Chapter 9: A Thing to Lose

9
A Thing To Lose

I swagger into the kitchen.  Mom wears her fuzzy Star Treck pajama pants and pink T-shirt, her skinny arms stretched upward towards the mug cabinet, like a begging child.  This is the part where I help her, and she’ll mumble in her raspy morning voice, “Thank you, Sonny-Boy,” to which I’ll reply in my deeper voice, “Any time, Mother Dearest.”

So, proceeds our morning traditions.  I reach above the short expanse of her arms, opening the cabinet and pulling out a simple white mug, bringing it down to her level.
“Thank you, Sonny-Boy.”
“Any time, Mother Dearest.”
She gives me a squeeze, and I pat her on the tangled brown head in response. 

Mom didn’t give birth to me, and the contrast in our appearances makes that obvious.  Her features are soft, with a round face and small nose.  Her freckles so numerous, if you blur your eyes she could almost look brown.  A common comparison I’ve heard regarding my Mom and I is, “The fairy and the vampire.”  Now, I could be wrong, but I don’t think I’m the fairy.

“So,” Mom says as she begins to grind her coffee beans, “I found a costume!”

I peer my head into the fridge, “For…”

“Halloween!”

I hum, pulling the bread loaf from the top shelf.

“It’s like a Cyborg,” she continues, “Only sexier.  And it was half price at the thrift store.”

I hum again and shove the two pieces of bread into the mouth of the toaster.

“And,” she draws out her word, as though I should be curious to know what she has to say next, “I found a costume for you!”

“Wonderful.”

“My work is having a party.  You want to come?  Unless you’re going to that dance thing, but I figured you weren’t-”

I slap the two burnt slabs of toast on a napkin.  “Mom?”

“Yeah?”

“Is today Wednesday?”

“Unfortunately.  Why?”

I bite into the crispy edge of the toast.  It breaks like a cracker.  “Just making sure.” I mumble.
She leans her back against the counter, sipping her coffee and inspecting me above the rim of her mug.  She swallows. “Your eyes are bloodshot.”

I blink my burning eyelids.

“Did you sleep last night?”  She asks.

“I always sleep.”

“I can tell you lose a lot.”

I crumble the napkin in my fist, throwing it in the trash.  “I don’t lose anything.”