Wild Game My Mother, Her Lover, and Me - Adrienne Brodeur Page 0,6

that Ted is a total creep, right, Ren?” Peter said, shoveling in a spoonful of flakes. He backhanded a drop of milk from the corner of his mouth.

I blushed, flashing to Ted pulling up my top. Yes, I did realize that Ted was a creep. He was the kind of kid who, five years earlier, had spent summer evenings catching frogs, putting firecrackers in their mouths, then laughing wildly when their legs went flying.

“No, he’s a good guy,” I said to my brother, the words as smooth as marbles. Even though I was no longer interested in Ted, admitting that he was a jerk was not an option. In our family, being right trumped being truthful. There was no room for uncertainty, so you never let down your guard.

Peter smirked at this unlikelihood and nudged his bowl toward the sink side of the counter.

Since our parents’ divorce, a decade earlier, it had been the three of us: Mom, Peter, me. My father was on the sidelines, of course, occupying the every-other-weekend-and-alternating-holidays real estate, and my stepfather, Charles, was present, too, with his four grown children from his previous marriage, now my stepsiblings. But our fundamental family unit since the divorce had always been a triangle, that sturdy shape. Except on this morning, our geometry was changing. Before the end of the day, Peter’s side would be cut loose, and once untethered from him, my mother and I would shape-shift into a single straight line, the most direct conduit for her secret.

* * *

“Good morning,” Malabar sang out, addressing no one in particular. She breezed into the kitchen wearing a cotton robe loosely belted over a sheer nightgown; her hair was tousled. It was a bit cooler this morning but still humid, and the sky, a swirl of purple-gray, promised the relief of rain. At the window on the far side of the kitchen, my mother caught her reflection and pursed her lips. In the cold light of day, she eyed the age spots scattered on her hands and the slack skin at the base of her neck, a nectarine a few days past perfect.

Still, she was lovely, slim and strong with shiny auburn hair that framed an alluring face with a dimple high on her left cheek, a mark left by forceps that was a reminder of her tough entry into this world. Although she cultivated an air of elegant aloofness, she was surprisingly game, willing to bait hooks and often the first to dive into rough waves. I know now that she’d lost some essential piece of herself when she gave up her career as a journalist in New York City and opted for a gentler life and financial security by marrying Charles, who had family wealth. According to my father, my grandmother often told Malabar, “You marry one man to have your children and another to take care of you in your old age.” But if that had been my mother’s intention, subconscious or otherwise, in marrying Charles, it was not working out as planned. Charles had made my mother wealthy, but she was doing the lion’s share of caregiving. Malabar would be forty-nine in the fall and no doubt felt despair over the unexpected changes in her life.

She raised her chin defiantly against her reflection, turned, and fixed on me a look that proved I hadn’t dreamed the previous night’s encounter.

“Young lady,” she said, arching an eyebrow, “you and I have things to discuss later.”

Peter shook his head, wondering what I’d done this time. I figured he thought I’d been caught canoodling with Ted, but he mimed a quick toke on a spliff. That it? His eyes twinkled.

Then my mother made her tea, an elaborate ritual to clear the previous night’s fog—brought on by cocktails, wine, a sleeping pill or two—and usher in the new day. She dumped the kettle, filled it with fresh water, and set it on the stove. As it warmed, she pried off the lid of a tin of Lapsang souchong, and, poof, the room filled with its distinctive smoky aroma. With her thumb and forefinger, she felt for the perfect amount of dried leaves, which, pinch by pinch, she sprinkled into her teapot. When at last the kettle sputtered and whistled, hot water met leaves, and the tea was left to steep under an outlandish rooster-shaped cozy.

Charles shuffled in next, freshly showered, all aristocratic square jaw, thick horn-rimmed glasses, and slicked-back gray hair. He looked as he had since his strokes six