Hurtful Words

It had almost been five months since I had moved back home. The four-year anniversary of Dane’s death had come and gone. It was the first anniversary I had actually been home for, and I felt somewhat guilty in that respect. Mom and I laid flowers at his tombstone and lit four white candles, leaving them to burn all night on our porch. I could see the orange glow they created from my bedroom window. I had thought we were the only ones that visited his grave but I soon learnt that others would come to lay flowers or light candles, some had even written letters and left them in envelopes or glass bottles. Dane had been on our minds all day just as he had been everyday since his passing. My mother could hardly bare to speak a word to me. And so we spent the anniversary in silent reverie. I had cried for hours that night. It wasn’t a loud, heavy sobbing but a silent weeping I tried to stifle with a hand pressed gently to my lips. My mother had been cleaning furiously all day, as if she were anticipating highly regarded dinner guests that were never to arrive. I could hear the faint clattering of pots and dinnerware downstairs as thoughts of my older brother plagued my mind. The sun was just beginning to rise as I fell asleep, the orange glow from the candles my mother had lit had long since vanished.

Three weeks later and I was nearing my twentieth birthday. My mother wanted to celebrate but I had insisted I didn’t want to make a big deal of it. “Really, Mom,” I had said, “I don’t want to make a fuss. Let’s just a hire a movie.” And we did. It was one of those old, black and white films my mother had a passion for. My mother had bought a bottle of champagne, which struck me as being slightly unusual. When I told her this she replied with a simple, “Well, we have to celebrate somehow.” My parents rarely drank with the exception of the glass of red wine my mother would sometimes have while preparing dinner or the whiskey my father used to drink at thanksgiving. Mom and I had spent the afternoon baking a chocolate cake and had somehow ended up covered in icing, laughing hysterically, dizzy from the small amount of alcohol we had consumed. I eventually fell asleep wearing a content smile with my head in my mother’s lap as she combed her fingers through my hair, humming ‘Happy Birthday’ softly while the film we were watching came to an end.

Another month or so had passed and I hadn’t really given another thought to applying for college. I had, however, found a job as a secretary in a local clinic. The hours were long but the work kept me busy and at least it got me out of the house. I had been getting restless, sitting around with nothing to do most of the time. I think my mother, though our relationship had improved since I had first moved back home, was beginning to tire of me moping about the house, rearranging the glasses in each cupboard so the mugs were on the bottom shelf and the drinking glasses were on the top just to have her move them back as soon as I left the kitchen. Most nights, after finding the job at the clinic, I wouldn’t return home until almost eleven at night, staying late to rearrange filing cabinets or fill out remaining paperwork. Mom would always wait up for me, keeping a plate of dinner warm for me although most nights I didn’t feel like eating.

I had been working at the clinic for a little over five weeks when I had my first night off. I hadn’t been feeling well for most of the day and really saw no point in sticking around. When I arrived home, I slipped off my shoes in the entranceway and threw my keys down on the small end table by the door. “Mom?” I called out, the noise bouncing back to me from the walls. “Mom, are you here?”
“Upstairs, sweetheart,” she replied, her voice straining. My mother hadn’t always been so softly spoken. Before my father died, you could hardly get a word in around my mother. “What are you doing?” I asked, pulling a face as I stood in the doorway to her bedroom, my arms crossed over my chest. My mother was wearing a silky black dress, her long dark hair pulled back off her face, hopping around on one foot as she tried to slip the other into a black satin high-heeled shoe, similar to the one she was already wearing. “Oh, there you are,” my mother said, jumping slightly in surprise after finally getting the shoe on, “do me a favor and zip me up, would you?” I tugged gently on the zipper at the back of the dress until it finally gave, pulling it right up, letting it sit below my mother’s shoulder blades. “Going somewhere?” I asked, sitting on my mother’s bed, watching in fascination as she let her hair down and finished applying her make up. My mother rarely needed to do anything with her hair. It was long and dark, and she often wore it down her back. It sat in big loose curls no matter what she did with it. My mother owed her striking features to her Italian heritage just as I owed mine to my mother. Dane and I had the same dark eyes and curly dark hair as my mother, we even wore the slight tan and dark freckles. People often found it hard to believe my father when he would introduce us as his children, his blonde hair and blue eyes betraying him. “I have a date tonight,” my mother said, speaking to my reflection in her vanity mirror. That I hadn’t expected. My mother had seen one or two different men since my father’s passing but not since Dane’s, not that I was aware of anyway.
“With who?” I asked, scrunching up my nose. I thought back to how Dane and I would sit on the bed like this and thoroughly interrogate her before each date she had. We would watch from the window as she was picked up, passing different reasons back and forth as to why he was an absolute loser and never deserved to see our mother again.
“Dirk Robbins,” she replied nonchalantly, applying a peachy blush to her defined cheekbones with a large brush.
“Mr. Robbins?” I asked incredulously. Dirk Robbins had been a teacher at my brother’s high school and, at one time, a friend of my father’s. I faintly remember my mother telling me his wife had left him some time ago.
“Don’t look at me like that,” she said, pursing her lips.
“Like what?” I asked, trying to hide my smile. I hadn’t seen my mother this excited in a very long time. I had never quite gotten used to the idea that one day my mother might find someone to be with that wasn’t my father. But it was a little over ten years since his passing and I knew, although my mother would never find someone to replace my father, she deserved to be happy and to have someone that would care for her just as my father had.
“Like I never do this kind of thing,” my mother groaned, her cheeks flushing.
“I didn’t say anything!” I laughed, putting my hands up to shield my head as my mother threw a scarf at me. I couldn’t help but grin as she rolled her eyes.
“It’s just a date,” she insisted, trying to fasten the clasp on her necklace, “it’s not even that serious.”
I got up off the bed, fixing her necklace for her. “I’m happy for you,” I said only to receive a suspicious look in return. “Really, Mom,” I assured her. Her expression softened and she gave me a small kiss on the cheek.
“Thanks, sweetheart,” she said, holding my face in her hands, pushing my dark hair out of my eyes, “I shouldn’t be too late home.” My mother fussed over her hair a little longer before a knock sounded at the door.
“That’ll be him,” she informed me, trying to hide the excitement in her voice as she placed a quick kiss on the top of my head and grabbed her purse. “There’s some leftovers in the refrigerator, they just need a couple of minutes in the microwave, I’ll see you later tonight. Love you.” I barely had time to respond before she was down the stairs and out the door. “Love you too!” I called after her. I waited in her bedroom a moment longer before I heard Mr. Robbins’ car pull away from the curb and retreated down the hall to my own room.

