She nodded, like that was all the information she needed. “Heard your name was on the radio. That podcast. They were saying terrible things about you.”
I looked away, focusing on the ruined swing outside. “It’s not all lies. Not all truth, either.”
She adjusted the quilt on her lap, eyes flicking to the TV and back.
“You want coffee?” she asked suddenly. “I made a fresh pot.”
“I’m good,” I said. “Thanks.”
She looked at me, then at the floor. “You got taller than you were the other week?”
“I was always tall.”
She smiled at her own lap, the quilt bunched tight in her fist. “Not like this. You look strong now.”
There were a thousand things I wanted to say, and none of them made it past my teeth.
“Mom, why didn’t you ever leave?” I blurted.
Her face went blank, like I’d hit her with a bucket of ice water.
She stared at her hands. The silence stretched.
“Who would have taken care of him?” she said, barely a whisper. “You know how he is.”
I wanted to scream. Instead, I pressed my palms into my knees so hard it hurt. “He didn’t deserve it.”
She shook her head. “I didn’t do it for him. I did it for you.”
I laughed, but it sounded like choking. “You did it for me?”
Her eyes snapped up, clear and furious for just a second. “If I left, he’d have blamed you. I tried once, when you were little. He found us at my sister’s place before I even got you out of the car seat. Broke my arm and made me crawl back. You don’t know what he’s like when he really wants something.”
I swallowed, bile burning my throat.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
She reached out, her hand shaking, and I hesitated before I took it. Her skin was like paper, blue veins showing through. “Don’t be sorry,” she said. “You got out. That’s what matters.”
“I could take you with me now,” I said. “I could set you up anywhere. With me at Chickadee. Or somewhere nice, with real doctors.”
She squeezed my hand, but there was no hope in her eyes. “You know I can’t leave. This is all I’ve got. It’s my home.”
I wanted to argue, to plead, but the truth hung between us. Some people are born stuck. I thought of Lily, in such a similar position, and how she clawed her way out for the sake of her son. I couldn’t reconcile the difference.
The TV screen flickered, drawing her attention. She stared at it for a minute, then said, “They’re still talking about that boy. The one who died in the creek.”
“Yeah,” I said.
“They’re saying it was your fault.”
I nodded. “I know.”
She looked back at me, her eyes dark and bottomless. “Was it?”
The oxygen machine wheezed, ticking over the seconds. I sat there, holding her hand, watching the clouds crawl across the sky outside. I wanted to cry, but I didn’t. Not for her. Not for myself. Maybe for the kid I used to be, who thought everything could be fixed with a screwdriver and a pair of pliers.
We sat like that until the front door slammed, hard enough to rattle the glass in the windows. My mother flinched, her hand going rigid in mine. The old feeling of dread returned, thick and cold and alive.
