Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 90098 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 450(@200wpm)___ 360(@250wpm)___ 300(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90098 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 450(@200wpm)___ 360(@250wpm)___ 300(@300wpm)
He nodded and stepped back, and he adjusted his glasses. “I decided to sleep in after I went to bed at 4:17.”
My brows lifted. “Let me guess. You found a whole new library of videos to watch.”
He laughed and nodded again. “You know me!”
I sure did. Wars could start and end right outside on the street, and he wouldn’t notice if he’d found the perfect videos of tropical waters rolling in over a pristine beach.
Alvin was a 5’4” mini-me in appearance, but that was where the similarities ended, and I wasn’t just talking about his diagnoses. His entire world existed on the internet, and he had three obsessions. Fish, ocean videos, and bath bombs. Everything could be traced back to his love of water, whether it was the creatures that lived in the ocean, how it moved, looked, or how it reacted to certain chemicals and components.
Speaking of bath bombs.
I dug through the bag from Caputo’s and held up a box of baking soda. He instantly gasped and grabbed it, but I wasn’t done. I’d found purple food coloring for him too.
“That’s the second-best brand. Thank you, Dad!”
“You’re welcome.” I smiled to myself as he ran off, rambling about how he was gonna make a new video for his followers.
My son had followers. Followers who enjoyed watching someone take apart bath bombs in water.
I didn’t understand it, but as long as he was happy.
“Are you gonna hide out in the hallway all day, sweetie?” Ma called.
I shrugged out of my coat. “You want me to get snow on the carpet?”
After removing my boots and hanging up my coat and beanie, I left the hallway with the groceries and spotted Ma on the couch in the front room. Wasn’t a whole lot else she could do here but watch TV and knit. It was a 500-square-foot one-bedroom apartment, and she’d given Alvin that bedroom. He’d built a shrine to his water-related hobbies, and Ma had her shrine to cats out here. Paintings and cross-stitch art of cats cluttered the walls, and knickknacks filled the entertainment unit.
I dipped down and kissed her cheek. “How are you, Ma?”
“Eh, same old, but I can’t complain.” She eyed the grocery bag and put away her knitting shit. “You’re early today. Is everything okay?”
“Yeah, I took the day off.” I moved to the other end of the room, where the kitchenette took over. “Fuckin’ car broke down last night, so I had to get it towed.”
At one point, I’d hated lying to her. I’d felt like shit every time.
Now it was my normal.
“Oh no, what happened? Where is it now? How are you gonna get to work?” As expected, Ma went straight to worry. And at the age of eighty, she was like most old people. They couldn’t let shit go.
“It’s gonna be fine, Ma,” I assured her, unloading the groceries on the counter. “It’ll take me a while to fix it up, but Garrett had space in his garage. Relax.”
Give me a few months, and then I’d say the car was a piece of shit and that I’d buy a better one soon.
When it came to my mother, everything was about cushioning the blow. No, I wasn’t unemployed—I was taking the day off, they were cutting my hours a little, I was starting another project soon, they had to let me go but referred me to a better place. It was all good. Same with my living situation. When shit got really bad, I stayed here for a week or so, and then a new place magically turned up, at least to her knowledge. Right now, she thought I was staying with Garrett, a friend from high school, while I waited for my move-in date to a garden unit close to a job I didn’t have.
I could handle her fretting about flooding and rodents. What I couldn’t take—and what her blood pressure couldn’t take—was me in a shelter or out on the streets.
“Did you take your insulin?” I asked and opened the fridge. I grabbed the creamer, then two mugs from a cupboard.
“Yes, yes, Alvin reminds me every morning,” she said. I could tell by the look on her face that she was still stuck on the car problem. “How are you gonna get to work?”
I gave her a pointed look.
That made her jut her chin, all stubborn. “I don’t like you taking the train, Ben. Catherine has shared so many horror stories—muggings, assault, some people p…” She dropped her voice to a whisper. “Some pee.”
I chuckled. She could be too funny.
Train cars that reeked of piss, shit, and bleach were the least of my concerns.
“Go sit down, Ma. You got nothing to worry about.” I poured us coffee and figured it was best to change the topic. “You think you can make a stew of what I bought?”