by Ryan Wirick

I WAS gonna knock but decided to just walk in instead. A series of keys hung on a series of hooks next to the door, and when it shut behind me they jingled a familiar sound on the other side. The old wooden picture frames had been painted over in blue, alongside the blue lamp shades, window coverings, blue wallpaper rising from the brand new blue carpet.

My mom didn't see me until I walked in the living room.

—Hey Mom, how's it going? . . .

New blue couches. A new blue rug. Even the coasters, blue. . . .

She was on her knees with a roll of paper towels beside her, a can of dust-removal spray in hand, wiping down the blue legs to the bar stools.

—Be with you in a minute. . . .

I walked across the room. I sat down in a big, bumpy, blue chair.

—This is a nice chair, Mom, I said. Where'd you get it?

—You grew up in that chair glued to the TV, Cleve. It used to be maroon, don't you remember? And leather. . . .

She sprayed cleaning products a total of eight times into the last paper towel, then folded the paper towel in half.

—Well I like what you did with it, I said.

—It's called new upholstery. . . .

Mom got the most out of that last paper towel. I followed the trail of cleaning products. The liquid seeped onto her bony fingers—she sniffled. The back of her fingers scratched at her nose—she coughed. The back of her hand wiped the corner of her mouth—another cough. The tips of her fingers poked at the corner of her eye—her entire face winced. All this mixing of sticky chemicals and open orifices made me feel itchy and fidgety all over. So I just rubbed the chair with my thumbs, focusing on the fabric.

—It's almost like a kind of, this isn't denim is it? A denim chair? . . .

Mom got up. She had thinned out since the last time I was there—since I moved out in the summer a few months before, and into a dorm at the University, and out of the dorm and into an apartment with Natalie. The way her blue sweatshirt dangled-loose from her paling skin. She stretched her back. I heard it crack. She eased herself onto the dust-free bar stool. Slow, calculated movements. She chose to leave the paper towels sprawled across the carpet. She chose to face the kitchen when she spoke.

—That's exactly what it is. Made it from some old jeans of your father's I found in the garage. What? . . .

My eyes bobbed about the room. From the back of her head, the armrest under my thumb, the tiny punctures in the fabric from a previously stitched label, the belt loops, the zippers, the general clumpiness in certain sections of the cushion where one leg had been paired with another.

—So Mom, how are things? I like the blue. A lot. Really. I like it.

—Well if you're asking me if I miss your father you can leave, got it? 'Cause that isn't something that I. That just isn't, okay? That's what it is. It isn't. Cleve look at me, stop it. What the fuck are you smiling about? . . .

You still care.

How she knew this made me smile I couldn't figure, unless within the refrigerator's black reflection, but that was doubtful given the distance.

So what's all this talk about new upholstery when the actual deal's so damn obvious? I reasoned with myself. Mom and Dad get divorced. Dad goes to war. Mom misses Dad. Dad goes missing. Mom goes crazy. Dad's boxes arrive. Mom goes crazy with the boxes. In moments, there was something so adorable, unfiltered, even child-like about her degenerating condition. And so of course I smiled. And so of course she got crazy defensive.

—Mom, you said “fuck,” I said. You know you never say fuck. You used to slap Dad for saying fuck. . . .

Her head—exploding with wild, frizzy, highlighted hair which she had attempted to tame with a poor little outstretched hair-tie, two inches of black roots showing—remained still. I produced each step to the kitchen just like I had when I used to sneak out in high school. Ninja steps across the carpet to the hardwood floor. The countertops gleamed untouched, except for a bunch of wet blue paper towels piled next to the sink. I took two coffee mugs out of the dishwasher and placed them down next to a bottle of cabernet sauvignon—its cryptic, Australian label bubbling up—breathing in the gleam behind a blue-nozzled column of glass-cleaner.

So now she disinfects her wine bottles?

I slid the mug under her head.

—Mom, what is it? You okay? . . .

She gulped down a third of the mug.

—I just, thanks, she said. I just don't know anymore.

—What don't you know anymore?

She stared into the mug.

—Okay, well it's like I'll say something now and again just to remind myself of things I used to hear, even if I hated hearing it. I mean you're off in school, and we were never that close, and now your father's gone. I mean he's been gone for months, but now he may be, he may just be—

She took another gulp from her baby blue mug.

—Now he may be gone for good, she said. And for no good. . . .

Her hand moved towards the telephone, across the dark-brown-green-black marble bar counter top. Out from underneath the cordless receiver—right where I last saw it six weeks earlier when my mom first showed me the letter within, notifying her of his M.I.A. status—she clutched at the envelope containing the letter. Supposedly, since all persons qualified were needed in the war—or so the letter went, resources stretched or whatever—the army had stopped sending officials to the next-of-kin homes. Mom spun the envelope counterclockwise on the counter.

Anonymous letters seemed to me to be more consistent with war anyway. No bullshit apologies. Impersonal paper. Disposable like the bodies reported missing. . . .

Mom watched the envelope spin when she spoke.

