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"Of course, let me walk with you."
"No, Mom." I head off on my own. Sometimes a man needs a minute to think.
TWENTY-ONE
Ben
My muscles tense as I hear her car in the driveway. Seconds afterward, Jonny is running into our living room and into my arms, giving me a big hug. "Hi Dad!"
I lift him up and squeeze tightly."How’re you doing, kid?"
As I set him down, he shrugs, "Okay, I guess.” He adds quietly, “Mom is in a mood."
Unfortunately Shelby walked in and heard. “What makes you think I'm in a mood?”
Jonny runs into his room.
What makes you think I’m in a mood? I’ve learned from reading up on it, what gaslighting is. Needed to. Didn’t know how insidious it is, because he and I were both in it for so long. Gaslighting puts the problem back on you. What makes you think I’m in a mood. Fucking tricky. Messes with your perception and makes you doubt your own instincts. You begin to think, Am I wrong? Is it me? That’s just an example of the game. I fell for it for years, because I didn’t know what it was. Now that I know, I can identify it. Not fall for it.
I don’t even know if she knows she’s doing it. But would it matter? Yeah, I guess so. It would make the gaslighting, the twisting of mine and Jonny’s perception, intentional, calculated and malicious.
Either way, it sucks.
I’m not interested in the game.
“Shelby, why don't you just accept that you were in enough of a mood to make him notice? Why can't you just let him have his fucking feelings?"
"Because he said I am something I’m not!”
"I'm looking at you and I can tell you're pissed off."
“You’re seeing things. Look, I’m smiling. We had a nice drive. I slept well. It’s you who makes me tense.” Gaslighting. She points to the painted wood lying on our coffee table atop a spread out newspaper. "What's this?"
“I said, let our son have his feelings.”
“Who said I wasn’t?”
“By your denying them, you said it!”
“He can have his feelings all he wants as long as they’re accurate.”
“Feelings don’t work like that. And I’m saying they were accurate!”
“What is this painting you’re making? I’ve never seen one of these before.”
“Not your business.”
With disdain, she stares, reading the two words over and over, now that it's complete. "Does this have something to do with me?"
Nothing I do has anything to do with you anymore, I want to say, but instead I grunt, "No." She keeps staring at it, which makes me angry. I’m proud of that painting, and it’ll mean something to the person it’s intended for. I’m irritated Shelby won’t take her eyes off of it, so I grumble, “Not everything has something to do with you."
She moves curls out of her eye to glare at me from half-profile. “Have any coffee?”
I walk to the kitchen, pour her a cup from the pot I just made for my second wind. “Take it with you when you go — now.”
“I was talking about it with my mother. I’ve decided I want the house."
I growl, “Not gonna happen."
