Chapter 02 The Evil-Eye Quirk
New house rules: stay out of the way, be seen when allowed, be as quiet as possible, no talking to anyone outside of the house, no talking or laughing too loud, no complaining, bedtime at eight sharp; and finally, most importantly, no going outside. Behave, or Mama would yell. Yelling came with hitting. Hitting always came with a bottle and crying at night—Shota always heard his mother's tears, as insomniac habit grew on him. Then, hours—or days—of silence. It would have been simpler to tell a five-year-old not to exist. Or pretend not to. A never-ending game of hide-and-seek. He would be good at that… Boringly good, but good. He would be patient, but torturously patient, until Mama found him. He would be hungry, go to sleep…and when he woke, Mama would forget about the game, and say things like Where were you and Didn't I say to stay put. Or his least favorite: I can't do this right now. Game over. He wasn't good these days. He was just bad…or in the way, or…
Thinking too much about it always made him cry.
It was all because of this drink. That sauce, as Granddad had called it. That sauce stole his mother away, perhaps to another, smaller, simpler place within its dark red glass space. But how, Shota had wondered when he really, really studied it—how could anyone be happy in such a dark place, sauce or not? He peeked in it, wondering what was inside. All he got was a splash of burning, stale sauce in the face. Mama didn't even budge to the sound of his shocked crying.
Shota had tried some of his mother's bottle-drink as she slept, wondering what about it caused her to keep running back. It savored rancid and stung his nose until he cough-vomited it all out in the backyard. Clorox would have tasted better.
But now, all he did was sit there in front of the TV while Mama blankly stared at the wall over his head. Noticing a shift in the silence between them, Shota craned his neck to look at her. He wanted to call her, but knew she wouldn't hear him. He had much too quiet a voice. So, he crawled away from the swollen cereal in a milky marsh of a bowl and into her lap, facing her. He gently took a hold of a lock of Mama's wavy hair, which they matched. In his tiny fist, the lock was frayed where loose curls usually swirled into waves. Like the rest of her, her hair had been vanquished to a frizzing straight. "Mama?"
Nothing. Mama gave a deep inhale and hardly an exhale. She reeked of old deodorant and the sauce.
Shota knew he couldn't carry his mother to the bathtub, and that he shouldn't take clothes off of girls. Instead, he gently climbed off his mother's knee, clinging to the fabric of her sweatpants, and padded to the bathroom carefully. Cold wooden panels on shy, pink feet made no sound in the irked calm of the house—he listened to his own noise well these days and memorized where each creak in the wood waited. But he never creaked twice. He saw such tile, each quiet-and-loud as colors—a safe, open white guiding him in quiet, a cautious turquoise that caught him just before a horrible mistake, and an oozing yellow like clotting where loud was. In the bathroom, he grabbed a brush. In the cabinet where the medicines were, he grabbed honey-scented lotion for hair. Finally, a spray bottle—Mama always had to drench his hair (and him) before doing it for school.
He maneuvered back to his mother on the couch and climbed back into her lap. At a certain pull of her thigh muscle under his weight, Mama groaned, "Shota, your knee's jamming me."
Shota perked up at her voice—finally! "D-d… Do you want a bath?" Silence.
Stupid silence.
Shota waited patiently for her to speak, stared at her until she did. But she didn't. After long moments of quiet desperation and internal cursing and shouting at her, Shota caved. With wet eyes, he looked at the stuff he gathered from the bathroom. He moved to stand on the couch by her side, parting her hair down what might be the middle and separating the two sides. Straining, he reached for the spray. Cupping her hairline as to not wet her face, Shota carefully sprayed her scalp until the frizzing volume gave in. He wet all the way down to the tip that rested in her lap. Collecting the wet side of the part in his hand, he dolloped her hair with the lotion the way he used to see her do it. It melted into her strands, coating the rancid smell with coconut oil and shea butter. He slathered until her tangled hair fell limp, freckled with white hair lotion. Picking up the dreaded hairbrush, he took extra care to be meticulous and careful with the detangling.
