Chapter 8

I swearmy mom would have body-blocked me from entering if she could. It was with extreme reluctance she stepped aside and mumbled, "Guess you want to come in."

"Gee, thanks. Nice to see you too." My relationship with my parents had long been strained. While an only child, I'd never lived up to any of their expectations. It took me years to realize I would never please them, that they would always find something to criticize.

Got a ninety on a math test—why wasn't it a hundred?

Made the baseball team—they never came to watch because it was boring.

When I'd dropped out of college, I'd actually been relieved because it removed so much pressure from me. A pressure that never seemed to stop. Nothing I did was ever good enough.

Stand straight. Don't slouch. Wait until you're spoken to. Why is your hair always so messy? Couldn't you dress nicer?

All ironic criticisms, given my parents remained far from perfect. Mom looked like shit. Her gray hair dry and in need of a cut. Her lumpy body hidden by clothes that might have been picked from a reject dumpster at Goodwill. The house didn't fare any better. It hadn't changed one bit since I'd lived there. The eighties wallpaper of gold and beige stripes was the same, just faded and peeling more. The parquet flooring was scratched and scuffed. A layer of dust clung to everything.

"How you been, Mom?" I indulged in idle chatter in the hopes of tamping down the cringy feeling that urged me to flee. I couldn't wait to escape after I graduated high school. Once free, I'd only returned sporadically out of a sense of duty. After all, these were my parents. Some might wonder why I bothered, considering no-contact with toxic family was becoming more and more popular. Sue me for hoping that one day maybe they'd finally love me.

I still waited for that day. In the meantime, every three months like clockwork, my parents mailed me a care package with some of my favorite treats growing up. Peanut butter cookies, apple sauce, and fruit punch, the kind in tetra packs with straws that if you squeezed too hard squirted all over.

It never changed, and I'd honestly welcomed it, as it had to indicate my parents cared. Otherwise, why bother sending it? I'd not mentioned to them the fact that a few months ago I'd started giving it away to a family that used to live on the first floor of my old building. A single mom with a few kids, she'd needed it more than me. I wondered if she and her progeny had survived the massacre. Probably best I didn't find out, else it would just add to my guilt.

"Why are you here?" Mom asked rather than replying to my query.

"I guess you didn't hear. My apartment building blew up. Gas explosion." Surprising no one had contacted them to mention my supposed death.

"As if we have time to stalk your personal life."

"So nice to see you care," was my sarcastic drawl. "Anyhow, since I lost my place, I've been kind of adrift and thought, why not come for a visit?"

"You're moving back in?" A query that didn't hold excitement or welcome.

"Not exactly. I was hoping I could crash here for a bit."

She eyed me suspiciously. "A bit being how long?"

"Only until I can find a new job and secure an apartment." Which couldn't happen fast enough. I didn't want to stick around longer than necessary.

Her lips pursed. "Homeless and unemployed. Not surprising."

"I didn't quit or get fired," I hastened to explain. "My boss died in a fire at the shop."

"Bad luck always did follow you. Started the day of your birth."

I'd heard this story before. I was born during a massive storm where the hospital lost power. Even the backup generator failed due to flooding. Many patients needing machines to survive died. Mom always took it as an omen.

"Is it okay if I stay for a few nights?" I wouldn't stick around for long because the weight of disapproval would crush my spirit.

"If you must." She uttered a long-suffering sigh.

"Where's Dad?"

"At work like a proper, contributing member of society," she stated as a dig.

I didn't point out she could get a job as well. She'd always been a stay-at-home mom then a stay-at-home wife. Although I did have to wonder what she did, given the layer of grime on everything.

"Mind if I make myself something to eat? I'm starved."

She eyed my body, and I knew she wanted to criticize—You're getting fat. You should exercise more. Get a haircut.—however, in the last month, I'd not only been eating better but had also toned up while learning how to defend myself.

"There's bologna in the fridge."

I held in a grimace, thinking of how often I had to eat that meat product as a kid. Some things never changed. What did? The fact I didn't make it into a sandwich. By the time mom entered the kitchen, I'd pan-fried that processed hunk of meat with some garlic and salt then served it to myself with a side of ketchup.

She said nothing as she grabbed her daily lunch—a yoghurt with granola. I'd tried it enough times to know it only made the hunger pangs worse. I needed meat, or I got snarly.

"So what's new with you?" I asked, chewing the Newfoundland steak.

"Nothing."

"Seen any good movies?"

She offered me a dark look. "Are you going to ruin my meal with inane chatter?"

"Are you going to ever talk to me like your daughter instead of your worst enemy?" The complaint slipped from me, and I couldn't take it back. To those who knew me in real life, Cain especially, they'd be shocked to learn I rarely talked back to my parents. I'd been raised to respect them. I'd always craved their approval and affection, thus had spent a lifetime abasing myself in the false hope one day I'd earn it.

But today I wasn't in the mood to bend over and get verbally spanked.

Mom's lips flattened. "Rude."

"I did learn from the best."

"Are you calling me a bad mother?"

I snorted. "Don't tell me you think you were a good one." I just couldn't stop myself, it seemed.

"I made sure you were fed, clothed. Went to school. Although I did fail, it seems, teaching you manners and a good work ethic."

I arched a brow. "You taught me to be a doormat."

"It's called respecting others."

"Telling me to suck it up when someone's abusing me is not respect, Mom. Then again, I guess you wouldn't know the difference, given how Dad treats you."

