I didn't answer.
The want to kill her stayed with me, like a word whispered in my ear. A kiss that promised of something else. Something better. If only I would give in. I didn't.
We said goodbye to each other. She used my name. Such a simple word, goodbye.
Eight
“We need to talk.” Dad accosts me in the kitchen the next afternoon when I go for an apple. I've been camped in the living room doing massive amounts of homework, but I need some sustenance. It's the first time in six days Dad's really talked to me. Mostly he's talked at me, and only when my mother is around. She's out in her garden. He glances out the window to make sure.
I wait for him to start. I'm not initiating this, because I know where this is going before he says a word. He's easier to read than one of those Dick and Jane books from first grade. See Dad. See Dad talk. See Dad yell an wave his arms. I fiddle with the sticker from my apple so I don't have to look at him. His face is doing that thing where he tries to look all superior. It makes me want to scream.
“You need to help your mother out more. She's taken on so much and you need to contribute more. It isn't right for her to work so hard when she should be resting.” What he's not saying is that soon she's not going to be around, so someone needs to pick up the slack. Someone named Ava. Not that he'll say any of that out loud. I'm supposed to be smart enough to understand that it's implied. Lucky for him, I'm not a moron.
“I will.” I'm not the only one who hears the whiny teenage edge to my voice. I could have controlled it, but I chose not to. Now I'm going to pay. He opens the fridge to get some cream for his coffee, like he needs to take a second before exploding on me.
“No, don't say that you will. Just do it. This is a hard time for all of us, and we need to make it easier on her,” he says, shutting the fridge with so much force the ketchup and salad dressing bottles rattle against each other.
“I know.” Does he think I don't know? That I'm trying to be difficult? That I want to make my mother's life harder? Yeah, I'm just that cruel and self-centered.
“Ava, you're not listening.” He's the one who's not. “I don't want her upset. I want to do everything I can to make sure that nothing like that happens.” He's about as subtle as a hurricane.
“I know,” I say again as he comes around the counter. I try not to flinch as he touches my shoulder, like he's going to hug me. Instead, he pulls his hand away, as if I bit him. I pretend not to notice and take a bite of my apple, hoping he's done, but knowing he's not.
“I want to make this a peaceful time for her, which means if she asks you to do something, you do it.” Why does he keep telling me this?
Whenever she needs something, I get it. I'm always bringing her coffee and baking her favorite cookies and offering to do the dishes and making sure she's not cold or hot or uncomfortable. She hates asking for things, but I know her so well she doesn't have to. His way is to pester her constantly, until she makes something up she doesn't really need just to make him happy, like giving an overactive child a useless chore to keep them busy.
We're too busy glaring at each other to hear her coming in. I'm surprised when she doesn't slam into the wall of tension Dad and I just put up. Either of us would need a sledgehammer to break it down. She just walks right through it.
“Everything okay in here?” She brings with her the whiff of fresh dirt. It's all over her clothes and there are leaves in her hair. She has a smudge on her nose and a glowing smile on her face. She looks better than she has in days.
“Just talking about the camping trip,” I say, putting on a smile. The lies seem to come easier and easier. Dad puts on his smile and hers widens. She gathers us both in her dirt-covered arms.
“I love you both.” I don't look at Dad as we hug. Anyone looking into our house would see a lovely family moment. How wrong they would be.
Avoiding Dad is my goal for the rest of the day. I spend it wrapped in a blanket on the couch, my face stuck as far into a book as I can get it without crossing my eyes, but my effort is futile. I end up reading the same sentence over and over and not remembering which chapter I'm on or what the love interest of the main character's name is. My mother senses the tension and suggests in a soft voice that she has a hankering to take a walk. Dad jumps right to concern mode, asking if that's such a good idea. She kisses his cheek and tells him not to worry so much. Good luck with that. Of course he acquiesces and she says they'll be back later as they head out the door. I go back to my book, trying not to feel nervous about being alone.
They come back hours later with pizza and we spend the rest of the evening planing our camping trip, sans tension. Dad seems a little more calm, and I can talk to him without wanting to roll my eyes or scream.
I am not a big fan of sleeping on the ground, being eaten alive by mosquitoes, and going to the bathroom in the woods, but my mother loves it, the whole shebang, so we're doing it. If she wants to picnic on the moon, we'll find a way. Buy space suits and learn how to moonwalk.
“It's been so long since we've gone. I hope I can find all of our gear.” She picks an olive off her pizza and pops it in her mouth. She always gets extra olives. I can't stand them, but I've eaten three slices covered in them. Don't rock the boat, I say.
“Don't worry about it. Ava and I will take care of it. You can plan out our hikes and make the menu.” Dad kisses her on the nose, making her giggle. My smile is almost painful, my cheeks cracking under the pressure.
“This trip is just for you to relax.” She holds her spare arm out and I climb under it.
“You guys spoil me.”
“You deserve to be spoiled,” Dad says, putting his arm around both of us. Two family hugs in one day. Not since I was little have we hugged so much. Dad and I aren't huggers by nature. It's natural for her, like calling me by silly nicknames and being so good with children.
Tex interrupts the Kodak moment via my new phone, causing Dad to give me another glare as I answer it. How dare I spoil the perfect moment?
“Hey, you've been MIA. What's up with you?”
“Nothing, just busy,” I say, mouthing her name to tell them who I'm on the phone with. Mom nods and makes a shooing motion with her hands. Dad keeps his glare on. I follow her directions and ignore him.
“Doing what?”
“Homework.” It's true that I had a ton of reading for my AP English class, but I'd done it already. She doesn't need to know that, though. I stub my toe on one of the steps and bite back a curse.
“You are such a dork.”