Yoko used to bark at him to sit still for this part. But he didn't want to make Mama howl in pain. So, he brushed from the bottom to the top, gripping the midstream of her hair as hard as he could. Hurting Mama was the worst thing he could do.
It took a long time, and Shota's arms were screaming for mercy. His stomach growled so bad he almost wanted the boggy cereal and room temperature milk that still sat by the TV. But he looked over to see Maisie with her tongue dipping in and out of it.
She needs it more than I do, he thought, turning his attention back to his motionless mother.
He worked out the last of the tangles when he finally gathered the nerve to speak up. "Is this better?" He gently dragged the brush against her scalp, the way he adored, especially when Daddy did it. A pang in his heart, but he ignored it for now. Leaning to the side a bit to look at Mama, he asked again, "All right?"
Her eyes welled up, though she gave no other reaction. Seeing this, Shota stopped and felt his own heart lurch.
"D-did I hurt you?" He waited. "Mummy?" The silence. Watching her staring, no trace of a smile or anything close to a response at all, his heart protested against his ribs. His palms grew livid with frigid sweat. Strangling the brush handle in one hand, he gave his best frown and shouted, "Mama!"
Finally, his mother flinched and sent him a cutting glare. "No, Shota. Quiet."
"Okay!" His heart doubled in speed and force. His brain told him to stop being rude to his mother. But his rage, where it came from—his stomach, maybe, by the way it was curling—told him that Mama needed to be yelled at. His frown disappeared with the same worried pout that naturally remained on his face these days. Next, the other side of the hair in her hair. He moved around her and repeated the entire routine, cupping her hairline and all.
In entirety, he had spent almost two hours with his fidgeting brush strokes and meticulous eye for any sign of pain in his mother. At last, her hair had been tamed and fed. Shota's stomach growled again, but he looked at his work in curiosity more than pride. Mama just looked like a mermaid now—or a mop.
"I'm done now." He watched the side of her face, remembering how beautiful she was beneath all the sadness and anger and sauce. "You… look pretty." Seeing the wetness of her shirt, Shota gaped. The towel. He forgot the towel. "Oh." He looked at his mother's blank face, almost hoping that she would be mad. But also, not. "I'm sorry."
A lock of wet, well-conditioned hair fell in her face. Shota gingerly moved it back with the brush. Not much happened after that. Only a sad silence existed between son and mother. Shota stared out the window, at the harsh beams of sunlight against dewy grass and shining car metal. The house was still cold from the previous night, as Mama shut off the heater and told Shota not to touch it. My money is my money, was her reason. Shota had no idea what that meant, but didn't ask about it.
The neighbor's sprinklers shut off, and Shota's heart leapt in excitement. Daddy's rule: Once the neighbor's sprinklers are off, outside we go!
"Mama, can I play outside with Maisie, Mama?" An old habit. Shota pulled his mother's shirt. She sat still on the couch with that same pained, yet expressionless stare planted on her face. He placed his small hands on her arm and gave her a short, gentle push. More of a nudge. "Mama, can I go?"
She threw a hand at him. It struck his thigh. He cried out only once from shock more than pain and shriveled into himself on the couch. "Shota, will you stop?!" Yoko glared at him, merlot fogging her irises to near-gray now. "I don't care what you do! Just get out of my face!"
"Wh-…Where's Daddy?"
"Doesn't matter. Dead."
"Wh—" Shota's stomach dropped. "Dead…?"
"Gone." She disappeared into her room after that.
Shota knew better than to go outside when she said things like that—things that didn't mean yes or no. But things enough for her to lecture him if he did anything besides sit still and shut it. So, he grabbed a blanket and sat where his mother had, where the couch still held her warmth. Bundled up, he fought back tears and stared blankly at the television, poking the channel button without much care until another cartoon was found. Something called Family Guy. Maisie jumped into his lap and nestled her face into his chest. He absentmindedly pet the colored patches on her back and head.
He fell asleep watching one of the characters—a baby—punch and kick the talking dog in the bathroom. Stuff like that once scared Shota, but now… He couldn't help but hate them both the moment the dad strolled through the next batch of scenes. Least they had a dad…
By the late evening, Mama finally emerged, saw Shota half asleep on top of his favorite hippo stuffed animal, which was in dire need of washing, and stared at him a long time. He looked at her back, unmoving. Unsure what to do with her, about her.