At my claim, she recoiled. "Larry is an excellent husband."

I guffawed. "He acts as if you're his personal servant. Michelle, fetch me a beer. Michelle, where's my dinner? Iron my shirts. Polish my shoes." I glanced around. "Apparently, he should have been harping on your housekeeping skills."

The rebuke had my mother rising from her seat. "You impertinent bitch. To think I wasted the best years of my life raising your ungrateful ass."

I smiled. "There's that motherly love. You know, I wonder at times why you had me, given you lack a maternal bone in your body. And don't say Dad insisted. He hates kids." He never played with me. Barely spoke to me. He was the gruff man who lived in the same house, and I just thanked my stars I didn't look like or take after him.

"I had no choice," Mom spat. "Given the chance, I'd have drowned you in the first bath I gave you."

"Wow, way to not hold back. I'm curious, if you hate me so much, why not toss me out? Or cut off contact? Hell, why keep sending me my favorite treats?"

"Wasn't me sending them. I'd have been happy to never hear from you again."

"Does this mean you're rescinding my invitation to stay here?" I debated leaving anyhow because this frank conversation proved harder to stomach than I'd ever imagined. I knew Mom hated me. She'd just never expressed it so vehemently before.

"You can stay," she snapped. "Because I know it won't be for long."

"I don't know. Keep spoiling me with your love and delicious food and I might never want to leave." My sarcasm only served to pinch her features even further. One thing she said struck me as odd. "If you weren't mailing me the care packages, who then? Dad?" Not something I could picture, to be honest.

A sly look entered her gaze. "You'll find out soon enough. Now that you're here, I imagine they'll be over shortly to deal with you themselves."

How mysterious. I rose with my plate and headed for the sink. "Got anything to drink that's not tap water?"

"I wasn't expecting a guest. If you wanted luxury, you should have gone to a hotel."

I washed my plate and dried it before turning to remark, "Would it really kill you to be nice to me?"

"Maybe if you weren't such a disappointment…"

"I doubt anything I do will ever please you."

"I can think of one thing." Again, Mom got that strange look in her eye.

"I need a drink." I headed for the fridge, but Mom got in my way.

"There's nothing in there. Go sit in the living room and I'll make some coffee."

Not exactly the most refreshing thing, but Mom was offering to make it. "Lots of cream and sugar, please."

"Nasty," she muttered as I headed to the living room with its flowered velour couch, still pristine due to the plastic covering over the fabric. The television had changed from the massive tube version encased in a wooden frame to a flat screen that sat atop it.

Dad's recliner had also been replaced, the newer one boasting an electric footrest and cup holder for his beer. I flopped in it rather than deal with the crinkly plastic on the couch.

I really questioned my decision to come here. Why did I keep torturing myself when my mom made it clear she didn't want me around? I couldn't believe how blunt she'd been with me. Then again, in the past, I'd never dared sass her. I'd been raised with the "respect your elders" mantra, especially towards parents. Never had I been so bold with my mother, so I guess I shouldn't be too surprised she paid me back in kind. At least her harsh words didn't hurt. It had been a while since she had the power to make me cry.

She emerged with a mug, the rim of it chipped. She handed it over with a grimace. "Your concoction is ready."

"Thanks." I took a sip and wanted to retract that word. "Wow, talk about strong. Here's to hoping I don't start sprouting chest hair."

"You'd better not waste it." Her lips thinned.

"It's a cup of coffee, mom. And a shitty one at that."

"Always complaining."

Her words reminded me of Cain. Perhaps I should try a little harder to not be so critical. After all, did I want to turn into my mom?

Perish the thought.

"Sorry. It's great. Thanks. Much appreciated." I lied but also chugged the coffee while she stared intently at me. She didn't ease up until I'd finished the mug, and then she snatched it from me.

"I can wash it," I offered.

"Don't bother. I want it done right."

"Mind if I go hang in my room? Or are you dying to continue this heart-to-heart conversation?"

"Get out of my sight. I'd rather pretend you never came." Her scowl didn't have the power to hurt me like it used to.

"Love you, too, Mom," was my sarcastic rejoinder as I left the kitchen and headed up the stairs, just as shabby as the rest of the place.

The three-bedroom bungalow had been built sometime in the nineteen fifties. I'd spent my entire childhood in it, my room the smallest of the three, because god forbid, my mom put her sewing machine and hobby supplies in the smaller chamber or the basement. A basement I'd never seen, as Dad deemed it too dangerous for a clumsy kid to be messing around in. I often wondered if he had a secret man cave down there, given how many evenings he disappeared behind its locked door.

I entered my bedroom, which, while stripped of personal effects, remained the same. The rose-patterned wallpaper was just as floral as I recalled. My bed, a single mattress on a simple metal frame, had a pink comforter with fabric balls all over from the many washings. The mismatched wooden dresser and nightstand painted white remained just as scratched. I flopped onto my bed and stared at the ceiling, not really surprised to see the crack I'd studied as a kid had gotten bigger. Dad never did any home repairs.

I already regretted leaving the warehouse. At least there, people didn't openly hate me. Although they might now. They'd looked to me to be their savior in whatever upcoming calamity would befall the world, and instead of rising to the occasion, I'd bailed and run home.

Only now as I lay here did I wonder why.

Why had I given up so easily?

Story of my life. It would be easy to blame how I quit things on the lack of support from my parents, but if they were to blame, then why hadn't I achieved anything noteworthy after leaving their house?

Boredom had me dozing, and I found myself dreaming again.