oh well
She sits across from me, knee to knee, staring. Right at this little patch I’ve got over my heart from my brother’s army jacket. Right at my feelings for her even though she doesn’t know that part and then she stands up and takes my shirt off. For a second she’s a painting: “Lucille, exposé” from the Albert blue period. And then she tosses on her dirty grey tank top again, sweat stains, puts her hair up messily.
“I’m off to work,” she says, and gives me a little kiss on the cheek, “Don’t tell anyone” like always.
And I finally blink because I won the staring contest. She says she’s never playing. When I explain to her what I’m doing, she says she isn’t playing because those games are childish and stupid. She says that’s why she can’t love me, and why she can’t tell people what we do together. That’s why I can’t tell anyone. That’s why I’m a secret. Because I’m childish and stupid, with stupid childish ideals and childish stupid dreams.
That and because I’m fifteen.
The first time was the hardest for her because back then I was only fourteen. “He listens,” she kept telling herself afterwards, “and he’s so cute. And he wanted it. He wanted it.” Biting her nails, rocking back and forth like a kid, “You don’t tell anyone about this okay Albert? You don’t tell anyone. You be a good kid. You don’t tell anyone.” Messily kissing me. Putting her clothes on and crying out the door. “You don’t tell anyone, Albert.”
What’s the big deal, I asked her. What’s the big fucking deal? But she was out the door. “Lucille, Nerveuse.” My wide eyes just paint her inside and outside and I wish I was talented with a paintbrush. Lucille.
I stand up pasty and skinny and put my pants back on. The most casual way to walk out the door is to look nervous and shaky, like I was in there talking to her and she yelled at me for spilling something. For an hour. The easiest way to walk out is to go down the fire escape.
I can’t keep doing this every Sunday.
So I tie my shirt around my head because it smells like her-sweet and honey and sunshine-and I tie my shoes and I jump onto a slightly unstable rusty platform. I pretend I’m in a movie. Or a painting. “Albert, courit.” I run home.
“Grandma.” I say, “Grandma.”
“Albert? Albert are you home?”
I’m quieter than the door. There’s no way she can hear me. “Grandma.”
“Albert? Hello dear?”
“Grandma.”
“Oh, there you are Albert.”
“Hey Grandma.”
“Speak up, sweetheart. You’re so quiet.”
“yeah, well.”
“Where were you?”
“Library.”
“again?”
“Yep. There a lot. Where’s mom?”
“Your mother’s in her room, deary. Do you want something to”
But I’m off. I’m up the stairs. I want to see what the hell that bitch is up to now, chewing pen caps tearing apart pillowcases eating essays she doesn’t like. Mom has always been like that since I was little because dad killed himself when he found out I was going to be a part of the world. I’m obviously really important to my parents, because whenever my mom sees me she says “bother your grandmother. Your grandmother takes care of you.” And writes another chapter of her book about how much she hates kids, and how much she hates her kid, and how much she wishes she could die but she has a lot of responsibility. At least she isn’t a liar-but it’s not like she ever finishes the things she’s responsible for. Like raising that kid who ruined her life.
I’m not sure how you can do something like ruin somebody’s life if you bring home macaroni paintings for them that say “I HEART MOMMY” and try and give them hugs while they cry and watch the same fucking movie over and over. “Sleepless in Seattle.” Which she says all the words to and sobs and I wish she’d get over herself. Grandma says she has problems since dad killed himself. But when I freak out like that she sends me to my room without dinner or the phone or the internet or books. I’m never allowed to be scarred because of dad. I’m never allowed to feel sorry for myself. “We have enough of that in this household without adding another.” Grandma says.
“Mom.” I say. “Mom.”
“Get out of my fucking room, Albert.”
“Hey mom.” I grin. “How was your day?”
“You don’t belong here. This is where I go to get away from you. I can’t always be a mom, Albert. I can’t always take care of you. That’s why grandma is here, for when I can’t be a mom.”
