Dillon didn’t remember, she could tell. When she turned off the lights and lit the candles on her cake, their tiny flames failed to illuminate any surprise on his face. He probably didn’t show it anyway, though. He rarely did.
He was fifteen. She’d remembered her parents’ birthdays at fifteen.
They ate silently, a common occurrence. The cake was too sweet, yellow with chocolate frosting that overpowered every bite, dominating and steering her taste buds every which way. After twenty minutes, she still hadn’t finished her piece. Lifting the fork felt tedious and eating a dessert wasteful. She could feel some sort of tension looming over them, right where the celebratory atmosphere should have been.
Once, in a cookbook, she’d read that “desserts” is “stressed” spelled backwards. At the time, it had seemed an inspirational message.
“You haven’t even touched your food,” she said. “Are you feeling alright?”
“Fine.”
“Well, there’s plenty left. You can have as much as you want.”
“Ok.”
She hesitated. “Is, um, is everything okay?” she asked.
“What?” Dillon said. She thought he looked offended.
“Nothing. Nothing, never mind.”
That Friday, she took him to a diner in the country. The car’s tires growled on the gray gravel parking lot as the neon sign hissed and crackled, brightening while the sky darkened. She punched the car into reverse to enter a spot and the wheels spun, frighteningly immobile. It only lasted a short minute, a long moment. She turned and smiled at him, but he just stared out the window. Teenagers, she thought, as her smile faltered.
***
Their doors opened and closed together. They walked through the lot in perfect stride, wiped their feet on the welcome mat as one unit.
Perched at the bar, she asked, “How was school?”
“Fine.”
“Your vocabulary’s certainly improved,” she replied, teasing him, but he didn’t respond. She decided not to belabor him, instead taking a slow sip of her water and glancing around the restaurant, as if to be sure no one was listening.
“Did anything interesting happen today?” she said after a while.
“No.”
He cradled his glass, sucking at the straw like an infant.
“How’s . . .” she cast around for a name, “Pierce?”
“Fine.”
“Do you still hang out much?”
“Some.”
She drank more water. One of the ice cubes slipped through her lips, and she rolled it around with her tongue for a few minutes. It soon became too cold, and she bit into it, chewing painfully.
When the bartender finally walked over, she’d finished her glass.
“How’re you folks doing tonight?” he asked.
“Hi,” she said.
She ordered trout and a salad, Dillon chicken fingers and potato chips. Through the meal, they stared straight ahead, eyes appearing to be covered by a thin film. The two of them looked colorless and toad-like. Dillon crunched the chips loudly, holding them suspended by his tongue for a minute before their demolition.
She reached for the salt. Her fish was too bland.
The next day, the doorbell rang. Behind the window, she saw Henry, a large man somewhere in his mid-thirties, his hands held respectfully behind his back.
***
“Hi, Henry. We don’t need anything today,” she told him.
Henry worked for Schuler’s Frozen Food Delivery Service. Every Saturday, at exactly twelve o’clock, he brought a new selection of frozen dishes to their home for them to take at their leisure. It probably should’ve been some sort of sign to her that he was a little late. He chuckled.
“Actually, that’s not why I’m here today. I quit Schuler’s. I got an offer at that graphic design company I told you about.”
“Oh, congratulations. It was sweet of you to tell us that you wouldn’t be coming by. Usually they just switch, without even letting us know.” Schuler’s had a new driver almost every month. After the first few times, she’d hardly even noticed.
“Well, that’s not really why I’m here either. I wanted to know if you’d like to go out tonight. Just to a little restaurant, nothing too fancy.”
“What?” she asked, caught off-guard. Henry beamed confidently at her.
“C’mon. It’ll be fun.”
“I– well– sure. I’d be happy to.”
She rubbed her sweaty palms on her jeans. She felt like she’d been the one doing the asking.
That night, Henry picked her up at sometime around seven. She was surprised to see him in a car instead of the big tan Schuler’s truck. The night radiated warmth and comfort, and Henry wouldn’t stop beaming at her. They went to a little restaurant, nothing too fancy.
***
Henry led the conversation, talking about his passions: art, sports, and driving. She didn’t care much for sports, but he made them interesting.
When she talked, it was about Dillon.
After a couple months, Henry visited for the first time. She’d been trying to keep him and Dillon separated.
***
“Henry’s coming over tonight,” she said.
Dillon shrugged.
“He’s really excited to get to know you a little better,” she said.
