Damage - A. M. Jenkins [44]
Around midmorning, while Mom and Becky are gone, you try to call.
Mrs. Mackenzie answers. “Austin, is that you? Hi, honey. No, she’s spending the weekend in Fort Worth and won’t be back till tonight. You know Lacy Matthews, don’t you?” She adds a bunch of stuff explaining the hows and whys of Heather being in Fort Worth, but none of it makes sense till she adds, “She’ll be back tonight, though. I’ll tell her to give you a call if it’s not too late. How’s that?”
“Fine,” you tell her. Although it’s not, really.
All you can do after that is go back to bed, pull pillow over your head, and wait for the phone to ring.
Noises work their way into what’s left of your sleep; clanks and chings and the sound of a running tap.
Before your eyes even open, the burden descends: Monday, and Heather never called. You’ve pretty been in bed for the last twenty-four hours. You told Mom you didn’t feel well, which was about as close as you come to describing the way you really do feel.
The sounds keep on incessantly; dishes and silverware and the splash of water—until they finally add up and you remember. When the dishwasher broke a couple of days ago Mom asked you to please be the official dishwasher till she could get the real one fixed.
Only you kept forgetting. Then all day yesterday, you didn’t so much as lift a finger. And now Mom might be late for work.
So you force yourself to get up. When you walk into the kitchen, Mom’s standing at the sink, an apron over her work clothes. She glances over her shoulder when she hears you but turns back to the sink and doesn’t say anything.
That’s Mom; she could have nagged you or left a note, but she just let the dishes pile up, assuming you’d eventually do as you promised—until it got to where she could barely get to the faucet to fill a pot of water for coffee.
Now she stands here with her back to you, washing the dishes that you should have already taken care of.
You head for the sink, hold out your hand for scrubber. “I’ll do that.”
“No, I will. I want to make sure it gets done.”
“Come on, Mom. I’ll do it.”
“I’ve already gotten started.” She keeps washing.
Okay, you’ll dry for her, then. You’re better at it than she is, anyway. She just sort of swipes at them, then them in the cabinets.
You open the drawer for a dish towel. “Sorry forgot,” you tell her, picking up a glass and getting to work.
Mom gives one last extra-hard scrub to the pan she’s working on and then relents. “It’s all right. I’m glad to see you’re feeling better today.” She shakes her head. “Hard to believe you used to beg me to let you wash dishes.”
“That was years ago, Mom. Maybe first grade.”
“That long?” Mom frowns, sets the pan on the drainboard. She pauses, watching the way you dry the inside the glass; since your hands are too big to fit, you have wad the towel up and shove it down inside. “Next thing you’re going to tell me is that seven-pound, six-ounce boy I gave birth to is already taller than I am.” She smiles. “You were always a good little dryer. You’d standing there biting your lip, working so hard. Always took things like that so seriously, for such a little kid.”
You set the glass to the side and pick up a Brass-bottomed pan, thinking how strange it is to hear her talk like this. Mom’s never been one for reminiscing. Every other family you know has photo albums; your mom’s never even bought a camera.
So hearing this sort of thing is like salve on a raw wound. “That’s the first time in a long time I’ve heard you say anything about when I was little,” you tell “Or Becky, either. You don’t talk about it much.”
Mom starts scrubbing again. “No, I guess I don’t They weren’t great times. Your father getting sick all, and then he was gone. And me with a toddler and newborn, and the horses weren’t bringing in any money. Lord, it broke my heart to sell my horses.” She sighs. “Sometimes you can’t look back if you want to keep moving forward. I had to keep moving forward, Austin. Still do.”
“But you remember things about me and Becky.”
“Of course. Didn’t I just say you were a