Game Changer (The Field Party)

I’d seen him throw a coffee cup against the wall right beside my mother’s head when he didn’t have his favorite brand of coffee in the pantry. Nothing about the man was sane. Even after he broke her arm for forgetting to pick up his dry cleaning, she made excuses for his behavior.

I could smell dinner as I dropped my backpack at the bottom of the stairs before heading toward the kitchen. It wasn’t often that my mother cooked dinner. Rarely did my father eat what she did cook if she made the effort. The fact she was cooking concerned me. No one was speaking, which didn’t necessarily mean my father wasn’t in there. He found power by sitting in silence, making us feel uncomfortable. I didn’t care if the bastard ignored me or not. As long as he didn’t touch my mother.

As I stepped into the kitchen, my mother’s back was turned while she worked over whatever she had decided to attempt to make. The large antique table was set for three. Another unexpected effort. Mom and I would usually order takeout or I’d make grilled cheese sandwiches.

Thankfully, she was alone. I let out a breath I hadn’t even realized I’d been holding. It was a habit. Preparing to face the man and whatever mood he was in.

“Smells good,” I said, and my mother spun around to face me. Her smile was instant when her eyes met mine.

“It’s something new I’m trying,” she replied. “How was your day?”

Having Mom cook dinner was a treat, and seeing her smile was also a nice thing to come home to, but letting my guard down was a bad idea. “It was a Monday,” I replied, then asked, “Are you sure your efforts will be approved?” I didn’t mask my sarcasm. She knew this was a bad idea.

Her smile faltered some; she understood what I was asking easily enough. She knew trying something new wasn’t safe with the psycho she was married to. Her smile was forced now and less sincere. “It’s just shrimp jambalaya with a new twist. I think both of you will love it,” she said, but what she meant was that my father loved jambalaya and this would go over well with him. When I was younger, she’d cook a lot in an effort to impress the bastard. Years of him cursing her and throwing away the food that she prepared had led to her not cooking and him not coming home until late. Our home was not one where the family sat around the table and enjoyed each other.

“I know I will,” I told her when she seemed unsure of herself. That seemed to please her. My mother had loved to cook for me when I was younger. She had once told me it was her way of showing her love. My father had used that as one more way to attack her. He’d taken her ability to buy groceries to cook meals by limiting her weekly grocery bill. Then he’d stopped coming home for dinner. It was just one more way he chose to hurt her. As a kid, I couldn’t understand why he would say mean things to her. With age, I realized he was a sick bastard that got his kicks out of causing pain behind closed doors while appearing like the perfect family man to the rest of the world.

“Tell me about school,” she urged, changing the subject.

I walked to the fridge to get a soda and stopped to kiss her temple on my way. This was another thing I’d always done. Given her affection to replace the lack of it she received from my father. If I left, who would do this? Who would reassure her, take care of her, make sure she was okay?

“Boring. Same ole sh—” I stopped before finishing that sentence. Her scowl of disapproval was already in place. I smiled sheepishly, and she shook her head before going back to stirring the pot on the stove. “It’ll be over soon enough anyway.”

Mom placed the spoon on the ceramic spoon rest I’d painted for her in the third grade and given to her on Mother’s Day. It had been used very little over the years, since she rarely cooked. I watched her walk over to the cabinet to take out a glass, then hold it out to me. She hated for me to drink out of the can. She was convinced it was unhealthy. As if there was anything healthy about a soda anyway.

I took the glass from her and poured the dark liquid into it.

“When are you signing with a college?” she asked in a chipper tone.

I didn’t look at her. I couldn’t. This wasn’t something I’d talked to her about. I assumed she knew. That she understood I couldn’t leave her here. How could she want me to leave her here?