Cabin Fever (BXB)

A Bubble Pops

"He was quite busy, huh?"

"Yes," she sighs, turning the pages. "With my job, and Simon's dad's work, I didn't want him or Finn being too lonely when we were gone. We traveled a lot for it."

"What did you do?"

"I was a photographer. Semi-retired now."

"Really?"

She nods.

"I bet you have some great stories."

"Not really." She sighs again. "While I did travel a lot, it wasn't for the exciting stuff a lot of people expect. Lots of court cases, boring political events, fashion shows. I have colleagues who were almost caught in stampedes in Africa. Riots. Some of them were at Ground Zero on 9/11." She hummed, turning to me. "Always seemed to be in the wrong place at the right time. Kind of a bummer, if I'm honest." She continues turning pages, and this air of gentle poison tingles my tongue.

"...did you enjoy it?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I don't regret it." Mrs. Hopkins purses her lips and grimaces. "I could've kept going, but genetics, along with younger photographers, were against me." She laughs, a brief sound masking her obvious discomfort. "I've always had a bad back and bad knees, and I've always felt iffy about getting surgery for it all. I want to age gracefully." She adds a flourish, waving her hands through the air like a vintage actress.

"I'm sorry."

"It wasn't bad. I work for the regional paper now. Part time, but...I enjoy it." She nods, her lips gently pursed.

I didn't say anything for the longest while as she flips the pages of the photo album. "I bet they missed you. Finn and Simon. When you were gone."

"I hope they did," she whispers. "We worked hard so we could give them the kind of life Simon's father and I never had. And I did not raise boys to be slackers. We..." Mrs. Hopkins hums the rest of her response before turning to me. "Simon and his father fought the night before, and my husband said some awful things to him. When he left, we all were...hurt."

My skin prickles.

"But, it's not my place. I am but one side of the story." She glances back to the photo album and sighs. She turns back to me. "Did he mention us? When you met him?"

I swallow and smile. "...yes," I whisper, feeling sick to my stomach. "It was all really hard for him."

Mrs. Hopkins smirks and puts her hand on my shoulder. "You're a kind boy, Micah. I bet you've made your parents proud."

For the most part, I like to think they would be proud of me, too.

"I can assure you now, Mr. Cohen, that most of my books would not interest a person like you," Mr. Hopkins says, pacing in front of the study's fireplace. He holds one of those books I'm not interested in in his hands, about familial disconnect and the gripes of the younger generation. His eyes match his son's, so sunken and tired and sad, but the air around this man is exhaustion. Fighting wars and going to bed knowing you'll wake up to fight again, and there being no ending in sight.

"Thank you for...telling me, Mr. Hopkins," I say, smiling, "but I wanted to ask you something." The sweeping generalization about his book collection - mostly business and political books – is wrong, much to my own relief. In the mix are books on self-worth, psychology, long-finished wars, and, of all things, planes.

I sink into the armchair, the sun beating down my neck. The wood-paneled room's the only space in the house I've not been in, and it's by far the warmest.