Hush
A hush falls suddenly. Followed by the echo of a door slamming, as the hum of the garage door opening echoes throughout the house.
Monday. He isn’t late yet as the clock echoes 9:30, but mom is already irritated, complaining at me in between brushing and spitting. I stand silently, jaded by previous attempts to diffuse a battle which is not my own to fight. He returns home at 10:02. Just long enough past curfew to be late, but not long enough to withdraw a rational anger.
Tuesday. He skips Dough Boys, sitting in a smoky car exercising his lungs instead of his body. Rejecting the forced preparation for the wrestling season. I glance at the evidence, his face on my screen, the Snapchat playing to the melody of mom’s oblivion. Each week he leaves, each week perfecting smokey o’s in the parking lot behind his supposed destination.
Wednesday. He sleeps through Algebra because, “I don’t care”, but receives an A on his history test because, “It’s interesting.” He is a mass of contradictions and unseen potential. Should I blame myself for this competition we were placed in without our consent?
Thursday. He returns home numb to disapproval and disappointment. Mom takes in the glossy eyes, the side effects of his hazed mind. But I see her refrain- she’s tired today. With a sigh she prepares snacks for him, preserving the calm, choosing ignorance.
Friday. He leaves with Hannah (brown hair, hazel eyes, genuine smile) and I worry as the hours pass, knowing he is slowly sinking himself into a chosen oblivion.
Saturday. He wakes up and today is our day. Hannah has a passion for houses and Tyler for architecture. They rattle on, pointing out the windows as we drive through beautiful streets finding hidden places, exploring. He rambles to me with unbridled passion, immersed in peaks and awnings and eras. We stop to wander amidst Dandy Lions and I drift away to find the perfect angle to capture the moment. I smile at the last photos of him and her- engrossed in each other, entangled in streams of purple and pink and blue. I see his smirk but also his smile, I hear his laugh (sometimes that childlike hint of a giggle). I see the best parts of a boy slowly struggling to find his own answers.
Sunday, he returns home for dinner. A school night and he’s late again. There is yelling. I sit on my bed in my room. I close my eyes. The words fall softly, “I love you.” I descend the steps. Straighten my back and stiffen my resolution. Sit at a table made three once again.
A hush falls suddenly. Followed by the echo of a door slamming, as the hum of the garage door opening echoes throughout the house.
Weary
Midsentence her voice begins to crack. A soft sob begins before the thud of a door echoing her retreat.
She is tired of a battle waged for years, fought with words and blanketed by fear. Haunted by the memories of her ring bearer who was never a groom. Who traded his future for addiction, and lost his life to a needle. A boy barely grown before he was gone- a fear of who her son could become.
Sixth Grade, she could see it was the beginning; she could sense it was the end. He entered a world of dances with dark corners and temptations to be tasted. Disagreement became disrespect, words became barricades rather than bridges. She found herself confounded, desperate to be his ally yet obligated to be his shepherd.
Seventh Grade, she receives a call from the Principal, “Tyler has been caught consuming alcohol”. The Roller Kingdom Rubinoff earns him a week of detention. Panic grips her, images of a father saturated in whiskey and stirred into shouting. Another unnerving possibility, as she questions where she went wrong.
Eighth Grade, she is weathered by compromise and a master of choosing her battles. A general in a war long fought yet just beginning. Her opponent, so enraptured by the law, but colorblind in his interpretation. Vehement in his rebellion against any perceived injustice, without thought to consequence. Ignorant to the necessity of following the rules as they are, in order to change them into what they should be. Her husband- his mirror image, quick to anger but in desperation; as they watch their son slip away.
Freshman Year, she finds hope in a college summer camp on forensics. The camp counselor calls, “Your son was involved in setting off a fire extinguisher”. His expulsion earns him a summer of sweat, as tuition is repaid with labor. The prospect of deterring him with a passion, another dream turned casualty. She finds herself sitting in the center of his sanctuary; gazing around, hoping for an epiphany or a clue.
Sophomore Year, she sits in the principles’ office, “your son has been found with paraphernalia on school grounds”. The glass bowl and chewing tobacco earn him a week off. Shame pushes her eyes along the tile as she stumbles in the shoes of the parent she’s always judged. Her husband’s steps echo alongside her, lips puckered, as the truth lies unpalatable against papillae. Anguish prods her through the kitchen and up the stairs until she is immersed in stained jeans, pulling smoky sweatshirts to her skepticism. Each substantiation a memory of Kenny’s eager laugh, his boyish smile. She stares at the bowl, seeing Kenny’s mom crumping. The Bic lays cool in her hand, grasped amidst the cloth of mommy and butterfly kisses, lost in the examination of memories.
Junior Year, she calls upstairs for dinner as the phone rings. She hesitates to let the food cool, but pauses before she can pass. The officer speaks, “your son and his friends were found in possession of marijuana.” The officer’s mercy earns him a second chance, as punishment is left to the parents. But red eyes and closed doors follow, she is lost and concerned, desperate for solutions. What more can she do than she’s already done? How far can she push him away?
