Read Online A Broken Kind of Life by Jamie Mayfield - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jamie Mayfield
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away. Those were things he couldn’t let his mother see; she had so much else to worry about. So, after baring as much of his soul as he could stand to this empty patch of grass, he was finally ready to leave. Standing slowly, he brushed the grass off his knees, feeling suddenly guilty for the new stains it had left on his jeans. Aaron looked around slowly, noticing the sounds of the mower were now gone, and bent to straighten the flowers on Juliette’s grave.
“Happy birthday, Juliette,” he said quietly and then turned to go.
A S S PENCER flipped through the first few chapters of his new programming book, he sighed. He’d learned most of the stuff in high school and had figured the rest out on his own. More than anything, he needed a challenge, something to keep his mind off the other stuff going on in his life. While he was excited about starting college, his father’s drinking worried him. Dad was the only person in his life he could really count on. At eighteen, he couldn’t carry the weight of college and his father’s worsening alcoholism. It had gotten better for a while, until one of his Dad’s partners became involved in a lawsuit that wrecked their entire psychiatric practice. Rather than putting up a new shingle, he’d retired at forty-five to explore his other options. The only other option he’d found was in a bottle.
Spencer’s phone buzzed, so he pulled it out of his pocket. He didn’t have many friends, so more often than not the texts came from his father.
DAD: I don’t feel like cooking tonight. You want pizza or Chinese?
Spencer had expected the text. His father hadn’t gotten out of bed until about two in the afternoon, and even then he looked like hell. He thought about offering to cook but didn’t feel much like it either. That kid at the college had scared the crap out of him. One minute, he was tapping the guy on the shoulder, the next he was watching in horror as the boy freaked out on the ground. Spencer hadn’t meant to scare him like that. He just wanted to find all his classes before Monday. Dealing with the interpreter the school forced on him was bad enough; he didn’t want to get lost and have to ask for directions.
SPENCER: Chinese
DAD: Orange chicken or fried rice?
Texting each other from the same house seemed ridiculous to Spencer, so he marked his page in the textbook, got up off the couch, and went in search of his father. The kitchen, spartan in its décor, was empty except for a lonely pitcher of ice tea Spencer had made earlier, which sat on the breakfast bar. The fifty-inch flat panel on the wall of the living room was dark, and the room appeared equally empty. It took him several minutes and a few more rooms, but finally he saw his father in his office. A quiet room lined with books, it was rich with dark wood and supple leather. His father sat on the leather couch that dominated the back wall. The desk, a perfectly crafted, walnut office desk with fancy bronze drawer handles and a black leather blotter, sat unused along the western wall. For all the effort his father put into managing his life the last few months, the desk could have had an inch of dust on it.
“Menu?” Spencer asked, and his father looked up from the book in his hands. He didn’t mind talking in front of his dad, because he’d been doing it all his life. His father, along with Aunt Nelle, had taught him to speak. It took forever, especially since neither of them had any experience dealing with deaf children. But somehow, between the three of them, they managed. That was years ago, however, while he still held his father’s complete focus. As he got older and became more self-sufficient, his father sank deeper into a depression that imploded with his forced retirement.
I think there is a menu on the desk, his father signed after setting his book on the couch next to him. It showed just how far their relationship had deteriorated in the last few years that they were both
“Happy birthday, Juliette,” he said quietly and then turned to go.
A S S PENCER flipped through the first few chapters of his new programming book, he sighed. He’d learned most of the stuff in high school and had figured the rest out on his own. More than anything, he needed a challenge, something to keep his mind off the other stuff going on in his life. While he was excited about starting college, his father’s drinking worried him. Dad was the only person in his life he could really count on. At eighteen, he couldn’t carry the weight of college and his father’s worsening alcoholism. It had gotten better for a while, until one of his Dad’s partners became involved in a lawsuit that wrecked their entire psychiatric practice. Rather than putting up a new shingle, he’d retired at forty-five to explore his other options. The only other option he’d found was in a bottle.
Spencer’s phone buzzed, so he pulled it out of his pocket. He didn’t have many friends, so more often than not the texts came from his father.
DAD: I don’t feel like cooking tonight. You want pizza or Chinese?
Spencer had expected the text. His father hadn’t gotten out of bed until about two in the afternoon, and even then he looked like hell. He thought about offering to cook but didn’t feel much like it either. That kid at the college had scared the crap out of him. One minute, he was tapping the guy on the shoulder, the next he was watching in horror as the boy freaked out on the ground. Spencer hadn’t meant to scare him like that. He just wanted to find all his classes before Monday. Dealing with the interpreter the school forced on him was bad enough; he didn’t want to get lost and have to ask for directions.
SPENCER: Chinese
DAD: Orange chicken or fried rice?
Texting each other from the same house seemed ridiculous to Spencer, so he marked his page in the textbook, got up off the couch, and went in search of his father. The kitchen, spartan in its décor, was empty except for a lonely pitcher of ice tea Spencer had made earlier, which sat on the breakfast bar. The fifty-inch flat panel on the wall of the living room was dark, and the room appeared equally empty. It took him several minutes and a few more rooms, but finally he saw his father in his office. A quiet room lined with books, it was rich with dark wood and supple leather. His father sat on the leather couch that dominated the back wall. The desk, a perfectly crafted, walnut office desk with fancy bronze drawer handles and a black leather blotter, sat unused along the western wall. For all the effort his father put into managing his life the last few months, the desk could have had an inch of dust on it.
“Menu?” Spencer asked, and his father looked up from the book in his hands. He didn’t mind talking in front of his dad, because he’d been doing it all his life. His father, along with Aunt Nelle, had taught him to speak. It took forever, especially since neither of them had any experience dealing with deaf children. But somehow, between the three of them, they managed. That was years ago, however, while he still held his father’s complete focus. As he got older and became more self-sufficient, his father sank deeper into a depression that imploded with his forced retirement.
I think there is a menu on the desk, his father signed after setting his book on the couch next to him. It showed just how far their relationship had deteriorated in the last few years that they were both
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