It Started with a Bet... (Watty Awards 2011)

the morning after

“Why don’t you stay with us, then?” She turns to look at her husband who nods in agreement.

“Well, uh, that would be…uh,” I try to find the right words. “That would be rather intrusive on my part.”

“Just for tonight,” she pleads in response. “I’m still worried about you.”

I turn from her to look at her husband, then at Trevor, all of whom seem eager to hear me accept.

“Well, if you insist,” I say quietly.

Trevor just smiles a little.

After breakfast, Trevor’s mom comes with me to my house to pack an overnight kit. I don’t know why, but she refused to hear of me going alone. As we enter the house, I see her scrutinize every wall, every mantle piece. I don’t know what she’s looking at, we have a bunch of nice knick-knacks from my mom’s travelling, but nothing horribly fascinating. There aren’t even any photos lying around.

She follows me up to my room, still looking around for heavens-knows-what.

“So why don’t you want us to contact our parents?” she asks.

“I don’t want them to be concerned,” I lie. Well, it’s only half a lie. I have a feeling Trevor’s mother will go ballistic if she finds out that I have no way of contacting them. I know, it sounds weird, but the whole day that they left was weird.

“Haley, are you sure, honey?” My mom asks, putting a hand to my cheek. I nod.

“Just go, Mom. I’m totally fine. Besides, didn’t you say that you were getting stir-crazy doing nothing but sitting around the house?”

“All right.” She sighs and leans forward to kiss my cheek. “I’ll try to keep in touch, okay? But you have to respond to my emails. And take care of that man we call your father.” She tries to keep her voice light for me, but I can hear the venom in it. I’m not stupid. I know that they can’t stand each other anymore.

“I will.” I tell her. And she’s so close to stepping out the door when my dad comes down the stairs with a suitcase of his own.

“Where the hell are you going?” My mother snaps at him. I am so busted.

“To work,” he says, as though it’s obvious. The tension thickens, coating my skin like a heavy mist. “I got a three year assignment in Beijing. You know, the one I was telling you before that I really wanted?”

Why did he have to mention it? That had been their latest argument. My dad coming home saying that his job was looking for someone to do a three year assignment and he really wanted to go. Like almost everything either of my parents said out loud, it immediately rubbed the other spouse the wrong way. My mom instantly went on a yelling spree about how he wasn’t the only one who was tired of being around the house. About how there was a job assignment in Italy she was dying for.

“You’re taking the job?” My mom asked slowly, dangerously.

“Yes,” he replied evenly. Then he saw the suitcase in her hand. “And where the hell do you think you’re going in the meanwhile?”

“To work.” She replied stubbornly. “I got the job in Italy.”

It had ended in an enormous fight about who was the least responsible parent and whose fault all this was and who spent most time taking care of me and who was going to take care of Haley now, anyway? It probably occurred to them that in reality it was my fault, taking advantage of the fact that they barely spoke any more to coerce them both into getting out of the house and finding happiness again, but they never yelled at me. It was never my fault. When I woke up the entire house screaming because of nightmares, when my mom had to quit the job she had worked her entire life to move up in to take care of me, when  we nearly went broke following the therapist’s orders and moving to another neighborhood on a two-week notice, none of it was my fault. Instead, they took the stress out on each other. Which is exactly why I kicked them out of the house.