but I think her emphasis was on crafts. Hayden and I always turned in the best projects in grade school. Mom did every single one of them.
In a fantasy family, I would be able to walk in, call her name out then go tell her about my problems. She’d be able to help me work out a solution. Instead, she’s part of my mess. Hayden talks to her a lot more than I do. Now that I think about it, I don’t think my mom and I have spoken for maybe a full week—perhaps even two—not counting therapy, of course.
I glance through the van windows on my way into the house. There’s a pack of cigarettes in the center cupholder, the top ripped open and the end of one poking through the hole. She’s smoking again. She’s tried to quit about a dozen times. My dad hates it, so she keeps it to the van. I can’t help but think she’s stress smoking in the van out of respect for him, and her delusion that he’s coming back.
He’s not. I knew the minute he moved out. I guess even I clung to a thread of hope, though.
The kitchen is messy, bread left out from toast my mom must have made, so I dump my bag in the laundry room and spend a few minutes cleaning the house. This is another one of those things my father took care of, despite the fact my mom hardly works and has always had time to keep up with the house. He’s fastidious; Hayden got this trait. I’m normally more like my mom when it comes to neatness. I’m trying to shed any quality we share, so might as well start with tidying up.
The more I dust and straighten, the more caught up I get in making this place look as if Dad were still living here. I tuck the cord behind the coffee maker the way he would. The mugs in the cabinet all get turned with their handles facing the same way, and the random bags from shopping that my mom has just thrown into a drawer get neatly rolled into balls to save space.
I continue making little changes around the living room, dragging the dust cloth up the stair railing after I finish with the tables and shelves downstairs. My dad would use this wood shine stuff in a spray bottle when he did this. I couldn’t find any downstairs, but the rag smelled like it so it will have to do. I cleanse our space in the scent of something familiar, clearing away the layer of dust that’s formed on the record player top and along the spines of Dad’s albums. I pick up one of my trophies from the end of the book case and run the rag around the dusty base, pausing to read the inscription.
MOST VALUABLE PLAYER
I set the rag down and kneel, looking for the matching statuette on the bottom shelf, finding it quickly and holding them both in my palms side by side.
LEADERSHIP AWARD
Those are the words on Hayden’s statue. It’s not even a real thing that teams give out. It’s a made-up recognition to make sure our family wasn’t sent home with one trophy in a house with two boys.
Fuck, he’s right.
I pull out more of his things, reading the engravings and certificates more closely than I ever have before. Every single piece of hardware out on display is the equivalent of second place, a make-up award. When we were little, it probably didn’t register with him, but come on! There’s no way that by the time he was eleven or twelve he didn’t see the difference in our accolades. I can’t believe it’s taken him this long to act out on it.
My eyes glaze over, staring at the neatly lined up set of awards with my name on them. My mom’s TV hums in the background, the noise muffled through her closed doors. She’s probably taking a nap.
I pull trophies and frames down from the top shelf—my shelf. I’m gentle at first, but the farther down the row I get, the less I care about these gold-painted plastic pieces of junk. By the time I get to the middle section, I’m done with it all, and I run my forearm along the rest of the space, sweeping everything to the floor in a clattering mess.
The space now cleared, I refill it with Hayden’s things. My movements grow more and more manic until I’m