Between Mom and Jo by Julie Anne Peters
I don’t find my fish where we threw our trash. There aren’t any blue plastic bags. The only thing I find in the dump is filthy stinking rot.
My fish hate me.
Stupid, I think. Fish don’t hate. Except . . . they do. I know they feel. They feel pain and love and loss.
It begins to rain. Hard. Now I’m hungry and wet and cold. I feel like a little kid who runs away from home and gets as far as the corner.
The gutters are overflowing with runoff from roofs, and I get a sudden urge to wade. My first step in the water shocks me. It’s frigid. A memory floods my brain. It’s summer and I’m a little kid, wading up the street in the gutter. The water splashes over my toes and feet and ankles. Mom and Jo are sitting on the porch, watching me. They’re drinking beer and laughing.
They’re laughing. Wow. That was a long time ago. Back when they could still laugh together. When the water was warm and comforting, not freezing like this.
I don’t consciously head in any direction, but all at once the house comes into view. The FOR SALE sign. A truck parked in the open garage.
I slow. I don’t know that truck. It’s a black Chevy Avalanche. For some reason, I slog faster. I jump up onto the sidewalk to hurry, to sprint the rest of the way.
Then I see her.
She’s lugging a couple of boxes out the front door. She smiles when our eyes meet, and dumps the boxes into the truck bed. I fly to her. My feet are fins. Jo’s smile fades. “Where the hell have you been?” she snarls. “Your mom said she sent you on an errand over an hour ago. She’s ready to call out the National Guard. What kind of shit is that?” Jo raises my chin with her fist. She scans me up and down, then hugs me. She holds me hard. I melt.
Clenching my upper arms, she thrusts me away. “You’re soaked. And filthy. Look at your pants and shoes.”
I’m gasping for air from the running, the adrenaline rush of seeing her. I glance down, but my eyes don’t focus. My glasses are fogged. “I went fishing,” I say. My fingernails are jagged and crusted with dirt.
“Yeah, right.” She smacks my head. “What did you catch, pneumonia?” Her hand lingers on my head. My vision clears.
At her expression, my stomach plunges. Not that look. Not . . . longing. I fling my arms around her and lock my hands in back. I am not. Letting go.
She smashes my head against her chest.
I manage to verbalize one thing: “We’re moving.”
“Yeah, your mom told me.” She must sense my throat constricting, or hear it in my voice. She holds me back and frowns. “Didn’t she tell you?”
“What?”
Jo rolls her eyes. “Come on.” She clamps a metal claw over my head and cranks my skull around. She steers me toward the house. “He’s back,” she calls inside. “You guys didn’t move fast enough.”
A speedboat roars through my brain. We’re moving. We’re moving on. I can’t stop the motion.
My squishy sneakers drown out the roar. Jo’s beside me. She’s behind me. I keep looking back. She’s with me, in the house, the hall. In my room. Mom’s duct-taping the lid on my saltwater aquarium. Why? Even the coral frags are dead now.
She twists her head and sees me. A rush of relief washes over her face.
Jo says, “You didn’t tell him.”
Mom asks, “Did you get the bubble wrap?”
Damn. I knew there was something. . . .
Mom’s eyes widen and she cocks her head.
Sorry, I think.
Jo’s says, “Erin, why didn’t you tell Nick?”
Mom resumes her task. She rips off a hunk of tape and goes, “I wanted it to be a surprise.”
What are they talking about? The fact that they’re talking at all makes me feel like I missed something. How long have I been gone?
“I assume you want to take all your tanks,” Mom says.
Is that a question? I don’t know the answer.
She adds, “Jo says there’s no room for your furniture, so we’ll take it with us.”
What? I look from Mom to Jo. What? Jo starts emptying my dresser drawers into a trash bag. “Tell him,” Jo says to Mom.
Mom presses her lips together. She says, “You’ll come and visit occasionally. I hope.”
“Erin, for God’s sake.” Jo scoffs at her. “You’re only moving across town. You make it sound like I’m taking him to Uranus.” She smirks at me. “Up Uranus.”
Mom lowers her head.