—And I just feel like if I use the f-word, fuck, I don't know maybe your dad will show up and call me a hypocrite. Maybe he'll slap my arm, laugh, and say nothing. God your father could be such a pain in the ass but he, he could be, he. They said he was missing in action, Cleve. Look at this. Read this. They said he was presumed dead. Here, take it, take it from me.

—I know, Mom. It's horrible. I read it last time, remember? . . .

She didn't hear me—her forearm to wrist to fingers poised—so I accepted the offering. I pretended to read it. When she wasn't looking I took the letter out of the envelope. I folded it up, and then I tossed it in the garbage compactor. I buried it beneath paper towels. She finished off her mug. I finished off mine. I put the empty envelope next to the phone, refilled both of our baby blue mugs with red. I didn't spill. She looked up.

—But it's just a stupid letter, I said.

—It was signed by a general, Cleve. You're not a, what the fuck do you know? It was signed by a general!

—I don't need to be a general to know the difference from being dead and being missing, Mom. . . .

She looked down at her blue mug of red wine. I walked around the bar counter with every intention of telling her that for all we knew the general's signature was a fake. She wiped at her tears—her fingers pruned and glistening. I already knew what she believed, and by extension, I already knew that if the signature was a fake my mom would be best off believing she was right, believing I agreed with her. So I started rubbing her shoulders. Her muscles fought back. I let up. She smelled like artificial lemon.

—Shhhh. You can't cry if you don't know, Mom, 'kay? You gotta believe Dad's gonna be fine. That one day he's gonna come home out of nowhere and he'll still love you, and the two of you, you'll start over.

—Why do I have to believe that?

—You just do, Mom.

—Why did he have to leave? . . .

I was a ways behind her, leaning against the couch. Her mug went up. Another throat full of red had crept its way down. And another. Her head began to shake. Her narrow torso wobbling. I didn't have to tell the truth.

—Because he's a dick, I said. He ditched us both, right? Just like—

—Just like a dick, my mom said in a sharp, satisfied tone, nodding.

I sat back down in the big, bumpy, blue chair.

—So what's the University like? she asked.

Besides failing my classes?

—It's fine. . . .

She tried to drink more wine from the mug, knowing it was empty.

—You need to go get out, Mom, I said. Go to a day spa. Do whatever women do to pamper themselves. Walk in the canyon, go out dancing.

Dad and you were such great dancers. . . .

—I should of never told him he's going to hell, she said.

—I'm pretty sure that's not why he left.

—No, you know he went because of the holy war, Cleve. To do the righteous thing. I just wish, I mean he should've just left the country. We both know Spanish, I could've met up with him somewhere. He could've converted, like me, eventually, and we'd, we could have, we'd. . . .

Maybe it is was the weight of the word “converted” that made my right hand jump. Regardless of the cause, a spoonful of wine slopped out of my mug of red, landing squarely on my dad's recycled denim cushion.

—Shit Mom, sorry. I got it, I got it. . . .

Beneath my mom's hair explosion I could make out two blue, bloodshot eyes, starting to mirror over, suddenly fixed without a twitch on the red on the big, blue, bumpy chair. She chose to stand up when she spoke.

—Don't you dare Shit Mom me, go get a towel, hurry! You were always spilling stuff in that chair growing up, remember that? You know what, don't. No. Just don't. Stop what you're doing. Stop it. . . .

She walked over to the stain. Quick, uncontrolled movements.

—Mom? . . .

Under the kitchen sink I found stain-removal spray and a brand new roll of paper towels. I carried both of them over to her. I found her sitting on the floor. I gently placed them next to her. She was nibbling on her lip.

—It's just a little wine, Mom. It'll come out. I'm sorry. . . .

She used the stain spray. The paper towels. The spray. The towels.

—No, I'm sorry, she said, dabbing out the last of the spill. It's too late. I think you're gonna have to leave.

—But look, I said. It's fine. Good as new. Lets forget about it.

—Just get whatever you came by to get and get out, she said.

—Mom, I only came by to see you. . . .

She chose to let me walk towards the door.

She chose to face the carpet when she spoke.

—Oh yeah, right. Like you didn't come here just to ruin this chair? Like you didn't come here to make fun of me and all the blue? You think I don't know all the things you think about? . . .

I turned around. Walking backwards now. Tiny quiet ninja steps. . . .

—Well you think your only son is going to hell. How fucked is that?

—And you, you are going to hell! Didn't I tell you to leave? What did I say? Didn't I say? Go back to LA. I'll put your tuition in the mail. . . .

Mom didn't ease up, leaning on her knees next to the chair, not turning around, not moving her head. Her hair-tie had broken. Her hands held her hair back. I imagined the stain-removal spray spreading to her roots.

—I'm leaving, Mom, okay? Love you. Sorry again about the chair.

—

My hand was on the doorknob, frozen. I could almost hear the jingle of the keys from the other side. My hand was turning, resisting the turning.

I chose not to cry when I opened the door.

Ryan Wirick grew up in Southern California in close proximity to the ocean. While he has never taken to surfing, he has made several moving and non-moving pictures and paintings, and is presently completing his first novel Invisible Escalators. His writing has been published at home (printer ink pending), Elephant Tree Creative Writing Journal, and over at Mad Hatter's Review.