The Good Son by Carolyn Mills (free e reader txt) 📗

all by myself for a few hours every night.

“I wish I didn’t have to leave you on your own,” she said. “But you don’t mind, do you?”

During the summer, when it was still light out by the time she got home, I actually didn’t mind. I liked being alone. But as summer faded into fall, and as the daylight hours leached away, I began dreading those hours alone in the dark. Every little sound sent my heart racing. I began turning on all the lights in the house, which drove Mom nuts, and probably made her feel guilty because she knew why I was doing it.

“Why don’t you leave the TV on?” she suggested once. “For company.”

I tried to play the advantage. “I’d rather get a dog.”

“We’re not getting a dog.”

“But —”

“Zoe, we’re not getting one. Period. They’re too much work and too much money.”

I backed down. I was always backing down, being agreeable, keeping the peace. Pretending to be such a good girl.

AS CHRISTMAS APPROACHED, MOM COULDN’T stop going on about how nice it was going to be having everyone together again. Ricky had to work on Christmas Eve, but he would be joining us on Christmas Day for our traditional turkey dinner and afterwards, he was staying overnight for the first time since he’d moved out.

Mom had been fussing all morning over the table setting and the little Christmassy touches she’d added to every room in the house. She adjusted the bowls of candy in the living room at least three times in the twenty minutes before we were expecting Ricky to arrive. I was also antsy. Partly about seeing Ricky and partly because I didn’t want Mom to get all worked up and have one of her heart things.

When Ricky finally pulled up, revving the engine of the used Mustang he’d bought, I joined Mom by the front door. We stood there, both of us, waiting for him like he was a celebrity.

I expected him to head straight to his old room, to drop off his bag, but he simply dumped it in the hall and that was more disappointing to me than the way Mom kept fawning over him. I wanted him to see what I’d done to his room. How I’d taken over his space. After dinner, while I stayed in the kitchen to clean up, Ricky retreated to the living room, where he slumped on the couch to watch TV.

“Why don’t you put your stuff in your room?” I called out to him.

He grunted.

“Leave him be,” Mom said. “He’s tired. Just let him relax.”

I stared at her, incredulous. Leave him be? What had he ever done to deserve such special treatment? I was the one scraping plates and putting away the leftover potatoes and gravy and cranberry sauce. I was the one who got up every morning to get myself ready for school and then spent the whole day listening and trying to be good, completing my homework, making sure Mom never had to worry about anything. I was the one who stayed home alone in the dark, night after night, fighting off panic attacks because I wasn’t allowed to get a dog.

Mom shook out the red and green checkered tablecloth, then folded it into a neat square, before tucking it into a drawer. She went to join Ricky in the living room while I got out the broom to sweep. When I was done sweeping, I began scraping the sides of the roasting pan that Mom had left in the sink to soak. I stayed in the kitchen nursing my resentment for as long as possible.

I could hear Mom and Ricky chatting. He was explaining the commission structure at the store and how busy it was leading up to Christmas.

“People come in sort of desperate for a last-minute gift and they just want you to tell them what to buy. It’s crazy.”

“And do you give them good ideas?” Mom pressed.

“I give them expensive ideas.” Ricky laughed. “I have a good sense of what kinds of things people will like. Especially if it’s for a kid; I know what the kids like.”

Listening to him talk like that made me sick. Mom was all aglow, though, leaning toward him, soaking up every word.

WE EXCHANGED GIFTS WHILE LISTENING to Bing Crosby’s White Christmas record. Mom put it on every year when it was time for presents. I sat on the floor, close to the glimmering artificial tree, and when I unwrapped a silver Sony Walkman, I couldn’t help but think Ricky was right. He did know what people would like. I popped open the cassette player, then clicked it shut.

“Thank you!” I said, and Ricky gave a little nod. I was already planning what tapes I wanted to listen to first. I was big into New Kids on the Block and Milli Vanilli at the time.

My present for Ricky wasn’t nearly as exciting as a Walkman. I’d picked out a pair of warm leather gloves from the Sears catalogue and Mom had paid for them. He tried them on and held out his hands. “Cool,” he said.

Mom opened her gifts last. I was proud of what I got her. We’d gone to a craft sale at my school in November and at one of the tables I’d found a ceramic jewelry tree. The woman selling it told me you could hang necklaces, bracelets, and even rings on the many branches. “It keeps the chains from getting tangled,” she said. “Plus you can see what you have which makes it easier to pick what to wear.”

As Mom unwrapped the final layer of newspaper protecting the tree, I held my breath. She tilted her head to the side and slowly smiled. “Ah, lovely,” she said.

“It’s for your jewelry,” I told her.

“Yes, thank you, Zoe.”

When she opened Ricky’s gift, her eyebrows shot up. “Oh, Ricky,” she breathed. “It’s lovely!” Carefully, as if it was a tiny new-born baby, she lifted a porcelain figurine of a woman in a blue