Jo adds, “You’ll see him all the time. We’ll work out a schedule.”
I feel like I’m watching a movie — the movie of my life. I should make an entrance here somewhere. My mind is swirling again, clouding. I can’t think. Then, like a bolt of lightning, I understand. Happiness explodes in a kaleidoscope of colors so sharp and intense they’re outside the visual spectrum.
“Don’t just stand there looking like a retard.” Jo tosses me an empty box. “Pack up your computer. There’s nowhere to plug it in, but I guess that’s not a problem since the electricity’s off. Maybe we can pawn it for food.”
I say, just to be sure I’ve got it, “I’m moving in with you. Right?”
Jo says to Mom, “We should’ve specified brain cells when we were picking out sperm.”
I can’t help myself. I throw my arms around Jo’s back. She stumbles forward, but she drops my jocks and yanks me around, smothering me in a fierce embrace. She says, between clenched teeth, “Go tell your mother thank you.”
I let Jo go and stagger over to Mom. I want to hug her so bad, but I can’t. She’s brittle. My eyes search out Jo’s. She threatens me with a fist. “Mom?”
Mom jerks around.
I swallow. “I . . .” My lips quiver. “Thank you, Mom.” I add, “I love you.”
Her eyes well with tears. It looks like she’s already been crying. She doesn’t say a word, just opens her arms to me.
I fall into them. She feels solid and strong, soft and familiar. I say, “I love both you guys.” In different ways, I don’t add. For different reasons. But I love you both the same.
Mom smiles at me — a sort of happy, sad smile.
“Why did you keep it a surprise?” I ask. “Why didn’t you tell me? When did you decide?”
She goes to answer, but no words come out of her mouth. She starts, “I thought —” She swallows. “I hoped — you might change your mind. Or I could.” Her eyes penetrate me.
“Nick,” she says, taking my hand into her lap and pulling me down beside her. “I get it now, okay? You belong with Jo. I’m sorry it took so long for me to figure it out, and you’ve been so miserable. I love you. I only ever wanted you to be happy.”
She doesn’t say, With me, but I know she’s thinking it.
I’m sorry, Mom. I’m sorry.
Her eyes pool again and now mine do, too. If she starts bawling, my floodgates will open.
Mom sniffs and presses a fist under her nostrils. “I shouldn’t have kept it a secret. I talked to Jo last week after . . .” Her hand releases mine, and she wipes her nose with the back of her hand. “Your fish.”
My fish. Yeah.
She takes a deep breath. “Are you surprised?”
I nod.
“Happy?” she asks.
I don’t nod. Because suddenly I don’t feel so happy. I never wanted to make her miserable. There’s no way to win.
Mom smiles. I snake my arms around her waist and hug her hard. She hugs me back. She’s going to say something else, when Jo wrenches open my bottom desk drawer and yells, “What the hell’s this?” She bolts upright, clutching a fistful of socks.
Uh-oh.
“These are mine. I wondered where these went.”
I exaggerate a grin at her.
“What are you, some kind of pervert? Are you hoarding women’s underwear?”
I click my tongue. “It’s not underwear.”
I think she’d understand, but I’m not about to talk about it now. Not with Mom here.
Jo shakes her head at Mom. “Wh
“Don’t forget retard,” I say.
Mom goes, “Take this out to Jo’s truck.” She lifts and hands me my aquarium. She gives me a nudge in the direction of the door.
I scurry out with the tank.
While I’m in the garage, I see Kerri’s car, loaded to the hilt. There’s music coming from the back of the house, so I trail it around to the yard. The rain has stopped, and the air smells sweet and new. I see Kerri standing on the patio, arms folded loosely around herself. She turns her face to the sun and closes her eyes. I take a step forward. Kerri sees or senses me and goes back inside.
The urge to follow her is strong.
In the house I almost trip over her. She’s plopped onto the bottom step and hunched over, elbows on knees. When my knee clobbers her head, she raises up fast. “Oh, sorry,” I say.
Suddenly I feel this deep, tremendous sorrow and regret for everything that’s gone down between us. It wasn’t Kerri’s fault. I know that.
“So,” she says. “Are you going now?”
