Blow My House Down

Chapter 37

"No, it was just my shins," he said. "You might have to carry me everywhere now."

"Hah, fat chance. Get up before my mother has your head."

"Which one?"

"I'd keep your pants zipped and buttoned if I were you."

He audibly gulped and hurriedly got up. I climbed out of bed and we went downstairs to the kitchen, where my mother was waiting for us. A box of cereal was in the middle of the table, along with a bottle of milk. She was drinking a cup of tea, probably earl grey, still in her terrycloth robe and slippers. Her graying hair was in a bun.

"Have your new age sugar rush," my mother said, waving a hand dismissively at the cereal.

Micky and I glanced at each other, feeling the awkward tension in the kitchen and the complete lack of disregard my mother had for us. We both sat down across from each other at the table; my mother was at the head of the table, where my father used to sit.

My mother wasn't eating anything. Not even a slice of toast with jam, which was her usual breakfast. It worried me, but I didn't say anything as I poured my cereal, then passed the box to Micky. My mother didn't pay any attention to us. The only thing that struck her fancy was watching the tea slosh around in her cup every time she set it down.

"Where is your father?" she asked suddenly, glancing at the clock on our wall. "He's always late for dinner."

Micky and I shot each other confused looks.

I gently my hand on my mother's arm. "Mom? What are you talking about?"

My mother seemed confused. "Talking about? Kathleen, I didn't say anything."

"But you... okay."

The room was cold, lifeless. All the warmth had been sucked out of it. For my father, Christmas was the most important time of the year. He passed that belief on to me. My mother had different ideas but humored us. The year before last, he was bustling around the room, making pancakes in his Santa Claus costume. I was seventeen; there was no need to pretend, but it's what he loved to do. He adored the most wonderful time of the year.

Christmas, for my family, used to be magical. The magic was gone. The only trace of Christmas in the house existed in the lights my mother had wrapped around the banister. No tree, no stockings, no presents, no tidings, no good cheer. Nothing recognizable. I was sitting at a table with a ghost.

"Oh!" my mother exclaimed. "I almost forgot to tell you. The Prescotts invited us to their soiree this evening."

I wrinkled my nose in disgust. "They still live here?"

"Who... who are the Prescotts?" Micky dared to ask.

My mother cracked a smile at this silly boy's silly question. "They are one of the richest -- if not the richest -- families in River City." She narrowed her eyes at me. "However, Kathleen here has a particular disdain for them and their wealth."

"Not wealth," I corrected. "Just them." I turned to Micky. "Their daughter is our age and a --"

My mom interrupted me. "Whatever is about to come out of your mouth, I do not want to hear it."

I fell silent and shoved a spoonful of cereal in my mouth. My mother cringed at the barbaric way I ate my cereal, then turned back to Micky.

"You see, Mr. Dolenz, despite what my daughter has to say, the Prescotts truly are lovely people --"

"Mrs. Prescott is a viper," I mumbled under my breath.

In a flash, my mother had a tight, painful grip on my wrist. I flinched and looked into her eyes: all I saw was anger dissolving into nothingness. She had never had such a short temper before. I didn't recognize the wild look in her eye -- and I don't think she recognized me.