Daddy was dead.
Dead because he wasn't home.
Home was safe.
And she took his home away.
Now he was dead.
Shota felt his eyes pulsing again, like they had on the schoolyard. He wanted her to stop saying things like that. Granddad said the dead were to be respected. She wasn't nice anymore, so she wouldn't care about respect. Mama wasn't safe. Shota felt the hair on his scalp prickle, itching to lift, with the small sting of his eyes. He wanted to tell her to beat it or something, like they did on the cartoon.
"We're going to see your grandparents," she slurred, chewing on a lock of wavy brown hair. Shota sat up immediately, hoping she would finally tell him what was going on and where his sister had gone since Daddy was dead. "I can't do this right now."
The beginning of another long cycle. Every day, almost, his mother said those same words: I can't deal with this now, or the worst one, Get out of my face. Then, Mama would disappear for hours and hours, and return smelling like that thick gray Shota had seen her boss blow from his mouth and that juice-sauce that once made Daddy stumble around and giggle too much. When he was here.
Shota had always thought sauce made things better; his father would always announce, even after bedtime, "Where's my favorite boy in the world?!" He would pick Shota up and toss him around really fast, scaring his grandparents, but it would turn the worst days to gold. The sound of their conjoined laughter would be enough to erase anything.
But the sauce made Mama mean and forgetful. And Shota learned to live silently, to never expect anything, to try to harden his skin against her open palm.
"Why don't you like me anymore?"
Stumbling, Mama turned back around with an expression of annoyance and aggravation. "What'd you just say?"
Shota hugged his toy closer. "I w-…want to stay with you."
"You need to go with your grandparents. Get your crap." She gestured at his toy. "I have a phone call to make."
"But…"
"Go."
—an hour later—
Mama's driving was too distracted these days. Shota's grandparents didn't live far from home, but Mama had been beeped at and cursed out at least five times. Each time, she threw up a middle finger or screamed back. She cut people off, she swerved into oncoming traffic at one point, and she even pulled out her cellphone to leave angry voicemails. To whom, Shota had no idea. Her manager, probably…
He came by the house once, and he and Mama went into Shota's parents' bedroom. Shota had been sent to bed early without dinner, but he couldn't sleep on account of the screaming on the other side of the small house. By morning, both of them were gone. Shota ate a stale breakfast on the floor with Maisie and watched Family Guy again. He didn't care that the show's father, son, baby, and dog were throwing up all over the house. It must have been better than cold and silence. It was enough to make him laugh every now and then.
Shota hugged his toy to his chest, gaping out the window at the swooshing of trees and buildings and how the blue of the ocean never seemed to end. Smooth crystal road seemed so much better than the hot rocky roads that cars had to drive on. Shota wondered if the ocean ever ended or if it got too congested with fish like the freeway did sometimes. But gazing at the line of sky and sea, he deduced against such thoughts. There had to be too much ocean, and the fish were too small. Whales couldn't even fill up all that wild water, Ms. Himari once said—but then again, she was a bitch. Mama said that once, but never explained to Shota what a bitch was, only that normal people should stay away from them. That aside, he was relieved that Longdon was an ocean town the more he thought about it. Crowds were dangerous—he used to always get lost in them. Daddy would yell his name over people talking and laughing. One time it took almost an hour for Daddy to find him because of all the noise.
But maybe some noise was good. Especially for Mama. She was a singer—noise was in her nature.
Granddad and Grandmum's house had too many vines up along the side of the chimney. They always said they'd ask the gardener to slice them down. But like Mama, they always forgot. Shota hated them—the vines. The wind always made them scratch, the rain sogged them to bends and the sun hardened them even tighter to the house, squeezing them. Shota thought they would eventually squeeze his grandparents into thin air, like the big snake in Harry Potter.
All too soon, he was unbuckled from the car seat, snatched in Mama's arms, and plopped in front of a familiar-smelling open door. He looked up at his grandparents and mother, though none of them looked at him. Subconsciously reaching for his mother's hand, he looked inside his grandparents' house and saw a large pot on the stove, the blue flame bursting. By the warm scent carried by the heater, it was udon. His stomach instantly growled.
