Chapter Seven

Mom and I lived in a modest townhouse as part of a community right outside of Solon. The houses were pretty much white, splashed with the faintest shade of gray, blue or grayish blue. Gun to my head, our shade was Gainsborough gray, but whenever Mom asked, I pretended not to know. If she ever found out I could discern colors for myself, she would probably stop doing my laundry.

The houses on our block were all packed closely together and we all shared one big field in lieu of separate backyards. When we had first moved in, everyone had put up these little fenced in gardens to have their own space, but ours was the only one remaining.

Since Mom had enough trouble keeping our umpteenth cactus alive, this surprised me until I saw how intensely she worked out in the garden. It made me realize it wasn't about gardening at all, at least not at first. She was hellbent on making a point. And she did. Her anger faded the first time she harvested her own vegetables, but she kept after it ever since.

Perhaps, life worked hand in hand with the fourth dimension, forcing us toward the experiences we were meant to have. I wondered if mine would ever lead me toward sucking face in that glorious fifth floor darkness.

I parked my car in the driveway behind Mom's since Faith had taken my spot in the garage. Saylor's big black truck wasn't there or in the driveway five houses down, so I figured there must've been a call-in at the gas station that kept him there late. Saylor and I were best friends at first sight, but it was his mother who had made it all happen.

She broke status quo by inviting Mom and I over for dinner one night and was actually the one who'd suggested she build her own garden 'to put those uptight wenches in their place'. Her name was Cynthia and I loved her so much that I called her Mom too, but I'll try my best not to make that confusing.

I walked inside my house through the garage door entrance because walking all the way around for the sake of using the front door was the type of civilized nonsense reserved for Mrs. Miller. She lived next door and Saylor bet me she'd keep doing it after her second hip replacement.

I took that bet thinking I could change her mind, but certain ladies were set in their ways. I caught her hiding money under her porch once because she didn't trust the banks. I thought about hiding it somewhere else to make her second guess her life choices, but I decided I hated banks more than racist old ladies.

The garage entrance led me into the kitchen, but from the door, one could see the entire ground level. We never owned much furniture because Mom was a minimalist and our house was always showroom spotless because she ran an annoyingly tight ship. I was allowed to keep my bedroom however I wanted though.

Mom was sitting on our maroon leather sofa in the living room when I came in. It was flanked by two end tables that were the same style, but different shades of brown. Mom was a sucker for a bargain. As I walked through the kitchen I pulled off my shirt, but Mom hadn't noticed me yet. She was watching some reality show with a zombie spin on it. Faith wasn't beside her, so she must've gone upstairs already.

"Mom, can you toss this in with yours?" I asked, handing her my shirt.

Martha had only given me three and I'd forgotten to put the others in the laundry last week, so I couldn't play the odds on them cleaning themselves. That was code for Mom coming into my room and gathering my laundry.

"Uh-uh, take 'em down yourself, niño," Mom said, somewhat aggrieved.

She waved her hand at me until I moved out of the way of the screen. I got a kick out of seeing her so engaged in the show. She used to be the super active type who always made me feel like sitting down to enjoy a show was committing a felony. That changed when she got stuck wearing a boot for awhile. The moment she got hooked on a few shows, her son shaming was wiped clean from her memory.

"Alright, I'll bring everything down and start it," I said, slowly reeling in the bait.

"Remember to turn them inside out before you put them in," Mom said. Her eyes hadn't left the screen.

"If I was going to turn them inside out, I'd just wear them again," I said, knowing she'd bite.

Mom used her legs to tuck in the reclined end of the sofa. Maybe I had gone too far. "Regal! You have to separate them. Towels, sheets, whites, lights, darks, jeans and press." She looked at her fingers to confirm she had come up with the right final tally. She had, as far as irrelevant numbers went.

"It's not the seventies anymore. Washers know what they're washing. Tech's come a long way," I said with a sly smirk, sadly without dimples. Mom was having none of it. She stood up and shook a finger at me. She muttered something in Spanish, as she often did whenever I got her riled up, then snatched the shirt away from me. "So, you're telling me we have self driving cars, we put man on the moon" —I stopped to make air quotations with a broad smile— "allegedly, but washers haven't changed since you were a kid... What? A hundred years ago?"

"No, now they just cost more," Mom said smugly. She plopped back down on the sofa and winced slightly as she came to rest. I felt bad, so I took my shirt back. A little over a month ago, she'd sprained her ankle rushing down the stairs. I'd seen everything from behind the kitchen islander. That was when I realized my stupid superpower was entirely random. Even if I was in the right place when something bad was about to happen, there was no guarantee an eye spasm would come in clutch with the save. Thinking about how people I loved could still get hurt right in front of my eyes was unsettling. I raged internally.

Leave it to the world's dumbest superpower, by a landslide, to one-up itself in stupidity. How could it possibly be dumb in a brand new way, a way only dumb, unreliable superpowers could be? Its randomness means it's doomed to fail during tragedy. Then, I'll be left wondering what could've gone differently. It'll be that 'overthrown super bowl winning touchdown pass' level of survivor's guilt, but while Clayton rubs the finger he would've worn his ring on, I'll be tearing my freaking eyeball out.

I sighed heavily and held my shirt by both ends, pulling it taut behind my neck as I headed upstairs. I figured I'd take it down later. I wasn't above throwing a few things in mid-cycle, even though it drove Mom nuts. The hallway upstairs led to four different rooms: a guest bedroom that Mom used for her side hustle—making Dia de los Muertos dolls, a half bathroom, Mom's room and then, mine at the end of the hall.

I wasn't an only child, but my two brothers were so much older I might as well have been. I'd be the last to leave the nest, but that was still years away. Part of the reason I had chosen a college so close to home was because I didn't want to leave Mom alone. Despite having her to myself, I was still jealous of them. They grew up with our father, and neither would tell me a damn thing about him, not more than I already knew. Like Mom, they decided I was better off not knowing.

Our rooms each had their own bathrooms which was probably Mom's favorite thing about the house. In less colorful words, she wasn't a fan of male toilet etiquette. Nor was I, but I had learned that from her. In my head, it gave me the perfect excuse for coming out. If she reacted poorly, I'd blame her for making me pee sitting down. I wouldn't actually, but honestly, Mom seemed way too religious to come out to.