Brandon was not up and at ‘em quite as early as usual that Saturday morning. He had been exhausted by the time he got home the night before, but it had taken him forever to fall asleep. There was just no way he could unsee what he had witnessed the night before. He finally dragged himself out of bed around ten o’clock, took a quick shower, and made his way to the kitchen hoping his mom had made some coffee. He was surprised to find there was actually some left in the pot, and she was sitting at the kitchen table herself. Usually, she’d get up, make some coffee, and stagger back to bed. He knew something must be up the second he walked in the room, but he decided to act nonchalant and let her bring it up in her own time.
“Mornin’ Mom,” he said over his shoulder as he grabbed a mug and filled it up with the steamy black liquid. It was still hot, but it was stale, as if she had made it a few hours ago, and he considered pouring it out and starting over, except he knew how she felt about wasting anything.
Amanda sat at the small, round kitchen table, a newspaper in front of her along with a small saucer containing a half-eaten piece of burnt toast. “What time did you get in last night?” she asked in lieu of a greeting.
That didn’t take long, he thought. Though he had intended to go back to his room, Brandon took the rare opportunity to actually speak to his mother and crossed over to the table, pulling out a chair to join her. He was certain there was only one way this conversation would end, but at least she was coherent and willing to speak. “I’m not sure,” he lied. “I think it was around one. We stopped by Ralphio’s after the game and then just hung out and talked.”
Bullshit artist that he was, she as not buying it; she knew him too well. “Ralphio’s closes at eleven,” she reminded him.
Her eyes were slightly glazed, bloodshot, puffy. She looked exhausted. Her hands were shaking a bit. “Why are you up?” he asked, more concerned than just trying to change the subject. “You should go back to bed.”
“I’m fine,” she said sharply. “Where did you go last night, Brandon?”
“Nowhere, Mom,” he said, shrugging. “I told you. I was just hanging out with some friends. Are you done with this?” he asked, taking her plate without waiting for her to answer. He took it over to the trashcan, and opening the lid, he saw exactly what he expected to see; two empty glass bottles. He dropped the toast in and tossed the plate in the sink.
“Brandon, I got a call from Chet’s mom this morning wanting to know when I started letting you date college girls,” she said, spinning around in her chair to face him, pulling her terrycloth robe shut over her nightgown as she did so. “What the hell was she talking about?”
Despite her tone, it was all he could do to keep from laughing. He crossed back to the table but didn’t sit down this time, choosing to lean on the back of his chair instead. “Nothing, Mom,” he assured her. “She’s not in college. Chet’s an idiot. And she’s not my girlfriend. It was just this girl from the other town I met at another game, and we were just messing with him. It’s funny that he fell for it though.”
She was not amused. “Brandon Michael,” she began, “if you get some girl pregnant and ruin your life the way…”
“The way what, Mom? The way I ruined your life?” he asked finally beginning to lose his cool a little bit.
“That’s not what I was going to say,” she said, her teeth clenched.
“Oh, sure it is, Mom. That’s exactly what you were going to say. Everything was just fine until I came along. I know, Mom. I get it.”
“Damn it, Brandon,” she exclaimed, pounding her fist on the table. “You are so ungrateful! I gave up everything for you! Everything! I was going to go to medical school. I was going to be a doctor. And your father….”
“Didn’t even know I existed!”
She flew out of her chair, swaying unsteadily. “He abandoned his other children, Brandon! He would have done the same to you!”
He stepped back, trying his best not to get into a physical altercation with her, not today. He wasn’t sure he could put up with it again, not right now, and the last thing he wanted to do was inadvertently hurt her. “Mom, I don’t want to argue with you, okay?”
Amanda didn’t back down. She stepped toward him. “You ungrateful little son of a bitch,” she snarled, her hand flying back.
“Mom, stop,” he warned her. “I’m not in any mood to take that from you today.”
She brought her hand around, which he easily caught before she made contact with his face. The surprise at his counteraction threw her off balance, and he grabbed her shoulder to steady her. “Mom, I mean it, stop,” he said as she jerked away from him.
“Don’t touch me!” she screamed. “I’m your mother! How dare you put your hands on me!”
“I’m not trying to hurt you, Mom, but I’m not going to be your punching bag anymore!” Brandon insisted, letting go and stepping back.
She came at him swinging with both arms this time. She was clearly hung-over and exhausted, and while it had been her fists that hurt the most at times in the past, it was the trail of obscenities and names she delivered with each blow that stung the most now. After a few moments, she wore herself out, and he was able to corral her swinging arms as she collapsed in a fit of tears, mumbling, “You unappreciative bastard.”
“Let’s get you back to bed,” he said quietly, steering her in the direction of her room.
Swinging at him one more time, she complied and staggered into her bedroom, tossing herself onto her bed, still mumbling about how she had given up everything to raise him.
The tears in his eyes had nothing to do with the pain in his arms as he tossed a blanket over her and walked quietly to the door. He paused for a moment to look at her. The muttering had stopped, and she was beginning to snore. With a deep sigh, he said, “Goodbye, Mom,” and stepped out into the hallway, closing the door behind him.