhood memories.”
Kerri goes, “Erin, think about that. He’s never going to have the so-called traditional family. Believe me, they’re not all idyllic. Yours was an exception.”
Mom sighs. “I know. I just wonder sometimes what it’s done to him.”
“He seems pretty normal to me. You should’ve seen me at thirteen. Talk about dark and moody.”
“I wanted to have it all,” Mom continues, like she’s talking out loud to herself. “I didn’t want to believe my sexuality was limiting, that I’d never have a family because I was a lesbian. I wonder, though, if it was selfish.”
Kerri runs her fingertips down Mom’s arm. “You’re a great mom. Nick’s just going through a traumatic time right now.”
Mom says, “I wonder if he’d be better off . . .” She stops.
My heart pounds. Say it, Mom. Say it. With Jo.
Kerri ventures, “Not being born?”
What? No. Mom doesn’t confirm or deny. My stomach roils.
“Don’t even think that, Erin. I’m sure that hasn’t even crossed his mind.”
In a small voice, Mom says, “I’m not so sure.”
Kerri goes, “Ask him.”
Mom stares up at the ceiling. Kerri watches her. I hold my breath.
“The thing is . . .” Kerri hesitates. She takes a deep breath. “The thing is, when he’s unhappy, you’re unhappy. When you’re unhappy, I’m unhappy. It’s this cycle of misery we’re perpetuating. You know?” She winds a lank of white hair behind her ear and it falls back over her face. “There’s bad karma in this house, Erin. I hate it.”
Mom whispers, “I know.”
Kerri caresses Mom’s face. “We’ll get through it. We will. You’re my everything, you know. I’d do whatever you need to make you happy. To make us all happy.”
Mom’s chest rises and falls. “Just don’t make me choose,” she says.
Kerri’s back goes stiff. “I’m not. I would never —”
“Because you know who’d win.”
Kerri swings out a leg and straggles off the edge of the bed. “I didn’t think it was a contest.” She’s charging at me, and I scramble. I jump to my feet and bound down the stairs. On the landing, I glance back up and see her, silhouetted in the light, scowling at me.
I slither back to my room. I don’t feel so good.
She raps softly on my door. “Nick,” she whisper-calls. “Are you awake?”
I
“Sleepwalker?”
I don’t move. What if I open my door and she’s standing there naked? I don’t know if she was earlier or not. All I really saw was a bunch of skin and hair.
I hold my breath, wait until I sense she’s gone, then get up and go to the bathroom. On my way back I detect a foreign object in my room. I skim lightly across the ocean bottom to investigate.
It’s a note. I unfold it. A penciled message reads: “Earth to Nick.” There’s a drawing of a spaceship. On the side panel it says, MOTHERSHIP.
Not even funny.
There’s a second sheet of steno paper on the floor. I pick it up. “Come to work with me today.” The door on the ship is open, and two eyeballs peer out.
Why would I go to work with her? As she’s ripping out a third sheet to slide under the door, I open the door.
Kerri springs back. “God. You scared me.”
I retrieve the note from the floor. It’s a sketch of me, two of me, actually. One with a frowny face. One all smiley. Not bad caricatures. I didn’t know she could draw.
“Nick,” she says. “I really want you to come to work with me today. I need your help on something.”
I just look at her.
“Please?” She falls to her knees and steeples her hands. “Pleeease? Pretty please? I promise, I’ll make it worth your while.”
She’s insane. I don’t remember the last time anyone said please to me. Everyone does whatever they want with me, or to me.
I think about it. I have to admit I’m curious. What does she need me for? Plus, I’m dying to get out of this house.
What else is there to do? “Whatever.”
As we’re driving away from the house, I’m wishing I never had to come back here. As soon as Kerri starts work and forgets me, I’m running. I’m taking off and never looking back.
“Here.” Kerri hands me something. “Call her.” It’s her cell.
I must look stupid, because she angles her head like, Hello? “Call Jo and tell her to meet us at Johnson and Wales. Ask her if she can. If she needs directions . . .”
My whole body is swelling. My heart is pulsing. I can’t believe it. I punch in the numbers and she answers on the first ring.
“Jo.”
“Nicky!” The sound of her voice is a bass riff.
“Yeah.”
“Hey. Buddy.”
“Hey.” Hey Jo. I curl in on myself and feel the heat circulating through my veins. A lightness of being lifts me.
“Whassup?” she says. “Where are you?”
I tell her, “In the car. Can you come and get me?” I tell her where to pick me up. Johnson and Wales. “That cooking school.”
She hesitates. “Today? Now?” Then says, “Sure. Yeah, of course.”
Kerri’s fingers wiggle in my face. “Let me talk to her.”
I don’t want to. I don’t want to lose our connection. We’re crossing a busy intersection and Kerri’s merging, checking over her shoulder, her stubby fingers and painted nails almost touching me. I plop the phone in her hand.
“Jo,” Kerri goes. “It’s Kerri. I know this is unexpected. Is today good for you?” She listens. She frowns. “Oh God. I’m sorry.”
My ears roar.
Kerri says, “We could do it tomorrow.” She brakes at a light, squealing to a stop. She switches the phone to her other ear and adds, “Okay. If you’re sure.” She listens. “Are you kidding?” Kerri lets out a short laugh. “When she finds out, we’ll be dog meat. Let me rephrase that. I’ll be dog meat.”
They’re talking about Mom, I know.
Kerri says, “No. I have to tell her. Don’t worry. I’ll take the heat.” Kerri winks at me. The light changes, and she switches ears again. I want to talk to Jo. Kerri rattles off directions, then flips the phone closed.
“Hey, I wasn’t done!”
“She’ll meet us at ten.”