Senior Year, she pleads with him, drowning in her past and desperate for his future. He attacks her disappointment and belittles her fear. Zealous in his indignation, “You were no better! Don’t act so perfect!” But she was raised red and he was raised blue. Immersed in Seattle’s distractions to avoid the ever-ticking time bomb of an alcoholic father, to warm knees ripped by money stretched tight, to ignore the pressure cooker she returned to each night. She gave him a beginning incomparable to her own, she took his excuses before he could have them, “I gave you everything I never had, so that you wouldn’t be the person you’ve become…”
Midsentence her voice begins to crack. A soft sob begins before the thud of a door echoing her retreat.
Unremitting
Morning.
“Tyler!” booms up the stairs, “Don’t be late again!” Dad’s voice is disappointed before the day has even begun.
Tyler rolls from a cocoon fractured by sunrise, pondering where in-between sleep and awakening he managed to mar his new beginning.
His finger pushes the cool metal of a lighter thrown to the nightstand, embodied by an urge to escape, to haze through the monotony he’s required to endure. Hungry for the tickle in his throat; to taste the relief of the first hit of the day. It is the craving that pulls him from bed, plenty early, and out the door with a swift “bye”.
Resentment blemishes each morning, bitter in his mouth and immune to Colgate. So each day begins with a bowl, to turn it around before it can settle in. Surrounded by ‘bad influences’, to find an acceptance illusive at home. It is they who remind him to laugh, before the frown grows comfortable.
Midday.
‘Mom’ buzzes in science class and in math, the number beside her bubble on the screen growing. Omnipresent, 5 times by 4th period.
When are you going to finish mowing the lawn?
It’s going to rain tomorrow.
They continue, piling bubbles as bricks between them, by 6th period, 3 times more. For each text she sends he glances at her name and swipes it out of view. Noting the time and waiting 20 minutes; if she hasn’t texted again, he’ll answer, if she has, the time restarts. A game perceived to be devised out of disrespect, but truly the product of a desire for understanding. The more she asks the less he’ll answer, but panicked for control she misses the intention. The less she asks, the more he’ll offer; if given the chance to reward a learned lesson.
Afternoon.
The haven of the bell sounding their freedom is embraced by the shuffle of feet and papers. He meanders through the halls collecting books and plans and people. Hannah’s fingers so familiar, their patterns kissing, intertwined. The parking lot is already flooding out of the yellow school signs as they traipse amongst dented fenders and nicked paint.
Already sweating in clothes adorned for a cool fall morning, before entering the claustrophobia. The air conditioning sputters, echoing the heat of its pain, before the cool kicks in and the windows close. They get lost in a maze of street signs and fated turns- lost in the haze of unplanned time and comfortable in the smoky serenity.
With a sigh he glances at the glow of reality on the dashboard. Hannah’s eyes study his defeat as she traces the return of rigidity within his shoulders. Together they face dinnertime.
Evening.
Tension pulls his spine upright with the twist of the knob of the door. Assaulted by the waft of chicken splattered with spices and bubbled in oil, dinner is already spread on the table as they enter. His eyes assess the situation as they approach; the presence of dad’s phone still glued to his hand, mom’s smile as she says, “Right on time!” before finding his place opposite his lifelong ally. Taylor’s face is relaxed but her eyes send sparks of warning, always trying to protect him from himself.
He offers the warm platter, “Dad, do you want the chicken?”
“Can’t you see I’m trying to fucking do something?” Dad’s eyes don’t waver from the screen. The scrunch of Tyler’s forehead accompanies the iron tinge of suppression bitter against his tongue.
Taylor’s voice interrupts the laser glare through the chicken, “I will Ty,” and as it falls atop her salad, “And I found out I’m being initiated into the National Honor Society next month!”
Dad’s eyes find the courtesy to abandon their mission for his princess, “That’s amazing honey! We’re so proud of you.”
Tyler’s fork pauses in its pursuit, the food on his plate suddenly overwhelming, as hunger seems insignificant compared to escape. He shovels food into mouth as they continue their praise. With a quick glance she offers her resigned apology, for both saving him and killing him, countless times.
Night.
As he collapses onto the duvet, exhaustion outweighs evasion and he succumbs to the thoughts pestering the corners of his mind. The truth always shines brightest when left in the dark alone. So it begins, counting moments instead of sheep- until the blessed oblivion of sleep.
Memories strike, each a new blow.
“You’ll never be a lawyer. You won’t even make it to college.”
“Ready? Repeat after me. Do- you- want- fries- with- that.”
“That’s funny. You think they’d actually choose you.”
“Fucking punk”
They leave him, shaking and battered- an anthology of black and blue. He rolls over, welcoming sleep’s solace.