“You wish.” I sink down beside her.
“Nick, I don’t want you gone. I never did. If that’s what you think —”
“No. I’m kidding.” I’m the one who wanted you gone.
She fixes on me, on my face. I notice for the first time how her eyes are different colors. One’s turquoise and the other’s aquamarine. There’s a difference. It’s subtle, but I can detect it in fish. Tetras especially. How the play of light and shadow changes their color and luminescence. Fish will change before your very eyes.
“Mom’s talking to Jo.”
Kerri’s penciled eyebrows arch. “A Kodak moment.”
“Really,” I say. “What happened?”
Because I want to know what made the difference in Mom. What finally got through to her, besides my fish. There had to be more.
Kerri wiggles her bare toes. They’re painted all different colors, and she has a toe ring on the left pinkie. “She’s worried about what’s happening to you.” Kerri adds, “What you’re becoming. She wanted to send you to a shrink, but I told her she was just avoiding the truth. The truth being, she’s the one contributing to your unhappiness. To the whole cycle here.”
My jaw unhinges. The truth hurts.
“She knew that. I didn’t have to tell her.” Kerri looks at me. “I told her living with Jo doesn’t mean you don’t need her. She’s so afraid if she lets you go, she’ll never get you back. I hope I’m not putting words in your mouth, but I told her choosing Jo over her didn’t mean she was losing you forever.”
No, Mom. I still need you. I always will.
Kerri goes, “Don’t make a liar out of me.”
“What?” I’d never —
She cracks a smile.
There are laugh lines around her eyes. She has teasing eyes. Cool eyes.
“Don’t get me wrong,” Kerri says. “I didn’t do anything. She’s the one who decided. She called Jo. That was hard.”
When I don’t say anything, she adds, “She’s going to miss you, Nick. So much. You don’t even know. I’ll miss you too.”
“Yeah, right.”
“I will.”
I meet Kerri’s eyes. She means it.
I feel crappy for all the grief and heartache I’ve caused her and Mom. All the hate I laid on her, on both of them. Mom needs Kerri. She’ll be alone when I go. Yeah, Mom’ll miss me, but she’ll be okay with Kerri here.
Mom loves Kerri. Kerri loves her. That I know for sure.
“Thanks,” I say.
Kerri tilts her head. “I didn’t do anything.”
“Yeah, you did.” She stuck up for me. Kerri risked her relationship with Mom to be on my side.
Like she’s reading my thoughts, Kerri’s eyes get all watery. “It was nothing.”
Yeah, it was nothing. It only saved my life.
We sit for a minute. In peace. Quiet. I tell her what I should’ve told her a long time ago, a hundred times. “You’re an awesome chef.”
“Thanks. That means a lot coming from Captain Potato Chip.”
I laugh. It feels good to laugh.
“I better get back,” I tell her.
“Yeah,” she goes. “It’s dangerous to leave those two together for more than thirty seconds.” She crosses her eyes and sticks out her tongue.
I grin. I push to my feet.
“Nick.” She grabs my pant leg.
When I turn, she lets go. “Nothing.” She shakes her head at the floor.
“No,” I tell her. “It wasn’t nothing. It was everything.”
Mom and Jo
Mom and Jo are sitting together on the bed with my scrapbook open between them. “What do you think this is?” Mom asks Jo.
“For crying out loud,” Jo says. “He kept those?”
They both glance up at me in the doorway. “Kept what?” I wander over. They’re the stitches from my chin. The Scotch tape gluing them on the page is yellowed and peeling. I’ll need to replace it soon. “You remember,” I say. “When I was three?” I’d just turned three.
Mom shakes her head. “I can’t believe the doctor let you keep the stitches.”
“He didn’t,” Jo says. “I had to fish them out of the trash.”
“What?” Mom curls a lip.
“Don’t you remember? We went in to have them removed, and Nick was screaming bloody murder and we couldn’t shut him up. He kept blubbering about how he had to have those stitches, he wanted to keep those stitches forever and ever. We should’ve known then there was something not quite right with this kid. We should’ve gotten a refund from the sperm bank.”