"Watch Shota," Mama said. He looked up at her in panic, though the words weren't any newer than they had been at home. "I have a doctor's appointment."
Shota clung to her hand harder. Don't go.
Yoko pulled back. "Stop it. Can you watch him or not?"
Granddad looked at Shota, then Yoko. "Of course, but he wants you."
"I'm busy."
Don't leave me again.
"We're just cooking now."
"So, yes. You can watch him. Good."
Stay. Please, stay.
Mama tried to let go, but Shota only held on tighter. "Shota," she reprimanded. She pried his fingers from her hand. "Stop being difficult. Go with your grandparents and be good."
He already heard her or else. He moved away from her slowly, closer to his grandfather, but watching her the entire time. Just in case. He didn't know why, but it felt like the right thing to do. Granddad's thick hands scooped him up and carried him on a sturdy hip without even so much as a goodbye. Mama didn't seem to care.
Another door to be shut in his face.
##
Shota stared at the twitchy TV screen, where Blue and Steve had a slight greenish color that made them look like broccoli. The TV made this ringing sound that seemed to disappear after a while. The fan inside the living room blew a slow wind that seemed cool enough just as it nodded away. Beside him were two tiny plates—one stacked with peanut butter cookies, but only two to not spoil his appetite, and the other with skinned kiwi halves and a peeled banana. One from Granddad, one from Grandmum. Shota felt bad to do it, but he had forgotten about them altogether. He only worried about Mama and where she had gone, and if she was coming back. The banana sagged to brown, the kiwis sighed into soggy snot color. Ruined so easily.
Spongebob smashed his head through his pineapple's wall, and Granddad grunted at that. He muttered behind Shota, "What're they showing kids these days…? Bunch'a city snakes, sucking out all the innocence before the schools teach 'em how to write their names."
Grandmum from the kitchen: "The remote's there, dear."
"Eh, the pup's fine with it, seems like. You good there, Shota?" Shota looked at him over his shoulder, bravely at first before hunching over once eye contact was made. He hugged his hippo toy. Granddad raised his brows. "Not hungry?"
Shota nodded, but he did feel bad about wasting food, so he started to eat the cookies. Stuffed them down before anything else could be said.
Granddad eased his racing nerves with, "Mama'll be fine. She had to go to an appointment for her teeth."
"Her teeth?" Shota faced him now, stuffing his cheeks with fruit and cookies because it was polite. He had a dream once that Mama's teeth fell out of her mouth and made a run for the door. But that was back when she was always singing in the house.
Granddad chuckled. "Yeah, teeth. Like the ones you forgot to use just now. Take it easy." He nudged a paper napkin to the child, a slight frown that was believed to just be part of his face evident on a wrinkling brow. "Finish eating before you talk, yeah? Like a gentleman."
Shota's entire face turned red, but he nodded. Granddad could be funny, but he always meant business, too. He swallowed all the food in his mouth before muttering, "Sorry…"
Granddad smiled. "You're fine, pup. Now, what'd you want to say about your mama?"
"She…doesn't eat or anything, really," Shota remarked, an uplift of question in his tone. His grandfather thought in silence for a bit, troubled silence by the look of his furrowed brow. Gathering up enough bravery and confidence, Shota pushed, "She wants to be strong because Daddy's gone. But it's hard."
"Why's that, kiddo?" Granddad rested his cheek in his hand. He knew the answer already, as it was evident in the haziness in Mama's eyes and the weight loss of both mother and son.
Shota stared at him with his most grownup face. "Because Daddy's not good, so I have to be extra good." He perked up a bit, his hippo toy well-behaved on his lap. "And I learned how to brush her hair and make food and do laundry, and buy stuff."
"Oh, yeah?" Granddad asked, smiling, but in a pouting way.
"Mama's really sad and mad right now, 'spec'lly when I'm in the way..." Shota kneaded the hippo's thin tail between his fingers. "B-but I'm doing better!"