My joy spikes. “What time is it?” I ask. I quit wearing a watch when time sludged to a stop.
Kerri answers, “Quarter to nine.” She gazes out the side window at all the trees whizzing by, the strip malls and factories. She adds under her breath, “This better be worth it.”
I say, “Someone has to break the cycle of misery.”
Kerri whips around and drops a jaw.
I almost laugh.
I’m not expecting Jo to arrive in a cab. “Beatrice finally bit it,” she says. We’ve hugged and choked back tears, and now we’re heading out across the lawn, the campus. I feel mad. Happy and mad. I should’ve been there when the towing company came to haul away Beatrice. I would’ve liked a few minutes to sit in her and remember. Imprint the sights and smells of her, the feel of the vinyl seat cover on my bare legs. I might’ve pried off a radio knob to keep as a souvenir.
Jo says, “Didn’t that shirt used to be yellow?”
I don’t explain. Instead I ask, “Where’s Lucky?”
Jo lets out this audible sigh of pain. “He’s gone. I had to give him up. He barked all night and the neighbors complained. Plus, he ate half the front door.”
I grimace.
“Yeah. Separation anxiety. You know?”
Do I ever. I slide my arm around Jo’s back and rest my head against her shoulder. “We’ll get a cat,” I say.
“Right. Or a rat. Hey, how about fish? I’ve always had a thing for fish.”
I grin. I don’t tell her about my fish. It wouldn’t make her happy, and I don’t want to break the cycle of happiness.
It’s the best day of my life. Kerri leaves us alone. Jo and I just hang out and talk. My throat gets sore from all the talking. We spar a while on the lawn and wrestle; we find an old tennis ball and toss it around.
On the way home I tell Kerri, “Thanks.” Sincerely.
She smiles. “You’re welcome.”
Before we left I told Jo that Kerri would take her home, but Jo insisted on calling a cab. I tell Kerri, “Tomorrow you can just drop me off at Jo’s.”
Kerri’s face changes. She reaches up and scratches her eyebrow ring. “Uh . . . the thing is . . .” She licks her upper lip. “There’s no tomorrow, Nick. I mean, there is, but this was a one-time deal. You know? I thought it’d help you to see her. I know how much you miss Jo. But this doesn’t change anything. You know your mom will never change her mind. She’ll never let you —” Kerri stops. “Jo understood that. Right?”
No. If she did, she didn’t convey her understanding to me. I say, “Don’t tell Mom.”
Kerri clicks her tongue. “I have to tell her. I’m not going to lie to her.”
“You already did.”
Kerri’s face flushes. “Okay. But it’s more like I’m delaying the truth. I’m going to tell her.” We pull up in front of the house and this overwhelming sense of dread descends from the sky. It envelopes me.
“She doesn’t have to know,” I say. “It’ll make her unhappy. I won’t tell her, I promise.”
“Ni-ick.” Kerri pouts. “I can’t do that. Our relationship is based on trust. I just thought it’d cheer you up to see Jo. I thought . . .” Her tongue catches on the roof of her mouth and her voice trails off. She looks at me, hard. I hope she sees what she’s just done to me. “Oh.” Her shoulders slump. Her voice breaks and she goes, “Oh, Nick. I’m . . . sorry.”
Sorry. Sorry, sorry, sorry. The word to live by in our house.
Kerri’s as good as her word. She told Mom and Mom ripped into me. ME. She grounded me for the rest of the summer. So much for taking the heat, Kerri. So much for sorry. That’s what trust will get you. Delaying the truth only buys a prolonged cycle of silence and misery. For reminding me what I could never have, for giving it to me then taking it away, I hate Kerri now with all my heart.
Mom
Mom comes into my room with my laundry. I don’t even care that she didn’t knock. I have nothing to hide.
Mom sets a stack of clothes on my bed and says, “You’ll want to start clearing out some of your old stuff and deciding what to pack. You know the house is going up for sale tomorrow and if it sells right away, we —” The air’s suddenly stagnant.
I roll my head and look at her. Mom’s staring at my saltwater tank.
She says, “What did you do?”
I follow her eyes. I focus on nothing. “I unplugged them.”
Her eyes dart around the room, to all the tanks. “What’d you do with the fish?”
At first I don’t answer. Then I say, “Nothing.”
“Nothing? You mean you . . .” Gazing at the murky water, at the silent air pumps and filters, the cold lights and gray algae, she gets it.
I confirm, “I killed them.” I bagged them and tossed them out with the trash.
Mom gives me this look, like, horrified, stunned.
Slowly, she backs out of my room. There, I think, she finally knows the truth about me. She sees me for what I am. A monster.
Mom
A flurry of commotion signals change. It’s moving day. We’re moving.
Mom does a weird thing: She says, “Nick, run down to Ace Hardware and get us more bubble wrap.” She hands me a twenty.
I look at her for a moment.
She looks back at me. “Hurry up.”
I scoot out the door. Doesn’t she know how far a twenty will carry me?
The Ace Hardware is in a strip mall about a quarter mile away. When I arrive, I ask the clerk if I can use the phone. He says, “We don’t have a phone.” He’s lying. He means the phone isn’t available to a punk like me. I hope he steps on a rake.
I start walking to Jo’s. It’s way too far to walk. Without thinking, I change direction and head toward the dump. The city landfill where we took a bunch of trash the other day. It’s crazy, I know, but I need to find my fish. They’re decomposed by now, but I never should have thrown them into the trash like they were garbage. They weren’t garbage. They were alive and beautiful, and they depended on me to keep them that way. I loved those fish. I may be a murderer, but they didn’t ask to be born. They weren’t given a choice about who would raise them, feed and nurture them, keep them safe. I let them down. They depended on me and I failed them. The least I can do is give them a proper burial.