My head was still pounding, just as it had been when I left work earlier that day. I closed my bedroom door and let out a deep sigh, leaning my forehead against the wall and screwing my eyes shut. “Well, well, well,” I heard a voice from behind me, causing me to jump almost a foot in the air, “look who it is.” I whipped around so quick I lost my balance and stumbled a bit before holding a hand to my chest. I watched as a dark figure climbed through my bedroom window, squinting in the dark to try and get a better look.
“Christ Max, you scared me half to death,” I hissed walking over to him, “what are you doing here?”
“I could ask you the same thing,” he replied snidely, brushing down his shirt.
“Max, I meant to tell you. Really, I did,” I tried to assure him. He looked at me darkly.
“Well, you didn’t,” he replied sharply. I sighed, running my fingers over my chapped lips.
“I know.”
“Where have you been, kid?” he asked, his voice still cutting as he flopped down on my bed.
“North Carolina,” I answered simply.
“So, what, things start getting tough around here and you just skip town?” His tone was harsh and I couldn’t help but wince at the sound of his voice.
“Don’t try to put this all on me,” I replied, pointing a finger at him, “this isn’t my fault.”
“Whatever,” Max mumbled, turning away from me as if he were going to climb out of my window again.
“Fuck you!” I shouted after him, my voice cracking. I felt a burning anger in my stomach. Max turned slowly to face me.
“Fuck me? Fuck me?” he asked in disbelief. His voice was low and shaking though his tone was fierce, “I’m not the one who ran off to the West Coast for three years rather than facing her problems!”
“You know it wasn’t like that,” I whispered, my voice catching in my throat.
“Yeah? Well, how was it?” he scoffed, walking towards me. His eyes glowed with anger and, for a moment, I thought he might even dare hit me. I shook my head, helpless, unable to find my voice, tears dribbling down my cheeks. “Huh?” he pressed, backing me into a corner.
“Stop it,” I murmured, pushing against him gently with the palms of my hands.
“What was that?” he asked cruelly, bending down to look me in the eye, our bodies only inches apart.
“Stop it!” I cried. Max stepped back slightly in surprise. “You have no idea what it was like in this house after he died,” I said quietly, my tone low. My voice was so fuelled by anger I barely recognised it as my own.
“Lindsey, I-,” he began to say, his expression softening as he reached out to touch me. I jerked away.
“Please don’t, Max,” I whispered, my voice shaking, “I’m not ready to be touched.” He nodded.
“I’m sorry, Linds,” I grimaced at the use of my nick name. “I’m just,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck, “I’m just so angry. All of the time.” I licked my lips wiping beneath my eyes quickly to keep any more tears from falling.
I sighed in defeat knowing I couldn't stay angry with him for too long. "It's okay, Max," I told him, "I know."