“So what do you want me to bring?” She asks. I picture her sitting at the kitchen counter or pacing around the dining room. I picture her yelling.
Stay present, I plead with myself. I notice the soft suede coach against my hand.
“Uh…Let me look at Sam’s list.” I mumble, not sounding quite adult as I walk across the cool linoleum kitchen floor. Glancing down at the yellow legal pad with Sam’s small neat handwriting, I feel like I am being sucked into the yellow paper. My mind blanks out for a few minutes. Come on. Focus. Get it together. I continue to plead with my mind.
“I will just tell you what I can make.” She interrupts my battling mind.
“Oh…uh…okay,” I mumble, trying to add a happier tone to my voice. It is not working. She rattles off her list, her voice cutting through my mind like a knife.
“My big ole salad that you like. Mash potatoes. Mac and cheese.” Enough, my mind shouts. Her voice seems far away, like she is talking through a pillow. I say ok to everything she says, but actually hear little of what she is saying.
“Call me around 9 tomorrow.” This part of the conversation sticks in my mind. She has said it many times.
As I try to get through the evening I feel catatonic. Sam drives through the early evening Indiana darkness and I stare blankly, numbly through the dirty windows. I feel angry like I want to pick a fight. I hate fighting. Sam is too quiet. Is he mad at me? We eat a hushed dinner and drive back home through the bitter biting cold.
All I want to do is lay down. I lay on the bed wearing all my clothes, including my coat, hat, and scarf. Dealing with my mom is too big of a trigger.