Normal Things (Tate Langdon FanFiction)

Chapter Four:

                  

I got home just as Mom made it into the driveway, the brakes on her Toyota squealing as she rolls to a stop. She killed the car and climbed out, bringing with her a paper bag filled with groceries.

            I was sitting on the porch swing, kicking lightly, my book bag sitting at my feet. Mom walked up the steps, blowing me a kiss. She had a phone pressed between her ear and her shoulder, muttering to someone on the other side. Fumbling with her keys, she bounced the bag of groceries higher on her hip, fixed her phone to where she could hear better, and found the right key, shoving it into the dead bolt.

            Planting my feet, I stood and grabbed my book bag from the ground, following Mom inside. She went into the kitchen, setting the bag on the center island.

            "No, Carl," she was saying when I made it into the kitchen. I sat on one of the islands chairs and watched as she sighed and scrubbed a hand through her brown hair.

            "Carl...Car—Carl!" Mom slammed her phone down, letting out an angry sigh, spinning around to the fridge, opening the door with enough force to shake the jars inside. I sat still, watching; Mom usually reserves this type of anger for the necessary, like staying out after curfew without letting her know where you are, neglecting chores, when you delete her shows from the recordings list on the television.

            I haven't seen her this mad in a couple years. When she talked to my Dad, she always ended the calls with a tired sigh, hanging up and lying on the couch. Mom turned to me and let out her signature tired sigh, wiping her face with one hand.

            "Mom?" I asked. She peeked at me through her fingers and tried to smile. She failed.

            With a sigh, she straightened and started to unpack the groceries, bringing out a pound of ground meat, a head of broccoli and a group of asparagus wrapped with a thick powder pink rubber band. With her back turned to me, she started to sort the food into their respected cabinets. After a moment, she grabbed the door and just stood there. "That was Carl," she said, using my dad's real name. "He wants you to come over," she said finally.

            Acid crawled its way into my throat.

            "What?" I said, my voice a shrill whisper. Mom nodded.

            Dad wasn't the world's greatest Dad. He wasn't anywhere close. I remember the last time I went over to his house: he'd actually dressed up for my visit, in a clean white shirt and pressed jeans. He used to be the manager for one of the firms in town, but after Drew committed suicide, he went into his Dark Mood, losing his job, becoming horribly angry all the time. Mom ended up having to divorce, signing the papers shortly after she found out she was pregnant with me.

            I was six when I visited first. He'd met me at the end of his driveway, in a dark button-up and khakis. Mom had warned me what he would be like, and that she wished she didn't have to share joint custody, forgetting that I was only six. She kissed my forehead that day, scrubbing a hand through my brown hair, the color of my hair before I turned twelve and got it in my head to dye it. I'd smiled and climbed out of the car with my Pinkie Pie book bag stuffed with clothes.

            Standing next to my dad, I'd watched as she drove away, glancing in the rearview mirror several times before turning onto the next street. Dad then put a vice-like hand on my shoulder, walking me inside.

            "Sit here," he growled, pushing me onto a dirty, leather sofa in his living room. I sat and watched as he walked into what seemed to be the kitchen, walking out with a silver can of beer and a plate with crackers and thin slices of cheese on it. He'd set it on the wooden coffee table in the center of the room and slumped into a Lay-Z-Boy across from me.