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Mom sighed and changed tactics. “When are you moving out?”
“As soon as I can,” I answered tightly. “Maybe one more paycheck.”
“I don’t like it.” She shook her head. “You’ll go right back into using.”
“I never used in the first place,” I snapped.
“Until you give us a logical explanation about why you were convicted and spent six months in jail, I’ll have to side with the jury,” Mom said.
“I thought you were supposed to side with me, you’re my mother and I’m your son.” I grumbled.
“Not against the evidence,” Mom replied.
“Can’t you stay and go into a recovery program?” Dad asked.
“I don’t need a recovery program!” I pounded my fist on the table. How many times did I have to say I was innocent before they believed me?
“Why are you acting like an ungrateful child?” Mom pushed her chair back.
“Maybe because you’re treating me like one,” I growled, fed up with her and her condescending attitude.
“Settle down,” Dad said as if I were still ten years old and arguing with Mom about homework.
I stood up. “I will be moving out as soon as I possibly can, and I will not ‘go back’ to using drugs because I never used drugs in the first damn place.”
I stormed from the kitchen back to the lumberyard and bent my fury into my work. I walked the lines of two-by-fours, pulling out warped boards and dragging them over to the bargain pile. It was going to take a lot of hard labor to dispel the anger that was seething in my bones. I held my breath that the manager wouldn’t take notice and decide to engage me. I couldn’t be responsible for my actions if he did. Thankfully, I was left alone, and after three hours of backbreaking work, I finally felt better.
8
TAMMY
“Hand me the hot dogs,” Macy said, reaching over the kitchen island.
I looked around.
“They’re in the sink, defrosting,” she said.
I looked in the sink and found two packages of dogs, cold but not frozen. I handed them over.
“Dillon!” Macy called.
Dillon appeared from the master bedroom, straightening his shirt.
“It’s just Jason and Lindsey,” Macy said.
“The other shirt was dirty,” he defended himself.
“Mary Ellen! Mary Ellen!” Daisy cried, circling the table like a little witch casting a spell.
We were having some family friends over for a cookout, and it was nearly time for them to arrive. Dillon had started the coals on the grill outside. Macy was trying to get the meat ready for him. I had put out bowls of chips and dips, with a fruit platter for those of us who were watching our figures.
“Can you grab the cooler?” Macy said, pointing to the cooler that sat beside the fridge. As always, she was balancing a toddler on one hip and trying to do everything else with just one hand. She was always a Supermom.
I leapt forward just as she moved to scoop up a platter of hamburgers. “I got it,” I said. She reached for the hot dogs. I grabbed them with my other hand.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
Dillon came over and picked up the cooler, following me out to the grill. The kids tumbled out of the house and down the porch steps, marching and chanting their friend’s name. Macy joined us finally, after sourcing a binky from Emily’s room.