"I bet you are." Granddad's smile turned genuine. "Mama's lucky to have you around to watch her. Maybe…" He rubbed the back of his neck in that quiet moment. Shota wondered why. "Maybe Dad'll be back—"
"We don't need that bitch around."
His grandparents both paused. Exchanging looks, they gawked in question at how their sweet, shy grandson came to deem Yori Aizawa such a term. Not that the child was wrong, but parental instincts demanded their attention. "Sweetheart," Grandmum said, carefully. She hurried from the kitchen to stand behind Granddad, who stared at Shota in that unblinking way that made his eyes sharper. "Where did you hear that word?"
"It's obvious, Yoona." There was an angry laugh to his voice, like when Mama was yelling at Daddy that last day. Granddad lowered himself to the floor before Shota and eyed him intently. "Shota, listen to me."
Shota stared at him, knowing fully that his grandfather's listen-to-me's and look-here-young-man's meant a serious talk was coming. Meant he did something wrong. He shrugged himself into his body, holding the toy between himself and his grandfather in childlike worry.
His hands were pulled into bigger, warmer ones. "Your mother and your father are going through a really difficult time right now. But don't you doubt that you are loved." Granddad squeezed Shota's small hands, callused thumbs grazing over soft knuckles. "We—Grandmum and me—we love you so much… too much to let you say a bad word like that about Dad."
Shota's stomach dropped. "I-I'm sorry. D-d-didn't know..."
Understanding, Granddad scooped him up and held him for such a long time that he dozed off to the distant sounds of a fan and that TV ringing, but also to his grandfather's heartbeat.
He woke up in the car at the market—he recognized that giant bright orange sign written out across the top of the building, reading VAHN'S. Grandmum was pulling him out of the seat, unbuckling him from tons of seatbelts. "He's getting to be so big," she cooed, rubbing his back. "He's gonna be a strong, handsome young man."
He pushed his face into her neck, trying to ignore the boniness of her hip compared to Mama's and Granddad's. "Where's Mama?"
"She's… still busy, my love."
"Where's Mama?"
Granddad sighed, reaching for a cigarette, but putting it back quickly. "Shota, how about we go in there… and you can pick out whatever you want for dinner. And dessert." Shota looked at him under Grandmum's chin. Granddad was smiling, but in that stupid sad way Mama did before she got mean. "How about that? Maybe?" The smile changed into a softer one—Granddad's always had a great eye for detail.
Shota was little, he knew. But he knew more so that his grandparents knew that, and because of that they thought they could trick him. Too late. He'd already been changed by quiet and by noise since Daddy died. He was bigger, too big for his stubby body. So, because he knew how hard they were trying for him, he nodded. "Okay."
And it worked.
So, they journeyed inside, greeted by the trademark chill at every market's entrance and then by that slight fishy smell from the butchery in the back. Longdon was a fishing town—go figure! Ingredients picked for spicy chicken curry and coffee cake. Grandmum would make her special strawberry and kiwi lemonade. They talked on and on about how fun it's gonna be tonight, you'll see, pup, but for some reason Shota couldn't see it. He smiled when they glanced at him even with tears forming and sinking in his eyes. He held onto Granddad's pants until they finished picking fruit and herbs. He even tried to distract himself by poking at the stacked-high pyramid of the town's signature kiwis, tempting to pluck one in just the right area to bring it all to ruin. But Granddad tapped his rear lightly (more of an attention-grabber than a strike; Mama put her all into every hit whenever he got in trouble) and grabbed his tiny hand, and that was the end of that.
"Lots of people work hard to get those kiwis, y'know." Granddad explained while leading him back to Grandmum and the cart. "And a certain person went through hell try'na get 'em all stacked like that. Let's be respectful."
Shota nodded.
Granddad knelt down to his eye level, grunting the entire time against arthritis-ridden knees. "You must really like 'em, huh?"
Another nod and a short smile.
"Your granny's gonna make us some kiwi lemonade later." Granddad gave him a gentle Look. "But you behave or I'll put you in the cart like a baby." Shota frowned a little at that, but it only made his grandfather laugh and kiss his eyebrow.
Grandmum's voice jerked his attention: "Sheeran! Did you get the garam masala for the roux?"
