Page 86 of True Blue

“Who are you, Theodore?” she whispered, standing abruptly before storming out of the room.

Dad snorted and took a long swallow of beer, two droplets spilling down his chin and onto his shirt.

“I can find somebody else to take over the business—you were never much of an electrician anyway,” he said, then points the bottle at me. “But cut that art shit out. Your woman’s already making three times as much as you. Have you got no shame left?”

My Dad chuckled, the sound cruel.

I stood from the couch and found my mother in the kitchen. Rubber gloves on, tying her apron over her head as she grabbed her cleaning supplies from the closet and started scrubbing the counters.

The strong, nostalgic scent of lemon stung my nose. I’ve seen her like this before, when I was a kid. Her, Danielle, and Stephanie would be in here scrubbing from top to bottom until she was satisfied.

“I like drawing, Mom. I love art. I love painting, and⁠—”

“—and I wanted to be a fairy princess when I was a child, Theodore. But we all have to grow up someday,” Mom laughed tremulously.

“Why can’t you just be happy for me?” I asked because I genuinely do not understand. “Why can’t you be happy that I found someone who loves me? Someone kind and brilliant and beautiful and a fucking doctor? Why?!”

She stopped scrubbing, lifted her eyes, and tilted her head.

“Is that what you think?” she asked softly. “Are you really that selfish, Theodore, that you think this is all about you?”

I froze.

“My mother died this year,” she said. “Under my roof. I stood in that hallway and listened while your little girlfriend cracked her ribs trying to bring her back. That sound is in my head all the time now, Theodore. Do you understand that?”

My mother’s voice was strange. Shaky, shrill, but also oddly calm. It looked like she was looking right through me.

“It’s my birthday soon. And who knows how many birthdays I’ve got left, Theodore?” Mom said, grabbing the knife block from the counter and walking it over to the sink.

Methodically, she took every knife out, laid them on the counter, then turned on the water to wash them with quick, hurried movements.

My eyes locked on her hands, on the blades, as she kept talking.

“You know, ever since Nana died, I just haven’t felt like myself. I try—I really do—but this house feels empty. I feel empty…”

“Mom…” I choked, feeling my stomach twist at her words, at the emptiness in her eyes. She cleaned the serrated bread knife in her hand and then placed it in the drying rack.

She grabbed the paring knife next, holding it in her hands and looking at it.

“Your sisters are off living their lives,” she said, still staring at the blade in her hands. “Your father hardly notices whether I’m crying right in front of him. And now you’re leaving me, too.”

I shook my head, my throat tight.

“I’m just going to New Jersey, Mom. It’s a two-hour plane ride⁠—”

“And 900 miles away, Theodore!” she snapped, loud enough that I jumped. “You’ve never lived that far. My heart broke when you moved fifteen minutes away!”

Her hands shook as she grabbed the largest knife.

“Mom…”

She looked at that knife for a long time, lingering in a way that made my stomach hurt.

She wouldn’t…

“I’ve just been feeling so worried, Theodore,” she said, her voice flattening in a way that scared me more than the crying did. “No matter what I do, I can’t get over Mother’s death. I feel so alone. I'm so tired. So sad. All the time. Danielle and Stephanie don’t call and… and now you’re leaving me, and I’m all alone…”

She trailed off.