“It looks like a flour bomb exploded in here.” He's got his tie loosened and bags with lefttovers from his meeting. Mom always makes him bring home whatever he can get since those things are always catered and fancy.
“It pretty much did.” We both look like ghosts or clowns or something. She bumps me with her shoulder and we giggle helplessly. There's something satisfying about making a huge mess without worrying about cleaning it up.
I choke on a flour cloud. It just makes me laugh harder.
Eleven
The bread comes out great, even though we make enough to feed a small country.
“You have to make it until you can do it without the recipe,” she says. So we do, sending Dad out on another banana run until we have loaves lining the kitchen counter, wrapped and ready to go. Most of it will be disposed when Dad takes her on a visit to the elementary school.
I bring some of it to school and get a kick out of Tex and Jamie's faces as they bite into a slice.
“This is heaven. Are you sure you didn't put crack in here?” She doesn't even bother to swallow before she talks. Attractive.
“Only the best Colombian. How did you know?” She rolls her eyes at me and takes another bite. Jamie is kinda quiet, but he is eating it, so I know it isn't the bread. I tried calling him last night, but he never picked up and I didn't know what to say on the message so I gave up.
“How are you James?” He shrugs. Uh oh. Bad sign. Tex is too busy mowing down on the bread to notice the look I give him. He shakes his head. He hasn't told Tex. I give him another look. He shrugs again. I kick his foot under the lunch table.
He just glares at me. Fantastic.
I don't get a chance to talk to him until just after school when I snag him on the way to track practice. He tries to get away, but I hold on tight. He's not enough of an ass to drag me, thankfully.
“You didn't tell Tex about Cassie? What is wrong with you?” He tries to pull away, but I'm not letting go. I do stumble a bit, but I keep holding on.
“I don't know. I just... I didn't want to tell anyone.” He tugs his ear and sighs. I let go.
“You told me. I'm someone,” I point out.
“You're different.” He won't look at me.
“Why?”
“Because you know,” he says, like it's obvious. Not to me.
“Know what?”
“What it's like to have a parent that isn't...” He shifts his bag to the other shoulder, glancing at the gym. A parent that isn't what? Isn't going to be around? His dad's and alcoholic. My mother is a cancer patient. Those are two different things.
“I'm not getting it.” I wave my hands for him to elaborate. He just keeps looking at the gym, as if it's the last lifeboat and he's standing on the Titanic.
“I can't talk to you now, but we can talk later. I have to go.” I try once more to get him to turn around, but I see his face. He can't do this right now. I do know what that's like.
“Okay, fine.” I let go of his arm and watch him jog so he isn't late. It's almost a relief to think about something else other than how my mother is going to slip through my fingers and there's nothing I can do to hold onto her. How I still want to see this guy I meet in a cemetery who threatens to kill me, and almost did. Thinking about anything else is a relief.
***
There are piles of bags on the kitchen counter when I get home. Work was harder than usual with Tex pestering me about Jamie, Toby shushing us every five seconds and giving us useless chores like dusting the shelves or alphabetizing the frequent-buyer membership cards. I'd barely made it out of there without having a major blow-up.
“What's this?” I motion to the bags.
“I got you new jeans and a bunch of fabric so you can learn how to sew. It's about time you learned.” I try to look excited. I should be happy that she's doing these things with me, but really, I'm just tired. One look at her eager face and I shove the tiredness aside.
“Awesome,” I say with a smile that takes a bit of effort.
She tries to teach me the rudiments of the finicky machine she'd inherited and painstakingly restored. “Nothing is better than an old Singer. Nothing,” she says. She makes the machine hum and purr like a contented tiger. Her straight lines are perfect. Every time I try to make a straight stitch, the machine makes a horrible grinding noise.
“Whoa, stop, stop, stop.” She reaches in to adjust something, explaining what the issue was. I'm trying to commit it to memory, and thanking my stars that there is such a thing as Google. I yawn, but keep trying.
I nearly sew my fingers together three times, but I manage to sew two of the pieces of cloth together in a straight line, with no wrinkles. It's a miracle.
“Good job. See? It isn't as bad as you think it's going to be. I got you some patterns too.” Strewn across her bed are piles of fabric, all in colors in textures I love. It startles me that I would have chosen the exact same colors and patterns, if I'd gone with her. There are patterns for dresses, pants, jackets. They are thin as tissue paper, but extremely intimidating. There are words I don't understand about basting, and seam allowance on each package. I'll have her explain them to me when my head doesn't hurt so much.
“I got out the manual so if you have an issue, it's there.” For after she's gone. “There's also the number of the guy in Lewiston who fixes them. He's really nice, don't be afraid to call him.” She's talking like she's going on a trip or something, just giving me care instructions for while she is gone. So calm. So rational. My strong mother.
“I'll take good care of it,” I say, trying to stay as calm as she is. If she can do it, so can I.
My insomnia gets worse as the days go by and we tick off more items from the list. I take whatever chance I get to run into my room and write everything down I can remember. My body is beyond exhausted, but I can't sleep. Somehow I still manage to function, even though I spend most of each night staring at the glow-in-the-dark stars on my ceiling. I can't stop seeing Peter whenever I close my eyes, but I also don't do anything to stop it. I relive the moment when he turned on me. It doesn't seem so scary now. Further proof I'm coming unhinged from lack of sleep.
Four nights later, I have to get out. The walls keep closing in on me, the house sucking all the air out of my lungs. Even with the open window, it's too much. The snoring from below finally decides it for me. The bruises on my neck are gone. I stare out the window, into the woods just beyond the house. I long for the darkness and cool stones. The names and the whispers of the dead you can almost hear. I miss my sanctuary. It's time to poke the tiger.