Page 2 of Three Minutes
She gives a soft smile, leaning over to swipe hair from my dampened forehead.
“It’s time to get up,” she replies.
I groan, pulling the covers up to my chin, refusing to get out of my bed. I watch her as she stands up and heads towards the window. She flings the curtain open, causing me to hiss from the sunlight that almost blinds me.
“What the hell, Mom!” Her laughter fills my room, causing a slight grin to pull at my sleep-crusted mouth. I squint my eyes at her as she walks to the bedroom door.
“Get your ass up before your birthday brunch gets cold.”
After a few stretches and dramatic yawns, I force myself out of bed. Grabbing a t-shirt and basketball shorts from my dresser, I glance at my phone—it’s almost 12:30 p.m. Multiple texts flashacross the screen from my friend Blake, my uncle Jesse, and Blake’s sister, Beck, all wishing me a happy birthday. Stepping out of my room, the savory smell of various foods surrounds me. My stomach growls as I follow the tempting aroma coming from the kitchen. Breakfast items are spread out across the kitchen table: bacon, scrambled eggs, and buttermilk biscuits with gravy. My mouth instantly waters at the sight of the generous spread before my eyes.
As soon as I sit down, Mom walks over and places a plate in front of me—pancakes shaped like the number 16. Since I was a year old, it’s been something she’s always done on my birthday. So simple, yet thoughtful. She’s collected pictures for every birthday, except my thirteenth. I stare at the pancakes, unable to hide the smirk on my face. The six is disproportionate, givingHunchback of Notre Damevibes, but I keep that thought to myself.
“I have to say this may be your best creation yet, thank you,” I say with a side of humor.
She glances at the pancakes, placing her hands on either hip. I carefully watch as she purses her lips and then responds, “There were a few minor complications with the 6, but I’d say it adds character.” I give a slow, exaggerated nod as we both hold back a laugh.
I pick up my fork, ready to take my first bite. “Eh, eh, no, sir! Let me get a picture for—” Before she can finish her sentence, the back door flings open, in walks Beck and Blake. It doesn’t surprise either of us, considering they have a habit of barging in the house like they own the place. I guess it doesn’t help that they’ve lived two streets over from us since I was around seven. Plus, Mom has treated them as her own since the first day we met, riding bikes in the street. It was just the two of them and their dad, Eric. Their mom had passed away from an unexplained heart attack less than two years prior. It was toopainful for Eric to live in the house where they had once raised their family, so he eventually sold it and moved to our town. It had only been two days since they moved in when we first met, and from that day on, it was always the three of us.
Beck comes up behind me, wrapping her arms around my neck. “Happy birthday, Ez.” I give her arm a quick rub, silently thanking her. She then takes a seat beside me, giving a lax smile. Her curly, auburn hair hangs down, gathered to one side like she’s always worn it. Her deep blue eyes meet mine before she turns to my mom. For a moment, I am distracted by her presence. She has changed over the years. I always remember the goofy tomboy who tried to keep up with Blake and me. She never wanted to play with dolls, dress up, or wear makeup. She would even flip off the neighborhood girls who lived nearby, because she wanted no part in their “girlie” activities. But now, when I look at Beck, I see she is turning into a woman. She doesn’t need the little extra things to make her beautiful. She justis, and honestly, always has been in her own way.
I shake my head, catching myself staring longer than I should. Blake sees me and gives my arm a solid punch before sitting down at the table. “Did you not get my texts this morning, asshole?”
I glare at him, rubbing the spot where his fist connected. “Which one?” I ask through gritted teeth. He rubs his stomach dramatically while Mom gives them each a plate piled high with food.
“The one where the three of us are going to the lake for the day, and then having a bonfire at our place tonight. Dad will be down at the station on-call and already said he’s good with it, as long as Esther agrees.” He states it almost as a question, instantly giving my mom puppy eyes.Pathetic.
She cuts her eyes to me and then back to Blake. “If your dad is good with it, then so am I,” Mom replies casually.
Blake blows her a quick kiss, thanking her for her generosity—which makes Beck and I roll our eyes in sync. Something we’ve done since we were kids, anytime Blake did or said something dramatic. He’s always bragged that he was my mom’s favorite. We just let him talk out of his ass, most days.
“So, what do you think, old man?” he continues.
I keep chewing on my pancake, ignoring his question. Beck interrupts for me. “Old man? You do realize we turn eighteen in four months, right?”
Blake dismisses her comment, replying, “Psh, yeah...but you’re older than me.”
Beck and I exchange glances, then turn back to him. She scoffs. “By one minute and twenty-two seconds, Blake.” The two of them then share their strange, twin-telepathic stare-off before we all, including my mom, burst into ridiculous laughter.
After the birthday brunch, Beck and Blake walk back home to get ready for the lake. I get up to help Mom clean up the kitchen, despite her initial refusal of at least ten times, until she finally gave in. There wasn’t much to clean up aside from empty dishes—the twins made sure we left no food behind. So, in a way, I guess they had pitched in, too. Once we get everything cleaned up, we head to the living room. Every year on my birthday, mom and I sit and look through pictures of me from when I was growing up. Mom has always been one to snap photos of most things. She’s often talked about how my grandmother loved taking pictures when she was a kid; maybe it’s where she found her love for doing the same.
