Read Online Rosemary Remembered by Susan Wittig Albert - Free Book Online

much for a kid to ask.
    But now that I've got a few decades under my belt, I'm not too sure whether there is any such thing as a normal family. Maybe every family is a circus. My mother eventually got counseling, sobered up, and last year married a guy who seems pretty decent. But there's no real bond between us. How can there be, after all those lonely, separate years? Anyway, with all this stuff behind me, it's pretty tough to be a decent mother to Brian. I feel like I'm inventing it as I go along, with no idea what the hell I'm doing.
    Brian mashed a hunk of cheese with his fork. "What if I decided to go live with Mom?" He wasn't looking at me.
    This was a big Catch-22. If I said, "Yes, do what you want," he'd think I didn't want him, and that would be wrong. You can harm a kid for life by letting him think he's not wanted. But if I said, "No, stay here with us," he'd think I was trying to tell him what to do, and that was wrong, too. Kids need to make decisions on their own. My perennial parental dilemma. Damned if I did and damned if I didn't.
    After a moment I said the only thing I could think of. "That's something you'll have to take up with your dad." Over to you, McQuaid.
    The dark hair fell across his forehead and into his eyes, slate-blue, his dad's eyes, and I leaned forward to smooth it back, gently. I haven't learned any easy way to show affection to this boy, but I feel it, and not just because he's a miniature version of his father. Brian has his own way of warming my heart. I wish I knew how to show it better.
    He gave me his Mr. Spock look, eminently reasonable, logical. "I already know what Dad thinks. What do you think?"
    I put my fork down. Tonight, of all nights, was not the best time for this conversation. But we needed to ease the strain that had grown between us. I put my elbows on the table, opened my mouth, and heard the cliches fall out like wooden blocks.
    "I think we ought to shoot straight with one another, Brian. I know it's been tough, getting used to living together. It's been plenty tough for me, too. I haven't had a lot of practice being a mom. But we both care about your dad, and we want to see him happy. And I know that you love your mother and want to be with her as much as you can. Maybe we ought to try a little harder to . .. to . .."
    To what? Here I was, with a reputation for putting the most complex case in terms that the least sophisticated juror could relate to, and I was tongue-tied by a reasonable, logical eleven-year-old whose direct look and honest question splintered my easy answers.
    "To understand each other," I finished lamely, embarrassingly conscious of how little I'd said. It had sounded like a bad script for the longest-running American sitcom.
    He looked back at his plate. "Maybe living with her would be better," he muttered.
    His dilemma was as sharp as mine and I could hear it in his voice. He hadn't had a full-time mother for five years, and he wanted one. I knew how deeply, how painfully, a child could long for a mother. I remembered my own empty, unfulfilled yearning for my mother, a longing that was never satisfied, and I felt it echoed in him.
    "If I was living with her, I wouldn't have to hang around the house all summer." He gave me a sideways glance. "Anyway, dhe wants me."
    I leaned forward, the impulsive words, "But / want you!" on my lips. But they didn't get said. McQuaid strode into the room, his mouth tense, and the opportunity was gone.
    Brian looked at his father. "What's up?"
    "Your mother," McQuaid said stiffly, "has a new lawyer."
    "What does that mean?"
    "It means we're going to court." He sat down.
    Brian rubbed his finger in the cheese on his plate, not looking up. "Would we still have to go to court if I just went and lived with her?"
    McQuaid's eyes came to me, went back to Brian. "You're here because a judge said you could live with me. If you want to live with her, we have to ask the judge to change the order. Which means yes, we still have