I cringe a little because she’s a three year old trapped in a chain smoker’s forty year old body with her bloodshot eyes and her bit-up hands. She looks angry but she also looks sad. When I first understood that my mom was troubled, I wanted to pretend that she acted so angry at me and everything but she really wanted me to be there and give her hugs and be her son. Now I understand that she’s just a fucking bitch. That she’s fucked up and I can’t fix it and I never will be able to and since I fucked her life up so bad just by being born I might as well keep going.
“Mom, today I fucked a nineteen year old.”
“Don’t be a liar, Albert. People don’t like liars. Get out of my room.”
I laugh at her actually. I look at her so small and skinny and I try to remember she’s my mom but I can’t. I can’t respect her because she’s nothing. You can’t respect nothing, and you especially can’t respect such a piece of shit nothing that doesn’t respect you. “I’m not lying,” I tell her, “I wouldn’t fucking lie about something so absurd. You know that mom. Maybe you don’t. You lie about a lot of things.”
“You ungrateful piece of shit. After all I’ve given you? Get the fuck out of my room.”
“That’s nice mom. Really after-school-special.”
“GET OUT, ALBERT.” And she’s so pissed. Her whole little future-moms-of-America-with-emphysema body shaking and her teeth clenched and her fists up. “GET OUT. GET OUT OF MY ROOM.”
“Albert,” Grandma calls up the stairs, “Your mother needs a moment.”
“She’s had a lifetime of moments!” I shout down “She’s had a lifetime of her fucking moments and she never has a moment to sit down and be a fucking mom.”
My mother chokes and gasps, like she’s really hurt, except she’s not. “You take that back, Albert. You take that back.”
“No, mom.”
“I brought you into this world Albert. Everything around you is because of me.”
“yeah, thanks a fucking load for that mom.”
“I could have put you up for adoption, and then you could be in some god awful family. Who beats you. And doesn’t appreciate you.”
“You appreciate me, mom?”
“I’d appreciate you out of my fucking room and respecting my fucking space.”
“I see your point, mom.” I laugh at her again, “You’re right. You’re an awesome mom. Jeez, thanks. Can I get a hug?”
“Back the fuck off, Albert.” And she pushes me out and slams the door. I think it’s love. “Angela, content.”
“I’m off to work,” she says, and gives me a little kiss on the cheek, “Don’t tell anyone” like always.
And I finally blink because I won the staring contest. She says she’s never playing. When I explain to her what I’m doing, she says she isn’t playing because those games are childish and stupid. She says that’s why she can’t love me, and why she can’t tell people what we do together. That’s why I can’t tell anyone. That’s why I’m a secret. Because I’m childish and stupid, with stupid childish ideals and childish stupid dreams.
That and because I’m fifteen.
The first time was the hardest for her because back then I was only fourteen. “He listens,” she kept telling herself afterwards, “and he’s so cute. And he wanted it. He wanted it.” Biting her nails, rocking back and forth like a kid, “You don’t tell anyone about this okay Albert? You don’t tell anyone. You be a good kid. You don’t tell anyone.” Messily kissing me. Putting her clothes on and crying out the door. “You don’t tell anyone, Albert.”
What’s the big deal, I asked her. What’s the big fucking deal? But she was out the door. “Lucille, Nerveuse.” My wide eyes just paint her inside and outside and I wish I was talented with a paintbrush. Lucille.
I stand up pasty and skinny and put my pants back on. The most casual way to walk out the door is to look nervous and shaky, like I was in there talking to her and she yelled at me for spilling something. For an hour. The easiest way to walk out is to go down the fire escape.
I can’t keep doing this every Sunday.
So I tie my shirt around my head because it smells like her-sweet and honey and sunshine-and I tie my shoes and I jump onto a slightly unstable rusty platform. I pretend I’m in a movie. Or a painting. “Albert, courit.” I run home.
“Grandma.” I say, “Grandma.”
“Albert? Albert are you home?”
I’m quieter than the door. There’s no way she can hear me. “Grandma.”
“Albert? Hello dear?”
“Grandma.”
