“I guess,” Haydee said.
Haydee’s hamburger was the size of a small bowling ball. The fries were piled up like a pick-em-up sticks mountain. Kenny was willing to bet that nobody at The Elms had thought of replacing the good beef fat deep-fry for something more nutritional.
“I’m sorry about this,” Haydee said. “I really am sorry about this.”
“You don’t have to be sorry,” Kenny said. “Your mother died. You’re upset. You’re supposed to be upset.”
“But that’s the thing,” Haydee said. “I’m not upset that way. I mean, I am, a little, but not mostly. I think a lot of it is guilt.”
“Guilt? About what? She was shot. They were. You didn’t go out and shoot them.”
“No, no, of course I didn’t. But I’m—I don’t know. I never liked Mike at all. He could have disappeared any time and I wouldn’t have cared. I’d have been glad. I’m glad now. I’m never going to have to see his stupid face again and that’s good.”
“That’s nothing to feel guilty about,” Kenny said. “That’s understandable.”
“I know it is. But I don’t feel much differently about her. My mother. She was my mother. And I never liked her. I haven’t liked her in years. Most of the kids I knew who went into foster care when I did, you know, on and off over the years, most of them hated foster care, they hated the social workers, they ran away, they did anything they could to get back to their families. But I knew what she was. Even when I was six that first time. I could see it. I knew what she was and I knew it was her fault.”
“What?”
“I knew it was her fault,” Haydee insisted. “I knew that it wasn’t bad luck or men who were irresponsible or any of the rest of it. I mean, she did have all that, that was true, but I knew she didn’t have to just sit down and let it drown her. I knew. I hated the social workers, too, but it was mostly because they had sort of the same attitude. Not that stuff just happened to people and there was nothing they could do. Not that exactly. More like, if you were the kind of person that stuff happened to you, then you were kind of sick, and you had to have treatment. Therapy. I didn’t mind foster care, but I hated therapy. I think I lied my way through every therapy session they made me sit through.”
“If somebody had made me sit through a therapy session, I’d probably kick them,” Kenny said.
Haydee smiled a little and actually drank some Coke. “It’s just guilt,” she said. “All I wanted was to get the hell out of there and never see her again. Never see any of them again. Any of those people. I wanted to get out and go live with people who get their asses in gear and get things done in their lives. And now here I am.”
Kenny’s cell phone went off. He got it out of his pocket and saw his mother’s picture in the screen. He knew it was his mother before he looked, though. He had given her a ring tone. He didn’t know what the music was, but it sounded like explosions going off between the notes.
“Excuse me,” he said. “I’m going to go out to the parking lot for a minute.”
“It’s important?” Haydee said. “I can go to the ladies room if you need privacy.”
“I’ll go to the parking lot,” Kenny said. “Sit still and eat lunch.”
He wanted to say she hadn’t really eaten any lunch yet. He slid out of the booth and picked up. He said, “Hello,” as he was walking to the restaurant’s front door. When his mother spoke, she was loud. Kenny thought she could be heard all the way into the kitchen.
“Where are you?” she asked him. “What the hell are you doing? Do you know what’s going on around here?”
Kenny was out in the parking lot. It was a big parking lot in the front of the restaurant. He could look right down on the street. The street was empty. This was not the middle of town.
“I’m having lunch,” he said finally.
“You’re having lunch,” his mother said. “Isn’t that wonderful? Isn’t that just fine! I’m being persecuted, and you’re having lunch.”
“You’re being persecuted about what?” Kenny said. “Who’s persecuting you?”
“Well, you wouldn’t know, would you? You wouldn’t have any idea. You’re having lunch.”
“For God’s sake, Ma. I went to class. I—ran some errands. Then I stopped to have lunch. Can you tell me what’s wrong with any of that? School was your idea, not mine. I’m just doing what you told me to do.”