"On it, my love." Granddad gave Shota a leveled look. "Stay with Grandmum. Understand?"
Letting his grandfather move his tiny hand to the cart, he nodded. "Yes, Granddaddy." With a final eyebrow-raise that meant stay, Granddad disappeared behind the bread aisle. Grandmum patted his head and went on with her list, muttering to herself. But even then, Shota's mind could only stick to his mother. Where was she? How could someone just disappear, someone as beautiful and gloomy as Mama? Someone had to see her.
Anyone.
He had to know. He was Mama's protector. He let go of the cart. Stepped back. And again. Granddad appeared again, having forgotten what Grandmum had told him to get, and stared at the bag of grapes in her hand.
Shota's heart raged on as he, watching his grandparents quarrel over the price—who cares if it's organic!—slipped behind the freezer aisle. He listened for his grandfather's brash voice, and as long as it continued on about the grapes, the coast was clear. He hurried out of the store, ignoring the greeter who asked in an adoring voice, "And where are you headed, li'l guy? Aren't you the cutest!"
He felt bad for not answering, or even looking at her, but he had to go. If everyone was just going to lie to him, he'd find Mama himself.
##
Shota stopped running by the time he got to the next street, small legs aching and lungs burning. He knew his grandparents would notice he was gone. He had to hurry to Mama before they scooped him back up and whispered that he was too young to do this and that, or this with that. He knew—knew—what he was doing. And if he didn't, he still had to do something to find Mama. No one else took care of Mama like he could. He learned how to do hair, to cook, to move quietly late in the night to do laundry, and to stop crying in an instant for her. He knew how to buy things at the market, how to start a car and put it in drive and park, how to answer the phone and take information. All for Mama. He'd learn more for her. He would never stop learning for her.
He made it to nearly the next town—or at least, he thought—before he was grabbed in a crushing hug and heard his grandmother's teary voice. "Pup, where were you?! Do you know how worried we were?"
Shota scrambled out of her arms. "Y- Liar! Both of you!" The anger felt good, too good for a fraction of a moment. He glared at them both. "You lied!"
Granddad snatched his hands with a gentle, but firm grip, sending a stern look his way. "Look, little man, you're not in the place to be giving us crap. That is not okay, and neither is wandering off when you know better!"
Shota flinched in defeat, eyes shooting wide and instantly filling with tears of fright. His entire resolve shattered with just that disappointed look in his grandfather's eyes. Granddad's disappointed voice and the way he never quite let himself yell were enough to bluntly tell Shota he had royally screwed up. He sniffled and looked at his scuffed shoes. He frowned to fend off the tears, or hoping to.
Noting the teary eyes and wobbling chin, Granddad sighed and lowered his voice for a much quieter, stern one. "Now, answer your grandmother. Nicely."
"Sheeran, it's fine." Grandmum straightened her purse, hugging it to her hip as if it were a toy. She, too, took notice of their grandson's silent irritation. She nearly reached out to hold him close when Granddad spoke again.
"Shota Aizawa, now."
Shota stared at his grandfather's shirt, scowling. He wanted to scream at them, to scare them with his voice and words so that they'd go away and let him be. But he loved them, and he knew they loved him. The kind thought brought more tears to his eyes, and the irritation of Mama leaving him and them lying about it brought even more. They fell before he could stop them. "Mama," was all he could manage he hugged himself and fell victim to sorrows much too large for his full understanding.
Granddad sighed, dropping his parental frown for a worried look. He exchanged a glance at Grandmum before guiding the weeping child into his arms and scooping him up. Shota locked his arms around his grandfather's neck, and pushed his face into his chest. Granddad gently rubbed his back and hissed over his head, "Call that girl. She can't be doing this to him."
Moments later, Grandmum said, coming over to pet Shota's hair, "She's turned off her phone. Or it's dead."
Granddad growled, now bouncing and swaying Shota. "Well, shit."
"Let's get the baby home," Grandmum said, getting the keys from her husband's pocket. "Call her again later."