“Oh, there you are Albert.”
“Hey Grandma.”
“Speak up, sweetheart. You’re so quiet.”
“yeah, well.”
“Where were you?”
“Library.”
“again?”
“Yep. There a lot. Where’s mom?”
“Your mother’s in her room, deary. Do you want something to”
But I’m off. I’m up the stairs. I want to see what the hell that bitch is up to now, chewing pen caps tearing apart pillowcases eating essays she doesn’t like. Mom has always been like that since I was little because dad killed himself when he found out I was going to be a part of the world. I’m obviously really important to my parents, because whenever my mom sees me she says “bother your grandmother. Your grandmother takes care of you.” And writes another chapter of her book about how much she hates kids, and how much she hates her kid, and how much she wishes she could die but she has a lot of responsibility. At least she isn’t a liar-but it’s not like she ever finishes the things she’s responsible for. Like raising that kid who ruined her life.
I’m not sure how you can do something like ruin somebody’s life if you bring home macaroni paintings for them that say “I HEART MOMMY” and try and give them hugs while they cry and watch the same fucking movie over and over. “Sleepless in Seattle.” Which she says all the words to and sobs and I wish she’d get over herself. Grandma says she has problems since dad killed himself. But when I freak out like that she sends me to my room without dinner or the phone or the internet or books. I’m never allowed to be scarred because of dad. I’m never allowed to feel sorry for myself. “We have enough of that in this household without adding another.” Grandma says.
“Mom.” I say. “Mom.”
“Get out of my fucking room, Albert.”
“Hey mom.” I grin. “How was your day?”
“You don’t belong here. This is where I go to get away from you. I can’t always be a mom, Albert. I can’t always take care of you. That’s why grandma is here, for when I can’t be a mom.”
I cringe a little because she’s a three year old trapped in a chain smoker’s forty year old body with her bloodshot eyes and her bit-up hands. She looks angry but she also looks sad. When I first understood that my mom was troubled, I wanted to pretend that she acted so angry at me and everything but she really wanted me to be there and give her hugs and be her son. Now I understand that she’s just a fucking bitch. That she’s fucked up and I can’t fix it and I never will be able to and since I fucked her life up so bad just by being born I might as well keep going.
“Mom, today I fucked a nineteen year old.”
“Don’t be a liar, Albert. People don’t like liars. Get out of my room.”
I laugh at her actually. I look at her so small and skinny and I try to remember she’s my mom but I can’t. I can’t respect her because she’s nothing. You can’t respect nothing, and you especially can’t respect such a piece of shit nothing that doesn’t respect you. “I’m not lying,” I tell her, “I wouldn’t fucking lie about something so absurd. You know that mom. Maybe you don’t. You lie about a lot of things.”
“You ungrateful piece of shit. After all I’ve given you? Get the fuck out of my room.”
“That’s nice mom. Really after-school-special.”
“GET OUT, ALBERT.” And she’s so pissed. Her whole little future-moms-of-America-with-emphysema body shaking and her teeth clenched and her fists up. “GET OUT. GET OUT OF MY ROOM.”
“Albert,” Grandma calls up the stairs, “Your mother needs a moment.”
“She’s had a lifetime of moments!” I shout down “She’s had a lifetime of her fucking moments and she never has a moment to sit down and be a fucking mom.”
My mother chokes and gasps, like she’s really hurt, except she’s not. “You take that back, Albert. You take that back.”
“No, mom.”
“I brought you into this world Albert. Everything around you is because of me.”
“yeah, thanks a fucking load for that mom.”
“I could have put you up for adoption, and then you could be in some god awful family. Who beats you. And doesn’t appreciate you.”
“You appreciate me, mom?”
“I’d appreciate you out of my fucking room and respecting my fucking space.”
“I see your point, mom.” I laugh at her again, “You’re right. You’re an awesome mom. Jeez, thanks. Can I get a hug?”
“Back the fuck off, Albert.” And she pushes me out and slams the door. I think it’s love. “Angela, content.”