Rewrite the Stars by Christina Consolino (classic fiction TXT) 📗

receiver, sweat beaded on my palms and my fingers shook, remnants of both my argument with Theo and the effect Andrew seemed to have on me. I barely remembered being so discombobulated about Theo when I was younger. Had I been?

“Good morning, Sadie Rollins speaking.”

“Hi Sadie. It’s Mom.”

Oh shit. Not a week went by I didn’t phone my mother, who lived one town over. Except for yesterday. Shocked she hadn’t already called to find out why I hadn’t spoken to her, I resigned myself to an early conversation with her instead of Andrew.

“Oh hi, Mom.” I fell into my chair, already exhausted by my morning.

“Don’t ‘Oh hi, Mom’, me, Sadie Rollins, or Lancaster, or Rollins-Lancaster, whatever you go by now. How are you? How are the kids? I didn’t hear from you yesterday. I thought something had happened to you.” Mom always asked how the kids were doing. The conversation concerning the kids and their little lives could take at least fifteen minutes. And she always jumped to dire conclusions. Why would she think something had happened to me, a healthy woman in her late thirties? Would she ask about Theo? If anything critical were going to happen, wouldn’t it most likely occur to him?

“Everyone’s good, Mom. Charlie has a project, and the outline for it is due sometime soon...this week...and he seems to be handling it all himself. And Delia starts ballet on Tuesday night. She has her tutu hanging up on her bedpost and her slippers ready to go. Lexie is with the babysitter during the day, which of course, is a dream for both.” I tapped my fingers against the edge of the desk. How to tell my mother I had a mountain of work to do and needed to end the call?

“Well good. Say, should Charlie be handling that project by himself? Does he need help? Did you ask him if he wanted help?”

The vein at the top of my forehead started to thump, and I pressed my left index finger against it. “Mom, he’s set up in the dining room, and I told him to ask for help if he needs it. I can’t be a helicopter parent. Charlie wants to do it himself, so I’m going to let him. There’s only so much I can handle.” The conversation needed to finish, before I allowed my mother to ruin my day.

“All right. I guess I should trust you.” Yes, you should. No reply from me meant she continued. “Well about that weather? We’ve been having a lot of rain, right? So much rain the weeds are almost as tall as the sunflowers. I should try to get out there and do that weeding, but I have so much to do inside. Never ends, does it?”

Those same words had filled my ears for years. “All right now, well, I need to get going, Mom. I got in a bit late because Theo—”

“Oh. Well when are you and the kids coming over?”

Was Mom crazy? Did she not hear me when I said the name Theo, or did she simply choose to ignore the mention of his name? Could she dance any more around the subject of someone who used to own my soul? She avoided Theo because she didn’t want to see how he was doing, because she couldn’t stand I might need a little help from her. Because if she knew we needed extra hands around the house from time to time, then she might be morally obligated to head over once a week, and Mom didn’t want to do that. Mom didn’t ask me how Theo was doing because if she didn’t have the details then she wouldn’t, no couldn’t, accrue guilt. It was always about her, when really, this time it wasn’t, and it hadn’t been for a long time.

My thumb clicked the END button on the phone, and for the first time in my life, I hung up on my mother. Crossing my arms over my chest, I leaned back in my chair and smiled.

 

.    .    .    .    .

The first day we realized Theo needed help was one of those frigid December mornings that unexpectedly energizes the world. I’d risen to go for a pre-dawn run, before the bustle of day care and work began. Tiptoeing out of the still-sleeping house, I ran the two blocks to Brighton Avenue and reveled in the dots of ice and snow hanging hazy under the streetlamps. The road was empty, save for a few cars, and the crunch of my footsteps on the pavement rang out as the miles added up. My lungs ached from the frosty air and my nose grew numb, but when I meandered back to the driveway, a sense of vigor permeated my being, and I was ready to begin my day.

So as not to wake my still-slumbering house, I slipped my key into the lock and then tiptoed to the kitchen, listening for signs of life; the only sounds were the purr of the ancient refrigerator and the whisper of the furnace. A creak on the staircase alerted me someone had interrupted the near silence. There in the foyer stood a sleep-rumpled Theo, his eyes expanded by an emotion that looked like concern.

“I can’t do it,” he said, his posture a sign of defeat.

Words refused to form as confusion filled me. “Do what?” I asked as I began to peel off the multiple layers of winter running garb.

“I can’t do it.” Theo stood rooted in his spot, although his body seemed to sag more with every word he spoke. He’d been moody lately, volatile almost, but I’d been so busy I hadn’t taken the time to find out what the problem was.

“Honey.” I moved toward him and gripped his shoulders, which caused Theo to flinch under my touch. “Are you actually awake?” Theo had been known to sleepwalk and talk before. The last time he’d done it he’d ambled right out the front door and all the way to the