Part 6 (1/2)

”I'll talk with him,” John said. I could hear them upstairs, Sam's voice loud against John's calm reasoning.

”I'm not even hungry!” I heard Sam yell, and the door slammed. John came down soon after, his face a mixture of fury and frustration.

”I don't know what to do,” he said in defeat. ”If I'm easy on him, he walks all over me. But when I come down hard, he's impossible. There's no winning with him!” He helped Joey clear the table, looking at me as if I knew what to say. I didn't. Joey hadn't yet reached an age of rebellion, finding it easier to just go along with the flow rather than fight against it. I liked to think that it was because I had raised him a certain way or that he was just a mellower child, but I knew it was more probable he just hadn't hit the years of testing boundaries and exercising the ability to go against society.

”I'll give him a few moments, and then I'll try my hand with him,” I told him, cooling the urge to knock down his door and give him a piece of my mind in favor of being the anchor to John's mounting chagrin. John smiled at me in both apology and relief.

”I hate to have you do it. He's my kid, I should know how to handle him.”

”He's my stepson,” I told him. ”And this is our family.”

He raised his eyebrows at me, but didn't have to say anything for me to know what he was thinking.

When I had first moved in, I didn't even know what to say to Sam. I was terrified of the kid, sensing his anger over his parents' divorce and a.s.suming he was placing the bulk of the blame on me for how messed up his world had become. I was the stranger in the equation, I was the easy target.

But I didn't actually know how Sam felt. While the kid would move sideways when we all moved up and down, he never directed his disdain at me. He'd yell at his dad, slam doors, and leave his belongings all over the place. But when it came to me, my newness to his world caused him to tread with careful steps.

It didn't occur to me until later that, in actuality, I had-and should have-authority over him. In the newness of the order of command, I gave him way more leeway than a then-fourteen year old boy should have. As a result, we both ended up moving around each other in an awkward dance of never quite saying what we meant and of choosing words with care.

I regretted telling John I'd try to get through to him that evening. In the moment I felt like anything was possible. But as the closed door came into view I realized that I had no idea what I was doing. I'd never done this before, and just the act of knocking on his door felt daunting. I raised my hand in hesitation, holding it frozen in front of the door for a few moments as I rehea.r.s.ed what I was going to say.

You need to call if you're going to be late.

We thought you were dead when we couldn't reach you.

Do you have any idea how you're killing your father?

Why can't you just stop being difficult and start joining this family?

What the h.e.l.l is wrong with you?

”What's wrong with you?” Joey asked as he rounded the corner. I dropped my hand from the door, my face reddening as I realized how much weight I was putting into Sam's reaction. ”I don't get what the big deal is, Mom. He's being an a.s.shole. Just knock on the door.” And with that he banged on Sam's door and then slipped past me, closing the door of his own room before I could grab him.

”Joey!” I shouted in frustration, angry that I was now stuck. Sure enough, Sam opened his door and looked at me. His face changed in an instant from contempt to surprise, settling to his mask that hid anything he might be thinking.

”Yeah?” he asked.

”Can I come in?” I requested of him, all the demands I'd rehea.r.s.ed leaving through the open window of his room. He moved aside and allowed me to walk past him. I cleared a spot on his bed among the clothes and piles of books that took residence along with the tangle of sheets and blankets. I sat down at the same time he did in a chair across the room, and we both looked at each other in this foreign act of socializing. I realized that, despite my fear, I needed to act more like a parent and less like a scared stranger.

”Where have you been?” I demanded. And that's when I saw. His eyes were rimmed with red, the whites of his eyes an unnatural pink that contrasted with his tan skin and blue irises. ”Have you been smoking pot?” I asked him. He looked away in embarra.s.sment, but didn't answer. ”Seriously, Sam? You're fourteen years old! Why are you messing with drugs? What would your dad say?” I blurted out the last sentence without even thinking about it, giving away the fact that I didn't want to tell John. Sam relaxed when he realized this at the same time I did. He looked at me and shrugged. That's when I saw there was more to the story. While his eyes carried the giveaway-hue of rosiness, the reddened rims of his eyes were from something else. ”Have you been crying?” I asked, this time with concern.

”No,” he said, breaking his silence. But he swiped at his eyes to catch the small amount of moisture that still existed at the edges.

”What's going on?” I asked him.

”What do you mean?” he answered with his own question to evade the actual issue. I realized we were stuck back in the Sam game, going round and round instead of getting straight to the point. But I had my own theories about what was up. I decided that instead of trying to win an unbeatable game, I'd just run with what I figured was going on.

”Sam, I know you're upset about your mom being gone, and that I'm here instead of her. I promise you, I'm not here to take the place of your mom. But I know it's rough when you don't see her as much as you used to. And if you ever want to talk about it, I'm a great listener. But sweetie, the pot has to go.” He tensed up across the room. I could see him struggling with his demeanor, trying to challenge me while also tiptoeing through a respectful stance.

”It's not like pot is bad,” he argued with me in his fourteen-year-old logic. ”It's only considered bad because the government wants you to think that. And it isn't any worse than you drinking a gla.s.s of wine,” he countered.

”But it's illegal,” I said, my tone weak as I tried to wrap my mind around a sound argument against marijuana. ”I don't want it around you or Joey, and I definitely don't want it in this house.”

”But you have wine in the house, and you drink that around us,” he said with a smug air.

I was struggling in the moment, ill-prepared to give a talk on the war on drugs. If I had prepared I would have researched facts on the effects weed had on a young mind and the laziness it encourages at a time when he needed to be at his most ambitious. But all I could think of were the many times in my own youth when I had enjoyed getting high in the privacy of my bedroom before slipping on a pair of headphones and drowning in the music. The intense experience of having every note go straight through me as I sank into the bed I was laying on was a delicious feeling I never experienced any other way. And now in my thirties, I was neither dumb nor worse for having smoked out in my teens. But I had also grown past it; my last joint years ago with Joey's father in a life that felt like it belonged to someone else.

