Promise Me This(8)

“You know,” I said. “There was a sign in the window at this culinary school on Front Street. They were looking for someone to teach cooking lessons to a kids’ group.”

My mother’s back became rigid. She had never been allowed to work outside of the home. Only to volunteer for charities or women’s groups.

“What the fuck does she need a job for?” My brother’s voice boomed a little too similarly to my father’s. Luke always seemed angry when it came to my mother. I didn’t know what the hell that was about, though I had my suspicions. I knew he saw her as weak, and probably saw all women that way.

But I thought my mother was strong to have survived all that she had. I just wish she had that final bit of strength it would take to ultimately walk away. The problem was that she still loved my father–-at least whatever fucked-up version of love she thought she felt.

But fear was not love, that was for damn sure.

“What the hell, Luke? Keep your voice down,” I growled and balled my hand into a fist. “Mom used to be a chef in another life, remember? Maybe she’d enjoy doing it again.”

“C’mon man, a cooking school?” he said as if it was the most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard. “That would be like taking a step down.”

I tasted bile in the back of my throat. Listening to my brother speak was like a precursor to the way his life would lay out before him. How in the hell had he travelled so far off course?

“Boys, that’s enough,” my mom said in an exasperated voice laced with anxiety.

She was always afraid we’d get in a fistfight like we used to on many occasions growing up. Dad always encouraged it, said it would toughen us up.

I grabbed the red wine off the counter, filled up a glass, and chugged some down. If I had to spend more time with Luke, I’d need it. “When does Dad get back in town?”

“On Thursday,” my mother said quietly, almost reverently, and that made my stomach lurch.

I studied my mother’s tight smile, pale skin, and her light brown irises, same as mine. The little lines that had begun to form around her eyes and forehead, probably brought on early because of him. Her slightly crooked nose and forefinger, all telltale signs of how much of a monster my father had been. I knew she’d taken his wrath for us too many times to count and I wondered what deep-seated fear or need or principle kept her chained to this house and this marriage, now that we were grown.

The rest of the dinner was peaceful. My mother liked to deflect attention from herself so she always asked tons of questions to keep us talking. My brother could go on for hours about his damn self, same as my father. So she inquired about football and classes and about Anna—definitely about Anna. And I could see the same thought process, the same questions I had about how he was treating her, how they were getting along, ticking through her brain.

After Luke took off it was just my mother and me and we sat at the kitchen table playing a game of rummy. This was our thing. We’d play cards and talk about almost anything under the sun.

“So what do you think of Luke’s new girlfriend?” she asked, straightaway. I could tell it was something that was concerning to her.

“She seems nice.” I shrugged. I didn’t say what was on the tip of my tongue. That she seemed too nice for him. But my mother knew the score and probably had the same thought. “I just hope he—”

“Honey.” She cut me off before I could get my sentence out. Maybe it would’ve been too painful for her to discuss, to admit about her own child. Which is one of the reasons I kept myself in check. I didn’t want to see that same look in her eyes. “I can’t wait for the day you bring a girl home.”

I shook my head and smirked. “Sorry to disappoint you, Mom. I’m not sure if that’ll ever happen.”

Sadness filtered through her eyes. She was innately attuned to me, aware of my struggles, but she rarely spoke of them out loud. “Why would you say that?”

“Mom . . .” I laid down a pair of aces and looked her in the eye. “I think you know why.”

“I’m so sorry,” she said, her hand reaching across the table to rest on mine. “If only I’d—”

“Don’t you make any excuses for that bastard,” I said, through clenched teeth.

She inhaled sharply and squeezed her lids closed.

“Why do you stay?” It was a question I hadn’t asked her in years.

When she opened her eyes, I saw moisture gathering in the corners. “Honey, lots of things happened during a very stressful time in our marriage. Raising children is tough. Your father . . . he didn’t handle it very well.”