Page 47 of Bad Attitude
“Mom! I’m back!” Caleb throws his keys into a bowl on the dresser.
Inside, it’s open-plan, straight into the living room with the kitchen to one side. I’m immediately hit with the sweet smells of stewed fruit, empty cans in a neat row, my mother keeping up with her duties. Always busy.
She’s cooking in a dress that looks like Sunday best but I know isn’t, with an apron that hasfrillson it. She comes around the island to greet me.
“Genesis,” she says with a smile that’s strained at the edges. Her eyes pause for a moment on the botanical tattoo high on my chest, then her mouth purses as she sees the bottom of it beneath my cropped shirt. “How lovely that you’re here.”
“Hi, Mom.”
She half-turns away, gesturing at her apparatus. “I’d get you something to eat, but the kitchen is a little busy at the moment.”
“It’s fine, I’m not hungry.” I actually am, but I know I’m going to be fed more calories-per-hour here than I’ve eaten any time since leaving. “Where’s Dad?”
“In his study.” She’s back weighing out sugar on a set of scales.
And that’s our three-year reunion taken care of.
I walk past Caleb, who gives me a subtle eye-roll, and head for my father’s hide-away. I’m sure he spends time in there to avoid Mom, especially when she’s in this mood, but I’m grateful it’s a little moreprivate.
His door is closed, and I knock.
“Come in.” His voice sounds weaker than I remember, but his smile when I enter is as strong as ever. “Genesis!”
“Hey, Dad.”
He stands slowly, looking frail, then opens his arms to me. “What a wonderful Fourth of July surprise! A hug for your old man?”
It’s no effort at all to cross the room and slide into his embrace, and the guilt of leaving comes back as strong as ever. If Mom wasn’t around, I’d probably still be here. How different would my life be then?
If I thought the fireworks last night were awkward, Church on Sunday is the most uncomfortable I’ve been since I trashed the bike I had before my Ducati, and spent a week with cracked ribs.
That morning, Mom eyes my dress and her lips tighten so much they almost disappear. “It will be awfully cool in the chapel, dear. Perhaps you’d like to borrow… something for your shoulders?”
Translation: “For God’s sake, cover up those tattoos before my friends see them.”
The service is bad enough. Socializing afterwards? I’d rather ride a scooter naked down Sunset Boulevard.
“My gosh, it’s Genesis. Howlongit’s been.”
“Youarelooking well, dear. Oh… not married?”
“Is that… atattoounder your cardigan? What an…interestingdesign.”
“What did you say you do? Do they mind you showing that at the office?”
Fortunately—and in an ironic turn—my mother comes to my rescue, steering me toward the door. Though I’m certain it’s more to save her reputation than my discomfort.
Caleb follows me out, KaeLynn demurely on his arm, though her eyes dance with amusement.
“Well done for offending the entire Relief Society in one morning,” she says, then leans in and murmurs, “I fuckingloveyour ink.”
It’s probably a blatant manipulation to make her boyfriend’s sister like her, but it works anyway.
“Let’s go home,” Caleb says, heading for his Mustang. “Mom and Dad will be ages yet.”
But after that, it slowly gets easier. Mom never stops looking at my tattoos—or at me—without disapproval, but that in turn leads to her avoiding me, which I regard as a win. Dad grows stronger as the days pass, and I spend a few hours with him in the garage, more rearranging the tools than doing anything meaningful. We talk bikes—I talk, he listens. It’s nice.
Before I know it, several days have passed, and I’ve only thought of Declan… well… every five minutes.