He half-nodded.
“I think you two’ll get along really great,” she muttered.
At sometime around seven, the doorbell rang. Henry stood with his hands folded behind his back. He wore a tan sweater, the color of a Schuler’s uniform. The wind pushed in the door as she opened it, whipping around her arms and legs and rushing against her eyes until they dried out uncomfortably.
Henry looked just as he had a couple months ago, so she said, “Remember?”
“Of course,” he grinned, and they entered the kitchen.
At the table, Henry sat across from Dillon, she on a third side between them. Silverware squeaked and clinked on their plates. Pork chops and asparagus. The silence struck her as light and amiable. Nobody spoke because nobody had to.
After his plate was clean, Henry added some weight.
“That was really great, hon. Don’t you think?” The question was directed at Dillon.
“Uh-huh.”
Henry smiled toothily. To her, it seemed intimidating. “She’s a wonderful cook, your mother,” he said.
Dillon blinked.
“Don’t you think?” Henry repeated.
“Uh-huh,” Dillon said dully.
“Do you have any plans for this weekend?”
“No.”
“Right. Well, if you wanted to go to laser-tag, or maybe even paintballing, I’d be happy to take you.”
“No, thanks.”
“I’d be happy to see what you’re into, then. What do you like to do?”
Dillon ignored him, poking at his food.
Henry looked exasperated, so she jumped in. “Dessert, anyone?” she said.
She and Henry reclined on the couch later that evening, after Dillon had gone to bed. The television called out with blaring sound effects and flashing, distracting lights over the barren brick fireplace, an unused black stain on the wall. They twisted around in each other’s arms, trying to support their weight against the small cushions as best they could. Henry’s stubble scraped roughly against her cheek.
***
“Don’t be too upset with him,” she suddenly said.
“Upset?”
“I know he can be a little off-putting at first. But he’s just a teenager. He’s a very sweet guy, it just takes him some time to warm up to people.”
“I’m not upset.”
She shifted against him and the couch creaked. The television program changed and the room turned a different color. She heard Henry breathing, in and out, in and out, in and out.
“You should be more assertive with him, though,” Henry said.
“Hm?”
“Like you need to push him a little more.”
“Why?”
“Because what if it isn’t that he’s ‘just a teenager?’”
“What do you mean?”
“He hardly touched his food at all.”
“He’s never had much of an appetite. And besides, he’s a small guy,” she answered.
“A growing guy. And he didn’t seem to be interested in much either.”
“So?”
Henry swung his legs off the couch and disturbed her. He gazed at the wall next to the screen.
“Those are both symptoms of depression, you know.”
“No. Trust me, I’ve thought about it. He’s just going through a phase.”
“So you’re going to dismiss it, just like that?”
“I know him,” she said, not nearly as confident as she sounded.
Henry paused. “Well. Keep an eye on him at least, okay?” he said.
“What do you mean?”
“Life can seem pretty tough to kids sometimes, that’s all.”
“He’s fine,” she assured them.
The morning brought sugary breakfast, crisp newspapers, hot coffee, and another staring contest.
***
“How’d you sleep?” she asked.
“Fine.”
“When’d you get to bed? When I went up, your light was still on.”
“I dunno. Late, I guess.”
He left for the bus stop. Before driving to work, she called the doctor.
“He doesn’t eat or sleep much,” she said.
“Don’t let him near any sharp objects,” the doctor said.
A few days later, Dillon came home upset. He’d had a bad day at school, he told her, and he needed to talk about it. But in the middle of his sentence, the doorbell echoed through the house, sounding hollow and empty. It was Henry. It was sometime around seven.
***
“I have to go,” she said. “Can you tell me about it when I get back?”
“Uh-huh,” Dillon said quietly.
At the restaurant, time moved in slow motion. The atmosphere weighed down on her, muffling Henry’s voice and the crowd’s chatter. Her watch ticked harshly, each second lasting a year. She aged to forty-four, forty-five, fifty, a hundred.
She tried to drink some water, but her throat constricted against it.
Henry paid and brought her back to his car. They stood in the chilled parking lot. She shivered.
“Let’s go back to my place,” Henry said.
Her mind rushed to the house. Scissors, knives, gardening tools.
Sweat pooled in her armpits, freezing to her touch.
“No. No, I have to get home. I’m sorry.”
Henry nodded lethargically, letting time speed up while he wasted it. She could feel her paleness. She wanted to throw up.
