“That must be quite a sight.”
“I think we’re playing in a recital in December.”
“Perfect timing then. Your mom and I were thinking about coming down for a visit, just before Christmas.”
In the blink of an eye, my happiness at talking to him burned up and blew away like ash in the Colorado wind. “Wh-why?”
“Well—”
He was interrupted by a click as somebody picked up a second line, and then my mother said, “Owen?”
I took my time answering in hopes of keeping my tongue under control. “Hi, Mom.”
“I don’t suppose you’re coming for Thanksgiving.”
“N-no, probably not.” I hadn’t spent a holiday with my mother in four years. I had no intention of starting again now.
“The least you could have done is call and tell me.”
“I’m s-sorry.”
She sighed, a sudden loud exhale that gave me a clear picture of her face, her eyebrows a sharp V above her eyes, her lips pursed in disapproval. “The neighbors ask, you know, and I have to tell them that my own son doesn’t want to come home.”
“It’s hard to get time off around the holidays,” my dad said, coming to my rescue. “And we’ll be there in December anyway, Val, so no reason for him to use his PTO. What day is your recital, Owen?”
I managed not to groan, but I knew what was coming. My mother was like a bloodhound, sniffing out anything that might humiliate me. Any glimmer that I might fail at something and embarrass myself more.
“What recital?” she asked.
“Owen’s learning to play piano.” I wondered if they were standing in the same room, phones pressed to their ears, facing each other across the kitchen as we talked, or if my dad was at the other end of the house, avoiding her as I’d always done.
My mother snorted. “With only one hand?”
“He’s taking lessons with a girl who has the same birth defect.”
“Good lord. And is that what the recital is? Adults with disabilities?”
“N-n-no, M-Mom! It’s a r-regular piano recital. W-we’re playing a d-duet, th-that’s all.”
“I hope you don’t have to give a speech or anything first.”
“Wh-wh-why w-would I have to give a sp-speech at a piano recital?”
“Don’t be argumentative. I only meant that it’s bad enough to have everybody see you walk up there with only one arm, as if you can play as well as them. At least they won’t hear you stutter, too.”
I hung my head, biting my lip to keep from speaking because it would never come out right anyway. Her scorn and disgust made my heart pound and my tongue heavy.
“Owen,” my dad said, “I know you’ll do great. I can’t wait to hear you play.”
“Th-thanks, Dad,” I said. And then, because I knew I couldn’t stand to hear my mother say another word, I said, “I have to go now, okay? I’ll t-talk to you later.”
But ending the call didn’t change the horrible weight in my chest, or the ache in my throat. I was tempted to climb into bed. To let the weight of my depression bear me down, but then I heard one of Nick’s dogs bark in the backyard, and I knew what I wanted.
It had been a long time since I’d been so nervous knocking on Nick’s door.
“What’s wrong?” he asked the minute he let me in. “You look upset.”
I nodded. I tried to speak, but my mother was still there in my head, making me stammer and stutter. I flashed back to the hundreds of times she’d said, “I hope you don’t embarrass me again,” right before introducing me to somebody new, practically guaranteeing that I’d stumble on the simple words, “Nice to meet you.” The memories made my tongue even more uncooperative now, as I faced Nick. It was worse than the day at the restaurant. I wanted to say, “My mother called.” Given our previous conversation, that would be enough for him to understand, but I couldn’t get past the first M. “M-m-m-m—”
“Shhh,” Nick said. Not the way my mother had always said it. Not meaning “Hush!” Not meaning “Quit making a fool
“I think we’re playing in a recital in December.”
“Perfect timing then. Your mom and I were thinking about coming down for a visit, just before Christmas.”
In the blink of an eye, my happiness at talking to him burned up and blew away like ash in the Colorado wind. “Wh-why?”
“Well—”
He was interrupted by a click as somebody picked up a second line, and then my mother said, “Owen?”
I took my time answering in hopes of keeping my tongue under control. “Hi, Mom.”
“I don’t suppose you’re coming for Thanksgiving.”
“N-no, probably not.” I hadn’t spent a holiday with my mother in four years. I had no intention of starting again now.
“The least you could have done is call and tell me.”
“I’m s-sorry.”
She sighed, a sudden loud exhale that gave me a clear picture of her face, her eyebrows a sharp V above her eyes, her lips pursed in disapproval. “The neighbors ask, you know, and I have to tell them that my own son doesn’t want to come home.”
“It’s hard to get time off around the holidays,” my dad said, coming to my rescue. “And we’ll be there in December anyway, Val, so no reason for him to use his PTO. What day is your recital, Owen?”
I managed not to groan, but I knew what was coming. My mother was like a bloodhound, sniffing out anything that might humiliate me. Any glimmer that I might fail at something and embarrass myself more.
“What recital?” she asked.
“Owen’s learning to play piano.” I wondered if they were standing in the same room, phones pressed to their ears, facing each other across the kitchen as we talked, or if my dad was at the other end of the house, avoiding her as I’d always done.
My mother snorted. “With only one hand?”
“He’s taking lessons with a girl who has the same birth defect.”
“Good lord. And is that what the recital is? Adults with disabilities?”
“N-n-no, M-Mom! It’s a r-regular piano recital. W-we’re playing a d-duet, th-that’s all.”
“I hope you don’t have to give a speech or anything first.”
“Wh-wh-why w-would I have to give a sp-speech at a piano recital?”
“Don’t be argumentative. I only meant that it’s bad enough to have everybody see you walk up there with only one arm, as if you can play as well as them. At least they won’t hear you stutter, too.”
I hung my head, biting my lip to keep from speaking because it would never come out right anyway. Her scorn and disgust made my heart pound and my tongue heavy.
“Owen,” my dad said, “I know you’ll do great. I can’t wait to hear you play.”
“Th-thanks, Dad,” I said. And then, because I knew I couldn’t stand to hear my mother say another word, I said, “I have to go now, okay? I’ll t-talk to you later.”
But ending the call didn’t change the horrible weight in my chest, or the ache in my throat. I was tempted to climb into bed. To let the weight of my depression bear me down, but then I heard one of Nick’s dogs bark in the backyard, and I knew what I wanted.
It had been a long time since I’d been so nervous knocking on Nick’s door.
“What’s wrong?” he asked the minute he let me in. “You look upset.”
I nodded. I tried to speak, but my mother was still there in my head, making me stammer and stutter. I flashed back to the hundreds of times she’d said, “I hope you don’t embarrass me again,” right before introducing me to somebody new, practically guaranteeing that I’d stumble on the simple words, “Nice to meet you.” The memories made my tongue even more uncooperative now, as I faced Nick. It was worse than the day at the restaurant. I wanted to say, “My mother called.” Given our previous conversation, that would be enough for him to understand, but I couldn’t get past the first M. “M-m-m-m—”
“Shhh,” Nick said. Not the way my mother had always said it. Not meaning “Hush!” Not meaning “Quit making a fool
Similar Books
