With You┃Dylan O'Brien ⓵

Chapter Twenty-Three : Happy(?) Holidays

I can't say the same thing of my mother. Despite the holidays creeping around the corner, she continues to be missing all day, everyday. Her absence used to worry, confuse and sadden me.

More recently it began to frustrate me, but now I've gone past the point of caring. If she won't bother to come home for even a minute or answer her phone when I call her, then I won't bother caring.

Still, I can't help but wonder what has gotten into her. This behavior is relatively new, as it began about a month after we moved here to California. I like to assume it's all linked to her work life, but an air of suspicion and doubt continuously lingers in the back of my mind.

More than anything, I feel badly for my father. It is painfully obvious how much this entire ordeal bothers him, but I can't do much of anything about it.

When he tries to get to the bottom of the problem is when the arguments start. My father will ask a question and mom flips out, immediately taking a defensive stance on the situation.

Twenty minutes into the argument she starts attacking, often cursing in a rainbow of colorful words. On what I refer to as The Lucky Days, my parents will only bicker back-and-forth for maybe three minutes. Otherwise, they yell for anywhere between fifteen to thirty minutes.

Tonight is not one of The Lucky Days.

My father and I are huddled close together on one of the couches beneath a shared blue blanket with snowmen and snowflakes on it. A classic Christmas-time movie from the 1940's plays on the television at nine o'clock at night, which is when my mother decides to stroll through the front door.

My dad pauses the film while mom walks into the living room to approach the pair of us. The argument unfolds right before my eyes.

Mom is dressed warmly, though I notice her clothes are considerably wet. It must be raining outside, it's been doing that a lot lately. She sets her bag on the floor and removes her coat with careful movements, "Hi. How's it going?"

"Going well. You?", dad returns. I notice that now they don't speak to one another much like I'd imagine a married couple to.

"Great. It's raining cats and dogs out there."

"Is that why it took you so long to get home?"

This is where it starts.

Something in mom's demeanor changes when she answers, "Yes, actually, that would be a part of it."

"What's the other part of it?", dad asks calmly, still sitting at my side.

She throws her arms up wildly, "What do you think?!"

"I'd like to think you were working, but I honestly have no idea."

"This is how it goes half the time I come home, Scott."

"Because half the time you come home, Anita and I are already asleep."

The truth in that statement cannot be denied, but the mention of my name causes my heart to skip a beat. My mother steals a quick glance at me, and I feel myself afraid to stare back at her, even for a moment.

"What do you want me to say?", she asks, crossing her arms.

Dad stands up now, abandoning me on the couch, "Considering how many times we've been over this, I'd think you would know what I want to hear."

"I don't know what you want to hear!", mom is yelling now. "Any time I give you an answer it's not good enough for you!"

"Because your 'answers' don't necessarily qualify as answers, in my book."