They started walking, and Granddad gently rubbed Shota's back and craned his neck to look at him. "How about some food? What'cha wanna eat?" Shota glanced at him before shoving his face back into his grandfather's chest. "Ramen, it is!" Granddad sat in the back of the car with him on the drive to the best ramen joint in Longdon. He held the boy to his chest and let him sleep there the entire time, illegal or not.
At the restaurant, Shota guiltily apologized to his grandmother for calling her a liar and, to punish himself, told her not to feed him. His grandmother simply knelt down and kissed his nose. "I just think you were really, really hungry. Your grandpa gets cranky, too, whenever he needs to eat!" That made him smile a little.
After, they took him to the closest park with a lake and let him run around with the geese until he got a food cramp. But he didn't care. Grandmum chased him around the water, tickling him when she caught up. And Granddad swooped him high in the air, let the geese poke at his feet, and taught him how to properly feed them roots and grass. His laughter burst from its cage and mingled with the spring breeze the entire time.
After two weeks, Mama showed up. She looked and smelled like the sauce, but on someone's tongue. But her first words were not: There's my baby boy! They were: I met someone!
Granddad sent her a sharp look. "Yes, you have. His name's Shota. He's your only son, and he's missed the hell out of you."
Yoko curled her nose at him in annoyance. "Screw off, Dad."
Grandmum gently herded her inside by the shoulders. "You look like you need something to eat." She pulled a worriedly disgusted face. "And a shower."
Mama shoved passed her hold and into the house, kicking off her shoes and looking around. She finally saw him. "There you are. Mama's back." Shota stared at her from the other side of the living room, freshly bathed, fed, lotion-ed, combed, and wrapped in a wool blanket in front of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. Mama actually smiled. "You been good?"
"I think." To his own surprise, Shota was calm. He'd thought he'd run straight for Mama's arms, even if she pushed him away. But he remained cocooned in the blanket without another thought about her being here.
Granddad had not yet let up on his pointed scowl. "He's been a joy to have around. Well-behaved, well-mannered, surprisingly a great cook for a five-year-old."
Straightening the tossed-aside shoes, Grandmum cooed, "Absolutely adorable…"
Granddad stared Mama down. "But somehow, he's gotten it into his head that asking for anything at all deems him a burden."
Yoko waved a hand at him, rolling her head around on her neck to crack. Her long wavy hair had been chopped to nearly half its original length. "He's always been the anxious type." Grandmum stared at her neck, which for some reason, housed several… Shota deduced them to be bug bites. "Shy like a girl. You know."
"He was trembling just to ask me for a glass of water."
"He's just that type! Shove off!"
"A glass of water!
"I know my child!"
"Why is he scared shitless of you then?!"
Grandmum gasped, "Sheeran!"
"—He's fine!" Mama turned to Shota quickly. "Hey, are you fine?"
Shota looked between his mother, his grandfather, and his grandmother, hurriedly. He shrunk into the blanket, not knowing at all what to say or why everyone was suddenly yelling. "Yeah. I'm fine."
Granddad cut off her view of him, eyes blaring and an expression of protective anger. He guided Mama away and toward the kitchen. "He's missed you. Of all the stupid things you've done, Yoko, this has to take the cake!" He made her sit at the table with him, continuing his lecture and its intensity in privacy. But Shota knew what trouble looked like. Nevertheless, he turned back to the TV, his toy snuggled in his arms under the blanket.
They didn't stop arguing until Grandmum extended an olive branch as she stared out the window into the backyard. "Did you know he could sing?"
That brought Mama pause—both in volume and pride. All emotion exited her again. But this time, her eyes were bright, swooshing around. She even smiled once.
Granddad berated Mama to bring him to their house more often. Lectured her about her phone dying and about Shota's outburst to find her while at the market. Shota thought he'd be in trouble, but instead, Mama said nothing. Granddad insisted that she bring him by every weekend.
Mama agreed. But when they got home, her and Shota, she lifted him under the arms and held him close to her gin-reeking face with a vodka-stinking smile. "You really are something special to me, baby boy." She kissed his cheek and neck, making him laugh and squirm around.
Shota had no idea what she meant. But he threw his arms around her and nestled his face in her hair.
Please R&R!