Page 76 of Miss Behaved
31
Carson
“Sixyears,”Momsays,opening the door with a forced scowl.
“Hello to you too, Mom.” I smile, and she wraps me in a hug, then pulls back to brush my hair off my forehead and hold my face in her palms.
“Boy, you can’t avoid your mother’s house for six years and expect to not hear about it.” She purses her lips.
“I fly you out to LA at least four times a year,” I argue.
She plants a kiss on my cheek before finally releasing me. “And I’m very appreciative of that.” She smiles. “But it’s good to have you home.”
Home.
Not exactly what I would call her house in Olympia. It was more or less a stepping-stone between her leaving my father and me moving out on my own. “Home” was reserved for Dad’s old house in Anacortes. Even if I hated that place and how it always smelled like whiskey and dirty laundry, it was next door to Monica. And that was all that mattered.
“It’s good to be here,” I say with a forced smile.
And it is. I’ve avoided more than just Anacortes over the years—more like Washington as a whole. But being back at my mom’s house feels like putting some of that old resentment to rest and finally moving forward again.
“Lies.” She nudges my chest. “Now come in. Dinner should be ready in about thirty or so minutes.”
Following her down the hall, I notice not much has changed. Same furniture, same pictures on the walls. It’s like stepping into a time machine and being spit back out in the rawest point of your life. I spot a family photo on the mantel and pick it up. It’s from when I was five and we went on a boating trip out to Port Townsend. Dad spent the whole day with me, throwing rocks into the water while Mom sat on the beach and read her book.
“Why do you still have pictures of Dad?”
Mom peeks her head around the corner and frowns at the frame in my hand.
“He was a good man once,” she says, but all I see is sadness in her eyes. “Now come get something to drink while I finish up dinner.”
I follow her into the kitchen, and the smells of my childhood come flooding back. Spices and pasta sauce cooking on the stove.
I open the fridge and pull out some orange juice. Mom doesn’t keep alcohol in the house. Not that she ever had issues with it herself, but I think the smell reminds her of the bad moments with my father.
“What’s wrong, honey?” Mom tucks her straw-blonde hair behind her ear, and her eyes lock on me.
“Nothing.” I shrug.
She walks over and runs her hand across my cheek. “You’re mangy, your hair’s a mess, and you show up on my doorstep for the first time in six years outta nowhere. Something’s wrong.”
What is it about moms always knowing everything? I give her a defeated look.
“I need to talk to Dad,” I tell her, crossing my arms over my chest.
She nods slowly, her eyes looking out the window over my shoulder. The lines on her forehead and around her eyes crinkle in thought. “You want me to go with you?” she asks, her gaze snapping back to me.
I shake my head. “Gotta do this alone, I think.”
The oven beeps, and it makes her jump. She pulls a lasagna out and drizzles it with more sauce from the stove. My favorite.
For all my father’s faults, my mom was the anchor that kept me in place.
She serves up two plates, slides one in front of me, and sits down with the other.
“Thanks.” I smile as I dig in, and we eat in silence.
It’s getting darker outside, with the time and the clouds. That’s one thing I never missed about Washington: the rain. Who enjoys spending their life soaked to the bone?
