The thing I worried about most was whether or not her plotting, her ultimate revenge, now involved Lars.
Bo wasn’t at my car when practice was over, which disappointed me more than I cared to admit. I scolded myself for wanting to spend every waking minute with him, for expecting him to feel the same way, but it had virtually no effect. I still felt deflated and depressed by the time I got home.
Those feelings were quickly forgotten, however, when I pulled into the driveway and parked behind Mom’s car. I glanced at the dashboard clock. It was 5:45. Mom was never home before 10:00 unless Dad was there. Never. She always had some serious drinking to do after work and that took time.
The gloom of a dark, ominous cloud pressed down on my shoulders like a physical weight, making my feet feel like they were shod in concrete shoes. With each step, it seemed an effort to drag them forward, on toward the front door.
Carefully, cautiously, I raised my key to the lock, but the door flew open before I could even push it into the slot. Mom stood there, all smiles and sparklingly clear eyes.
“I’m so glad you’re home!” Both her face and her voice were animated and strangely excited. She stepped forward to throw her arms around my neck in a hug that would’ve staggered a grown man.
“Mom, what’s wrong?”
“Wrong?” She pulled back to look at me. “Nothing’s wrong, Ridley. Why would you ask such a question?”
I wasn’t quite sure how to answer that. I thought about saying something like Because you’re usually at O’Mally’s getting three sheets to the wind by now, but that probably would have been neither advisable nor appropriate.
“No reason,” I answered, deciding on a strategy of evasion. Pretense and light deceit had worked well in our house for years. Why stop now?
I smiled, moving past her into the foyer.
“The chicken smells great,” I commented, breathing in the savory smell of meat.
“I haven’t even started cooking yet. How can you smell it?” She asked this as she took the duffel strap off my shoulder. “Here, let me take this to your room while you go wash up.” She walked my bag down the hall, calling over her shoulder, “You can help me with dinner.”
I just stood there, mouth agape, watching the person who looked like my mother walk my bag back to my room.
When she reemerged, she looped her arm through mine and pulled me toward the kitchen, like two best friends at summer camp.
“I’m fixing chicken spaghetti, garlic bread with parmesan cheese, salad, and key lime pie for dessert. How does that sound?”
She deposited me in front of the sink while she went to the refrigerator for supplies.
“All that just for two?” I lathered my hands beneath the warm water.
“We might have company,” she announced.
“Who?”
“Your friend from school.”
“Which one?” She didn’t have to know that the list was much, much shorter than it used to be.
“Lars.”
I could barely think over the shrill scream of Def Con Five sirens going off inside my head. Hands dripping and eyes narrowed suspiciously, I turned toward Mom. “Lars? How do you know about Lars?”
“You don’t have to play dumb, Ridley. I know all about him. He stopped by while you were at practice and you know what?” She turned around to look at me. “I really like him.”
I felt the blood drain from my face. Lars had been in my house, alone with my mother.
“What were you doing here, Mom? Don’t you usually work late?” That’s what she called getting her drunk on—“working late.”
Mom wrinkled her brow. “Hmm,” she said, slightly dazed. “I can’t remember why I came home early, but I did.” She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. What matters is that I really like him.”
“You really like him,” I repeated, racking my brain for the best course of action. Something was very wrong with my mother and it evidently had something to do with Lars.
“I do,” she reiterated. “That should please you, right? I mean, what girl doesn’t want her parents to like her boyfriend.”
“Boyfriend?”
“Well, whatever you call them these days, but you know what I mean.”
“So,” I began, trying to adopt a matter-of-fact tone and demeanor. “What all did you and Lars talk about?”
My mother actually sighed as a dreamy look came over her face. “All sorts of things, but mostly you.”
“What about me?”
“Oh, I don’t know. He wanted to know all about his new sweetheart,” she said, winking at me.
“And you told him everything he wanted to know, I guess.”
Mom rolled her eyes. “Don’t worry. I didn’t bring out the naked baby pictures. Your pride is safe with me.”
That was the least of my concerns, but it was fine if she thought that’s what this was all about.
“Thanks,” I muttered. “So what all did you tell him?”
A far away look came over Mom’s face and I could see her struggling to think back to the conversation. When it apparently didn’t come to her, she waved her hand nonchalantly and said, “Just stuff.”
Mom handed me the chicken.
“Here, put this on the stove,” she directed.
I did as she asked, emptying out the raw ground chicken into a pan and turning the heat on beneath it.
When I walked back to the island, she was cutting vegetables for the salad. I watched her for a minute, no idea what to do or say or how much of a problem this was, though I suspected it was a huge one. Mom used the back of her hand to push her bangs out of her eyes and I saw a red spot on the cuff of her long-sleeved blouse.
“What’s that?” I was pointing to her wrist as I asked.
Mom turned her arm over and looked at it, shrugging. “Just a spot,” she answered, as if it didn’t even register in her mind.
As most people tend to do when they don’t have all the information, I took what details I had and filled in the gaps between them, painting my own picture of what had happened today, and it wasn’t good.