“Yes, Mom,” I say, remembering how important her social engagements with other couples were to her. “Loads of them.”
“Good,” she says, patting my hand as it rests in my lap. “What about Brian?”
“What?” I ask, stuttering the word as it comes out.
“What about Brian? How’s he doing?” she asks, staring at me with the same direct demeanor she’s displayed throughout our conversation.
“Mom, I don’t talk with Brian.”
“Well, why the hell not?” she asks, her tone sharpening. “Your dad and I gave you a brother, and you don’t even talk to him.”
“It’s not like that, Mom,” I say, trying to avoid why we no longer speak. “Brian is—”
“Oh, here we go again.” She throws back her head and gives her curls a hearty shake. “Brian this and Brian that. You know you were always so jealous of him.”
I open my mouth, but words fail to come. I lean forward so my hair covers my face. I take a deep breath. Mom literally doesn’t know what she’s saying, and I don’t even have the heart to correct her. But she’ll never know, right mind or not, how hurtful these words are to hear. Like somewhere, in the same place where she’s locked away those happy memories of Dad in France, there’s the memory of me being jealous of Brian.
“You’re right, Mom,” I say. “I’m sorry.”
“It’ll really be better for you,” she says, unaware of how much she’s destroyed me with a few simple words. “Maybe if you act a little more like him, you’ll feel better about yourself.”
“I’ll try, Mom,” I say, pushing the silent button which notifies Violet to return to the room. One… two… three.
“When is he going to come visit?” she asks. “He’s yet to see the place since we painted.”
“I know,” I say, my heart beating faster as I wait for someone to interrupt us. Four… five… six. I don’t want Mom to see me cry. I stand, trying to turn my face.
“He’s just so busy at school, you know,” she says, twirling a ringlet of hair. “I bet Amber is still kicking herself for letting him go.”
Suddenly, the room is spinning and I’m falling against the carpet, closing my eyes as the sound of Mom’s voice fades away.
Twenty-One
Fall 2004
“Finish putting up the clothes,” Mom said. She sat at the breakfast counter typing away on her laptop. She’d recently attended some planning convention where they taught her how to use PowerPoint. Since then, every spare moment seemed devoted to some adorable flyer or brochure.
“I put up mine,” I said. I was in the living room, a fortress of folded towels and linens surrounding me. Pixie slept peacefully on my lap.
“Take Brian’s clothes to his room,” she said, still typing.
I rolled my eyes and lifted Pixie’s tiny body off my legs. I loaded Brian’s clothes into a basket and made the trek upstairs. Surprisingly, the door was open. I was used to knocking at least twice before he’d respond. He was gone.
I pulled out drawers and deposited the folded clothes. Looking around, I realized how long it had been since I’d been inside his room. It smelled raunchy. I spied three varieties of crumpled potato chip bags in different corners of the room. Dirty shorts and socks were wadded on the floor. An assortment of metal rods hung over his bed. I moved closer, knowing I’d never seen them before. Upon closer inspection, I grasped the rods were various knives, their pointy tips covered. I looked each one over. All were different lengths, some short like daggers, others longer like bayonets.
“What are you doing in here?” Brian asked. He threw his car keys onto his dresser.
“Putting away laundry,” I said, returning my stare to the knives above his bed. “Why do you have knives on your wall?”
“Because they interest me.” He brushed past me and sat on the bed, looking up at his possessions. “Each one has a different story. Would you like to hear them?”
“Different stories? I—”
Before I finished speaking, he pulled a small knife off the wall and held it. “This one is a Civil War bowie knife. Every Confederate had one. Neat, huh?”
“Where did you get it?” I asked.
“I get them online.” He extended his arm. “Would you like to hold one?”
He had a blank expression as he offered over the weapon. I took it. My fingers rubbed the grainy imperfections along the hilt.
“How do you know it’s real?” I asked.
“I vet the sellers before I buy.”
He lifted another weapon from the wall and went into its history. He continued the process until he’d described each one. I stood quiet, listening. It was the most I’d heard him speak in years. Possibly ever.
When he finished describing the last one, I handed back the dagger. “Cool,” I said.
I hadn’t realized when he was speaking earlier, but there had been a perceptible glimmer in his eyes. It vanished, replaced again with his usual, cold stare.
“Cool?” He mocked me. “That’s all you have to say?”
“I think they’re cool, Brian,” I said, scratching my neck. “What else do you want to hear?”
“Real descriptive, Della,” he said, leaning back on the bed. “No wonder you’re in standard classes.”
I spun around, making a dramatic exit from the bedroom. Not that Brian cared. Upsetting me was never a concern; it was his intent.
Collecting knives. I thought it was an odd hobby for a high schooler. Of course, he had a lot of time to himself now that basketball was out of the picture. Brian didn’t even attempt to rejoin the team. Coach Lawson urged him to play his senior year, claiming he’d been punished enough for last year’s incident. But Brian was too stubborn. He knew it would hurt the team—and Lawson—more if he rejected the offer.
Since he no longer followed a rigorous practice schedule, I couldn’t understand where he was in the hours between school and dinner. He didn’t have a job, and Mom never encouraged him to get one. But