I knuckle Jo’s head. She arm-wrestles me to the floor and pins me under her fist.
Mom flips a page and breathes, “Oh my God. I wondered where this went.” She unfolds the picture taped to the page. “I remember this so clearly,” she says. “Third grade. Mrs. Ivey. She was your favorite teacher, wasn’t she, Nick?”
Is Mom serious? “Oh yeah,” I say sarcastically. I meet Jo’s eyes, and we about bust a gut.
Mom smirks knowingly. She traces a finger over the clouds and says, “I always loved this drawing.”
Jo relinquishes her hold on me and tilts her head. “Me too.” She smiles down at my picture.
Me three, I think. It’s the one where I’m squished between Mom and Jo.
Mom refolds the picture gently and turns the page. “A watermelon seed?”
My throat catches. Please, I pray, don’t make me explain.
“Well” — Mom closes the book and stands — “you’ll want to take this with you.” She hands me the book.
We’re all done packing my room. I rise to my feet and hold the scrapbook across my arms for a moment, then extend it to Mom. “Why don’t you keep it? Put it in a safe place for now. I’ll probably start a new one anyway.” My birthday is coming up. With my birthday money, I think I’ll buy an album. A bigger one.
“Yeah,” Jo pipes up, “Part Two. Nicholas Nathaniel Thomas Tyler. Retard, Thief, Pervert, and Pack Rat. Coming soon on DVD.”
I sneer at Jo, and she grabs my ankle. She flips me over onto the bed. Before I can react, she’s on me, tickling me, digging into my ribs. I’m giggling and fighting her off.
I look over at Mom. She’s not smiling. “She started it,” I say, pushing Jo off. I rearrange my twisted clothes.
Mom reaches into her pocket and retrieves an object. She hands it to me. “Don’t forget this,” she says.
It’s my cell.
I take it and flip it open. “Are all my numbers still stored? Yours and Kerri’s?”
Mom nods and smiles. “I put the address of the new house in your memos too. So you won’t forget.”
“I won’t forget. I’ll call you,” I add. “I’ll call you tonight.”
Jo hits me with an overstuffed garbage bag. “Grab your poncho and sleeping bag on the way out, Saint Nick. Since I only have the one futon, you’ll be campin
“You think,” I mutter.
“I know.” She hitches her chin for me to scram.
I sling the garbage bag over my shoulder and pretend to leave. I get as far as the hallway. Jo says, “Erin —”
I lower the bag quietly and flatten myself against the wall to listen.
“I’ll send you child support,” Mom says. “I’ll look into the legalities of everything. You may have to officially adopt him to gain custody or legal guardianship. I’m not sure what’s involved, but don’t worry about it.”
Jo says, “I’m not. Like I said, we’ll work it out. That’s not what I wanted to say. I wanted to . . .” She stalls. Her voice falters. “I want to thank you. For trusting me.”
Mom doesn’t answer. I wonder if she’ll tell her the truth.
Jo adds, “I love you for this. More than you’ll ever know.”
“You’ll never forgive me, though. Will you?”
Jo sighs. “I forgive you, Erin. I just want us all to be happy. Life’s too short, you know? We have to make each day count. Isn’t that the Erin Tyler, cancer survivor, philosophy of life? If it’s not, it should be.”
Mom doesn’t reply. I sense tension in the air. That staggering silence. Mom says softly, “Thank you, Jo. I love you too. I know you don’t believe that. . . .”
“I do,” Jo says quickly. “Let’s just get past it, okay? Is there a law that says we can’t be friends?”
I envision Mom consulting The Book, the one in her head. Reading off The Rules. “Take care of him,” she says. “Take care of each other.”
I smile inside. I think she finally gets it. I can’t see through the wall, but I know what’s happening. They’re hugging. This powerful force rises up around them, between them, and I know what it is. Who it is.
I squeeze my eyes and vow to never forget this day, this second, this defining moment of my life.
When I open my eyes, Mom’s beside me. Jo’s behind me. Kerri’s there too. I think, Wow. How lucky can I be?
Then I think, Lucky? I have three moms. I have to start planning now for Mother’s Day.