To argue against something I enjoyed in my own youth felt hypocritical. But more than that, I felt like I'd be a bad parent if I gave in, and worse if I condoned this. If Sam were my own son, I'd have a much clearer argument against drugs in his system, and I'd be confiscating the pot by now. I realized that even though he wasn't my son by blood, I still owed him the duty of being a parent to him. I needed to treat him as if he were my own son.

”Look, when you're out of this house and supporting yourself after eighteen, you are free to do what you want. But while in this house, you go by our rules. That includes not bringing drugs into our home. So hand it over.” I held out my hand and waited.

”What? No! I'm not giving it to you!” he said, his voice raising. I could hear John starting to ascend the steps.

”Look,” I whispered. ”I don't want to get your dad involved, but I will if I have to. Either hand it over or I'll have your dad come in here and get it from you.”

In that moment, we both knew I had won. But I couldn't help feeling like a tyrant when he groaned, stuffing the plastic bag of weed in my hand; I pocketed it just as John poked his head in the room.

”Everything okay?” he asked.

Sam looked at the floor, and nodded in silence. I looked at John and gave him a smile.

”Everything's fine,” I said. I realized that I hadn't even addressed his lateness for dinner, but decided we'd covered enough ground for one night. ”Sam understands that he needs to be a little better about letting us know where he's at if he's going to be out, and that he'll be home by six o'clock for dinner unless he tells us otherwise. Right, Sam?” I caught the faintest glimpse of a smile before he buried it in a blank stare at the floor and nodded in reluctant agreement. ”Great. Are you hungry? The food's totally cold, and it's a c.r.a.pshoot if there's enough left to make a full dinner plate. But there are a few leftovers if you want them.”

”Thanks. I'll come down soon,” he said.

Of course, I'd been wrong about what was bugging him. Sam smoothed his hand over another rock, ready to drop it into the water. On that day, he'd been rejected by the girl he liked. Worse, he'd seen the girl kissing one of his friends. It made him feel as if he were a loser, as if no one would ever think a pudgy kid like him could be cool. So he took off with a few other friends and smoked out. It wasn't his first time, as I had believed in the moment, but more like his third. He thought the weed would help him escape from the pain of rejection, but the pain only intensified as he sank under the weight of his own mind, grabbing onto the last thought he'd had before he went under to keep from falling too deep. That was the image of his friend and this girl. And it made him question the loyalty of the guys who now sat around him, his paranoia doing double time as they sat chattering and laughing while waiting for their turn with the joint. Soon he just slipped away, his absence unnoticed as he started walking home, letting the tears fall free as he felt friendless, weird, and ugly.

But when I had talked to him about his mom, it reminded him of another sadness he'd been stuffing deep down, and he added it to his list of faults and failures. In a strange sense, he was glad to add it to the pile of hurts. He was in a s.p.a.ce of mourning and wasn't ready to leave it. And while his dad made careful efforts not to mention the fact that his mom wasn't calling so much and never even fought for him to stay with her, I had been bold in my acknowledgment. He didn't even mind that I called him out on his possession of weed, appreciating that I cared enough to set boundaries, despite how he argued with me.

Sam picked up the rocks that lay at his feet, holding the final pebbles in the palm of his hand and closing his fist over them. He missed me, wondering if anyone else would ever see through his defenses again. He even missed Joey, the little brother he felt like he never got to know. He ached over his dad, seeing him slip even further into being an absent parent than he was before he met me, despite the fact that they lived in the same house. He missed his mom, the way she used to smooth his hair on his head before kissing the top of it, and the pancakes she used to make every Sat.u.r.day morning in celebration of another week successfully survived. He missed the mom she used to be before things got bad and she moved out, before she became too busy with life to care about a teenage boy who needed her to break through the barriers he put up.

And in one swift movement, he lifted his arm and flung the rest of the rocks out into the water with all of his force, hearing the satisfying sounds they made as they disturbed the smooth surface.

Except, not one of those rocks took away the pain he was carrying.

Eleven.

”I brought some oatmeal bread,” my sister said, standing on the other side of the apartment door facing John. ”I just made it last night and thought you and Sam might want a loaf. You look terrible, by the way.”

”Um, thanks,” John said, giving a small laugh before moving aside to let her in. ”How are Kevin and the kids?” he asked. He raced in front of her to grab the laundry that was starting to pile on the couch again and dump it into the laundry basket in the corner of the room. As he attempted to straighten up, Sara waved her hand to dismiss his efforts.

”Please don't worry about cleaning on my behalf. You've seen what the girls can do to my house in a matter of moments. I'm not afraid of a few clothes and papers lying around.” She placed the bread on the counter and surveyed the dishes that filled the sink. Rolling up her sleeves, she turned the water on over them and let the sink fill with sudsy hot water. John made no efforts to stop her. ”The family's doing fine. Kevin received a small promotion last month that gave us a little extra income in the household. But as a result, he's been working longer and longer hours at the office. The girls and I have been going at it alone much of the time, which isn't as fun as it sounds with two little kids.”

”Must be hard to have him gone so much,” John said, trying to sound sympathetic.

”It really is. I feel like a single mom! I don't know how Rachel did it for so many years.” She paused then, realizing how all this sounded. ”Oh G.o.d, John. I'm sorry. Here I am rambling on about being alone in the house, and...” She didn't know how to talk her way out, hesitating in the awkwardness that lay between them.