Thicker Than Blood - the Complete Andrew Z. Thomas Trilogy - Blake Crouch [43]
"You look good," she said, inspecting my waist. "I see you lost that spare tire." Smiling, she pinched my stomach. She had a paralyzing fear I’d suddenly gain six hundred pounds and become trapped in my house. It was hell being around her if I was the slightest bit overweight. "I told you it wouldn’t take much to lose those love handles. They’re really not attractive, you know. That’s what happens when you spend all your time inside, writing."
"The yard doesn’t look good, Mom," I said, walking into the living room and sitting down on the sofa. She walked to the television and turned the volume all the way down. "Is that lawn service not coming anymore?"
"I fired them," she said, blocking the screen, hands on her hips. "They charged too much."
"You weren’t paying for it."
"I don’t need your help," she said. "And I’m not gonna argue with you about it. I wrote a check to you for the money you gave me. Remind me to give it to you before you leave."
"I won’t take it."
"Then the money will go to waste."
"But the yard looks terrible. It needs to be —"
"That grass is gonna turn brown and die anyway. No need to make a fuss about it now."
I sighed and leaned back against the dusty, sunken sofa as my mother disappeared into the kitchen. The house smelled of must, aged wood, and tarnished silverware. Above the brick fireplace hung a family portrait that had been taken the summer after Orson and I graduated from high school. The picture was sixteen years old, and it showed. The background had reddened, and our faces looked more pink than flesh-colored.
I remembered the day distinctly. Orson and I had fought about who would wear Dad’s brown suit. We’d both become fixated on it, so Mom had flipped a dime, and I won. Furious, Orson had refused to have his picture taken, so Mom and I went alone to the photographer’s studio. I wore my father’s brown suit, and she wore a purple dress, black now in the discolored photograph. It was eerie to look at my mother and myself standing there alone, with the plain red background behind us, half a family. Sixteen years later, nothing has changed.
She came back into the living room from the kitchen, carrying a glass of sweet tea.
"Here you are, darling," she said, handing me the cold, sweaty glass. I took a sip, savoring her ability to brew the best tea I’d ever tasted. It held the perfect sweetness — not bitter, not weak, and the color was transparent mahogany. She sat down in her rocking chair and pulled a quilt over her skinny legs, the wormy veins hidden by fleshy panty hose.
"Why haven’t you come in four months?" she asked.
"I’ve been busy, Mom," I said, setting the tea down on a glass coffee table in front of the couch. "I had the book tour and other stuff, so I haven’t been back in North Carolina that long."
"Well, it hurts my feelings that my son won’t take time out of his high-and-mighty schedule to come visit his mother."
"I’m sorry," I said. "I really feel bad."
"You should be more considerate."
"I will. I’m sorry."
"Stop saying that," she snapped. "I forgive you." Then turning back to the television, she said, "I bought your book."
"You didn’t have to buy it, Mom. I have thirty copies at home. I could’ve brought one."
"I didn’t know that."
"You read it?"
She frowned, and I knew the answer. "I don’t want to hurt your feelings," she said, "but it’s just like your other ones. I didn’t even reach the end of the first chapter before I put it down. You know I can’t stand profanity. And that Sizzle was just horrible. I’m not gonna read about a man going around setting people on fire. I don’t know how you write it. People probably think I abused you."
"Mom, I —"
"I know you write what sells, but that doesn’t necessarily mean I’m gonna like it. I just wish you’d write something nice for a change."
"Like what? What would you like for me to write?"
"A love story, Andrew. Something with a happy ending. People read