The whole ride home, the car’s wheels turned as if they were stuck in mud. They hit every red light.
She tried to shut out Henry’s incessant yammering, to control her shaking.
After dropping her off, Henry sped away, immediately thrice as fast as when he was with her. She fumbled with her keys, unable to find the right one. Once she did, she left the door hanging wide open.
She dashed through the first floor, eyes locking onto carving knives by the refrigerator, the pristine white tiling of the kitchen, the counters blocking her way. Her ears locked onto a terrible, empty silence.
She took the stairs two at a time.
His door was closed. She rattled the handle, but it chided her, locked. Dancing back and forth in the hallway, her mind jumping with her feet, she knocked on the door.
“Dillon? Dillon, honey, open up!”
There was no answer. The usual apathetic quiet was replaced with a screaming, debilitating one. She knocked harder. She hit. She pounded. She yelled.
“Open the door, Dillon! Please, God, open the door!”
Pound. Pound. Pound.
She threw herself into it.
And then, it opened.
“Mom? Mom, you woke me up. What’re you doing?”
She pulled him in tight so he wouldn’t see her tears.
They skipped his doctor’s appointment. Instead, they went back to the diner. She ordered the fish, he the chicken fingers.
***
For a while, they sat in silence, neither of them attempting to force conversation. She noticed Dillon eyeing her, maybe worried about another outburst. She thought he must know what she’d been worried about.
Then, he surprised her. “How– um, how’s your fish?” he asked.
She turned and stared at him, trying not to betray her incredulity.
“The, uh, chicken fingers are . . . okay,” he said.
She opened her mouth, closed it, then opened it again. “Oh. That’s good. I–” she stopped. “The fish is delicious. Thank you.”
He smiled.
On the way out, he said, “Mom. You don’t need to worry about me so much.”
Henry stopped by unexpected that night, around seven-ish.
***
“Hey. You okay?” he said.
Her eyebrows furrowed. “Yeah, I’m fine. Why?”
“I don’t– you seemed kind of upset last night. I shouldn’t have driven away like that, so I just wanted to make sure you were alright.”
She nodded slowly, confused. It struck her that he looked uncomfortable, something she’d rarely seen from him. “I– thanks, I guess. Look, Henry, I’m a little tired, I think I’m just going to take a night to myself.”
“Of course, definitely. Um. Is, uh, is Dillon around, by any chance?”
“What?”
“Is Dillon here? I thought I might talk to him for a few minutes.” Henry smiled, not quite winningly.
“Why?” She felt surprisingly suspicious.
Henry’s face pushed together, scrunching into an incredulous, frustrated position. “Why?” he repeated, suddenly unable to understand her. She decided not to respond. He shook his head and let out an aggravated sigh that wafted toward her, hanging still in the air.
He pulled a couple of pages of paper from his pocket. “Um, this might sound stupid, but I was hoping to talk to him a little more to see if this depression thing was really worth worrying about. It was on my mind, that’s all, so I went on WebMD and checked it out. I figured I’d be able to tell better if I actually conversed with him some.”
“What?” she replied furiously. Henry tried to take a step back, but the door blocked him.
“Wha–” he started, but she wasn’t about to let him finish.
“No, Henry we already discussed this, and I said it wasn’t a problem! I can’t believe you wouldn’t trust me about this, I mean, you hardly know him at all! I’m his mother, if there was something wrong, I’d know–”
“Are you sure?” he cut in. As she opened her mouth to respond, he continued, “All I’m saying is, you didn’t sound that confident last time we talked about this.”
“Henry, please, don’t insult me like this.”
“Insult you? I’m trying to help your son, and you’re turning this into a way bigger deal than it should be! And what if you’re wrong?”
“I’m not. I appreciate your concern, I really do, but he’s my son. I know him.”
“Five minutes,” Henry told her, and started moving through the hall toward the stairs. She stared after him, repeating his earlier incredulous expression.
“Henry.” He kept going, clearly pretending not to hear her. “Henry.”
He spun around. “What?” His voice avoided any inflection.
“Maybe you should just go for a little while.”
She watched his lip slide under his teeth for a moment, and she thought he might ignore her. He stood for a second. Then he paced deliberately past her to the door. Before he opened it, they shared a glance, and his face didn’t fail to betray his disappointment.
Once he’d left, his feet crunching across the cold grass, she said, “I’ll call you sometime,” but she couldn’t tell if she was lying or not.
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