The Scars of Qulin Moore

Chapter 5

Adrienne felt the day's stress leave as she landed on the soft leather sofa. Its cool surface, greeting her with a refreshed sense of satisfaction. The daylight dwindling, the end of the day was much welcomed. The new house seemed to be a good fit. Anything but the city was a good fit. A good night's sleep, hopefully, would be next. Although tired, something like a cautious elation encouraged her to tour her new house again, as if she needed some more proof that she'd actually accomplished keeping Lucas safe from Cordell. She clicked off the television and made her way across the hardwood floors of the living room, through the hallway where the sound of crickets bounced through the back balcony sliding door, savoring the sights of unpacked boxes which added to her sense of gratification. Whoever thought they could pull off an interstate move so quickly—she smiled. She entered the kitchen. The single chandelier flickered on with a glowing white light. She tried to recall Lucas' face from earlier. Was filled with joy, or disdain when they first pulled up. It was joy, she swore. He hadn't voiced any formal complaints about his bedroom, nor any other part of the house—yet. That was as a victory. Funny, she thought, how ready she was to grasp at the tiniest of Lucas' approvals, even something as seemingly trivial as a non-complaint. She supposed it was all part of the uprooting process, attending to your child's dismay and praying for any sign he was adjusting okay—perhaps it was selfish to seek these signs out just so she'd feel better. But that was a thought for another day. She chastised herself and opened up the fridge. The wave of light from the refrigerator washed over her as she peaked quickly over the fridge door and made sure Lucas wasn't walking in on her—she was outspoken about drinking, largely because of Cordell but tonight she felt she'd earned a single glass. She pulled out a small bottle of white wine from the bottom bin and poured half a glass. She sipped the wine conservatively, glancing around at the stacks of bowls, plates, blenders and assorted kitchen appliances that laid scattered across the countertops and along the tile floor. The large oak cabinets and drawers were such a warming sight. Finally, she would have space to store everything without bargaining with the likes of an insufficient apartment.

Taking a larger sip of wine, she smiled while imagining all the scrumptious meals she'd make for Lucas, starting with his favorite—spaghetti and meatballs. She'd make it every night if that's what it took to spend more quality time with him. Whatever he wanted to eat, she'd whip it all up with alacrity. There was nothing she wouldn't cook for her boy. However the next sip couldn't hide the frown that formed upon the passage of her next thought. As sad as it was, for the first time she'd hoped to show him the secret family recipes passed down to her from her mother and her mother before her—without looking over her shoulder. The Cinnamon oats, Beef Stroganoff, and grandma's magnificent banana cream pie which by the way took first place in the pie contest back in the seventies—it troubled her to know that something as natural to a family as cooking with your kid had never been a part of their relationship. She longed to know that kind of connection, the real happiness and bonding that everybody else had. She finished the wine, and rested the empty glass on the countertop and thought some more about all the things she'd grown up with: family vacations to Montauk, surprise gifts like her cat Yuppy. Support, love, normalcy—all of which Lucas lacked in one way or another. A familiar guilt permeated in her chest, a shame for having had the luxury of a good upbringing and failing to pass it on to her own child. Making it up to him was the only thing she'd focus on. All of this wonderful potential was a bridge to a renewed sense of motherhood.

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Up in his bedroom, Lucas kicked the closet door closed. He cringed as it slammed shut with a loud bang. He waited for his mother's scolding howl from below, pleased when no maternal intervention materialized. He returned to the bedside table, pushing aside a barely nibbled slice of cold pizza. He wished he could tell his friends how the pizza here tasted like shit akin to overcooked cardboard to be exact. Thoughts of his friends upset him. He turned the volume up on his radio to drain out the sadness. Rock music blared out of speaker and he started sliding across the hardwood floor, strumming an invisible guitar, imagining the crowd roaring before him. Music kept him upbeat, rhythm guitar and bass seemed to always smother out the uncomfortable feelings. His imaginary guitar solo, flawless in all its glory, came to an end once the song was cut off by some breaking news report. He turned the radio off and sauntered to the window once more, in an effort to force himself to accept the realization that he was no longer in the city. He cracked the window slightly. Cool autumn air filtered in from the violet evening sky. Conditioned to expect the din of honking cars and screeching brakes to spring forth at any moment—nothing but the heavy and eery quite loomed. The comfort of city racket was gone. No longer could he enjoy the random arguments over stolen parking spots. No more laughing at careless drivers cutting each other off with reckless abandon. These sorts of city antics had always been a well received distraction, a way to forget about his parents. He had developed people watching into a means of diminishing his own woes. To believe total strangers had it worse off than he did—the stranger with the limp, another yelling on a cellphone to whomever was delivering the bad news, even the stray cats with their pitiful wales of loneliness. They all had it worse off. Or did they have it better? That all depended on the day, and how much his father drank and his mother screamed. But now, a big empty dark road, a yard full of dead leaves was all that was left. And nobody to take away his angst.