I’ve tried to picture what my grandmother was like. I never met her or saw a picture of her. Mom only has old photos from when she was growing up, and my grandmother had passed away when mom was in her early twenties. The way mom’s face lights up when she speaks of her makes me believe she was a good person. How could she not be? She wasn’t Mom’s biologicalparent, but she sacrificed her own life to save my mom. I’ve often pondered how my mom would have turned out if she had stayed in foster care longer than she did as a kid. I couldn’t imagine switching homes constantly and not having stability.
You hear horror stories about people raised in foster care and how they end up as terrible individuals. But then there is her; the woman who gave birth to me, who has loved me unconditionally through all the hell she’s been through. We take a seat on the couch, and I watch as she opens the wooden chest, which also serves as a coffee table. Picture albums stack neatly inside the chest. We gather them all up and begin looking through them. I glance over at Mom as she excitedly explains every photo and how she remembers each one as if it were yesterday.
We come across one from when she had me at the hospital, my father and Uncle Jesse standing on either side of her as she holds me in the hospital bed. We both go silent when we see my father’s face, his expression cold with no sign of excitement for my arrival. Meanwhile, Jesse has a side smirk, smiling down at my mom. Over the years, I’ve quietly wondered why she’s kept the few photos that include my father. Sometimes I wish I could forget he ever existed; other times, I want to remember exactly who he was. Or maybe it’s because I knew that no matter how hard we tried to erase him from our lives, something deeply embedded him in this house and our minds forever.
Mom flips to the next page of photos and laughs through her nose, quickly pulling a picture out from the album. I gently grab it, instantly grinning when I see three goofy kids’ faces looking back at me. The photo was taken shortly after meeting Beck and Blake on our street. In the front, Blake and I are sitting on our bikes, smiling so big. Off to the side sits Beck, on her bicycle, lips puffed out and arms crossed, giving us her best evil eye. Blake and I had just told her moments before the picture was taken that she had cooties and couldn’t hang with us boys. Shegot so mad; I knew right then she had a fiery side to her, and it wouldn’t be easy to keep her away. It annoyed me at first, but as time passed, she grew on me. And what I mean by when time passed is that the three of us were inseparable just one day after Blake and I swore to keep her cooties away.
After spending nearly an hour looking through all the picture albums, Mom boils some tea on the stove while I go to get ready for the lake. As I step into my room, I quietly close the door and lean my back against it. I close my eyes and breathe slowly through my nose and out of my mouth. It’s something that I do pretty often to calm my nerves. It was around the age of fourteen that things began to change for me. I didn’t understand at first why my chest would feel so heavy or why my heart seemed like it was trying to force its way out, making my breathing become heavy and rapid, like I couldn’t catch my breath. I did my best to battle it on my own. I never wanted to upset my mom or add to her already full plate. She didn’t deserve it.
I hid it until I couldn’t anymore. So many nights of jerking from my sleep, unable to catch my breath after a nightmare. Every single time, my mother came to my rescue. She held me, rubbed my head, and reminded me that everything would be okay. Only her touch and her voice was able to make it go away. That’s when we found out I was having panic attacks. We kept it quiet for a while, but it only got worse. Whenever I had to go to school or tried to go anywhere that wasn’t close to home, the panic attacks would take over.
Mom couldn’t handle it anymore, and my uncle Jesse recommended I speak with a doctor. So we did just that, without giving too much information about the disappearance of my father, but explaining when my panic attacks happened. It took little for us to realize why I was having them—they diagnosed me with anxiety and PTSD. I was terrified of leaving the house, especially leaving mom home alone. I was worried about myfather lurking somewhere, waiting for the perfect opportunity to hurt her—again. The thought of what could happen if I were not there to protect her…and the nightmares only intensified that fear, leaving haunting visuals that still crowd my mind.
What made the situation even tougher was that I couldn’t confide in the twins. Mom made me promise to keep what happened on my thirteenth birthday between just the two of us. She insisted it was too risky. That night, we came up with a cover story. We would tell everyone that they separated, that he had stormed out and never returned, and that we had no clue where he had gone. Mom didn’t want the police involved, especially given my age and the fact that I had used a knife on my father. It would attract unwanted attention, and she feared that other authorities might step in and take me away from her. The thought of foster care sent chills down her spine—and mine.
So other adjustments had to be made to help with my episodes. Mom pulled me out of 9th grade so I could be homeschooled. That helped a little. The doctor offered medications to help my symptoms. Mom refused them at first, but it only took seeing me fold one more time for her to take me back to the doctor’s office for the prescriptions. It started as a very low dose, considering my age. But as I got older, the doses increased. With reliance on medications and attending school from home, things eased up a bit. The nightmares decreased from happening most nights to just a few. The panic attacks mostly stayed away, but the heaviness in my chest always lingered, reminding me it wasn’t going anywhere; like a beast hiding in a dark cave, only showing its glowing eyes. I was its prey, its meal to devour when ready.
