Chương 2
She had packed my lunches when I was a kid and sat beside me in urgent care when I split my chin open at thirteen.
She also had a spreadsheet on her laptop where my monthly payments were categorized as household income.
Both things could be true.
“Why not?” she asked.
“I need some space.”
“From us?”
“Yes.”
Her eyes filled, but no tears fell.
Dad stood behind her with his arms crossed now, inheriting her old position.
I started the engine.
Jake appeared in the doorway.
“Hey, before you go, did you cancel the internet thing?”
I looked at him.
“The what?”
“The faster plan.”
Of course.
“No.”
“Cool.”
“I transferred the account.”
His grin disappeared.
“What?”
“The account is mine.”
“You can’t do that.”
“I opened it.”
“Yeah, but we use it.”
Mom turned toward me.
“Mike, Jake needs that for school.”
Jake looked at her, then wisely said nothing.
“The service ends here Tuesday.”
“You’re seriously cutting off your brother’s internet?”
“No.”
I rested my hands on the steering wheel.
“I’m taking my internet to my apartment.”
Dad shook his head.
“Petty.”
There it was.
The old trick.
If something belonged to me but benefited them, removing it became an attack.
I drove away before I could start explaining again.
My new apartment occupied the space above a three-car garage behind a pale green house owned by a sixty-eight-year-old widow named Carol Mercer.
Carol had spent most of Saturday showing me things that did not require showing.
The bathroom faucet needed to be turned slightly past center to stop dripping.
The oven ran “a little enthusiastic.”
The left kitchen drawer stuck in humid weather.
There was a Thai restaurant two blocks away that gave too much rice.
She had also shown me the lock on the storage room three times because I had mentioned I was a mechanic.
“You put whatever expensive gizmos you have in there,” she’d said.
“Not gasoline.”
“I wasn’t planning to store gasoline.”
“You’d be surprised what people plan.”
When I arrived that night, Carol’s downstairs lights were off except for the television flickering blue behind her curtains.
I carried my box upstairs.
The apartment smelled faintly of fresh paint and somebody else’s laundry detergent.
My mattress lay on the bedroom floor because I didn’t own a bed frame.
There were four plates in the kitchen cabinet, all purchased that afternoon from a thrift store.
None matched.
I set my grandfather’s photograph on the counter and stood there listening.
No headset noise.
No television.
No Dad opening cabinets harder than necessary.
No Mom asking whether I had remembered the transfer.
The refrigerator hummed.
A car passed on the street.
Somewhere below me, Carol coughed.
I sat on the floor with my back against the kitchen cabinets.
For the first time since signing the lease, I wondered if I had made a terrible mistake.
Freedom looked suspiciously like an empty room when nobody was around to congratulate you.
I checked my bank account.
There was enough for rent, utilities, groceries, and the replacement scanner I had reluctantly ordered on credit.
Not much beyond that.
I opened the calculator on my phone anyway.
I had already run the numbers six times.
I ran them again.
At 9:04, Mom called.
I let it ring.
At 9:11, she texted.
Your father is upset.
At 9:19, another message appeared.
We should discuss this when everyone is calmer.
At 9:37, Jake texted.
Do you have the wifi password for whatever plan we get next?
I stared at that one until I laughed.
It came out louder than I expected in the empty apartment.
Then I covered my face with both hands.
I was still sitting there when another message arrived.
Dad.
Don’t forget rent is due tomorrow.
I read it twice.
Then I placed the phone facedown on the floor.
For four years, I had paid on the first without being reminded.
Sometimes I paid early.
When Dad’s hours had been cut during one winter, I sent an extra three hundred dollars and told Mom not to worry about paying it back.
When the water heater failed, I covered half.
When Jake needed a laptop for school, Mom asked whether I could “float” the purchase until tax season.
Tax season came and went.
The laptop became Jake’s streaming computer.
I had never asked for the money.
Asking made me feel cheap.
That feeling had cost me thousands.
I got up and opened the refrigerator.
Inside were eggs, mustard, six cans of soda, sandwich meat, and a carton of milk.
I made scrambled eggs because they were there.
I ate them standing at the counter with the chipped mug beside me, filled with water because I had forgotten to buy coffee.
At 10:26, Dad texted again.
Eight hundred by morning.
No please.
No question.
Just the amount and deadline.
I typed three different responses.
I deleted all three.
At eleven, I put my phone on silent and slept badly on the mattress.
The next morning, my alarm went off at 5:15.
For several seconds, I didn’t know where I was.
Then I saw my work boots beside a wall with no furniture against it.
I showered, dressed, and drove to the repair shop before sunrise.
My supervisor, Luis, was already drinking coffee beside Bay Three.
He looked at me, looked at the coffee in his hand, then looked at me again.
“You look homeless.”
“Technically, I just got a home.”
“That bad?”
“Worse mattress.”
He handed me his coffee.
I took it without asking what was in it.
Too much sugar.
I drank anyway.
At 7:42, while I was underneath a delivery truck trying to free a bolt that had apparently been installed by Satan himself, my phone began vibrating in my pocket.
Once.
Twice.
Then continuously.
I ignored it until break.
There were nine missed calls.
Four from Mom.
Three from Dad.
Two from Jake.
The first text was from my mother.
May you like
Did you forget the transfer?
The second came six minutes later.
