Age 16
The house was quiet, 2am quiet. He'd been asleep for an hour or two, but Bobby snapped awake at the knock on the door. He'd become an accomplished light sleeper these last few years. His surroundings were momentarily unfamiliar; he glanced around with the beginnings of panic until he remembered he had stayed the night with a friend. He glanced around again, trying to determine what it was that had woken him up, then he heard it again, knocking, only this time it was softer, and on the bedroom door. A sliver of light fell across the bedroom floor, and into Bobby's eyes. His friend's father stood in the doorway. "Bobby? You're dad's here, he needs to see you." His tone of voice was quiet, sympathetic. Bobby had heard the tone before, and knew it was about his mother.
Throwing his feet over the side of the bed, he pulled on his shoes, cursing himself under his breath for having left her. She'd insisted, promised him she'd be all right for the night. She'd been so much better lately, he'd been able to keep her on her medication and he'd taken her to all her doctor appointments, he had wanted so badly to believe it would be ok from now on. His father's arrival proved to him that wasn't going to be. He shrugged into his jacket and walked into the hall, unable to meet the eyes of his friends' father. The father he wished he had.
"Dad?" Bobby said as he walked into the living room.
"Bob." George Goren stood in the middle of the room, his hands in his jacket pockets, as if he didn't know what else to do with them, or to hide the shaking, Bobby could never be sure. He took them out now, as he approached Bobby, and placed them on his son's shoulders. Bobby fought against his instinct to shrug him off. "Bob." He licked his lips, trying to think of a way to say what he had to say. "She's in the hospital." He paused for a moment, and realized Bobby's panic was rising. "No, no, she's ok. Really, she's ok. But she wants you there."
Bobby only nodded his understanding; he couldn't make his voice slip past the lump in his throat. Silently the two of them walked out the door to the car at the curb. Lipstick tainted cigarette butts littered the ashtray, and Bobby could smell that familiar blend of cheap musk, tequila, sweat, horse manure and an underlying scent of what Bobby would only later know was sex. He opened the window, taking a deep breath of fresh air.
About a block down the road, Bobby broke the silence. "What'd she do?" His father's hands gripped the steering wheel tighter and he glanced over at his son. It was a dark night, no moon, no stars, and Bobby's face was just a shadow against shadows.
"The police told me."
"The POLICE?"
"Yes, sorry, the police. She was walking outside." he paused, considering how much his son needed to know, he took a deep breath when he realized he had to tell him everything. "She wasn't wearing any clothes, Bob." He glanced over again, but was still unable to see Bobby's face; he turned his attention back to the road as he continued. "She was ranting as she went down the sidewalk."
"What was she saying?"
"What does that matter?"
"IT MATTERS, OK?"
The elder Goren took a quick glance in the rearview mirror and slammed on the breaks, bringing the car to a complete stop right in the middle of the road. He threw the car into park and turned roughly toward his son. Off in the distance, a dog began to bark.
"Don't you take that tone with me. I am your father." Bobby let out a noise that was half grunt, half laugh. George sighed deeply, letting the breath out loudly as he sank back into the car seat. He propped his left elbow on the window ledge and rubbed his hands over his eyes. Without realizing it, Bobby too rubbed his hands over his eyes then waited impatiently for his father to start driving again.
"Bobby." George paused, trying to find the words. "You're to young to understand." Bobby interrupted, "Can we just go, please?"
Another deep sigh came from the drivers seat. "Yeah. We'll go."
The next two miles passed in silence. Bobby stared out his window looking at all the dark storefronts and apartment windows, wondering what other people's lives were like. He'd almost hypnotized himself when the sudden sound of his fathers voice made him jump.
"Jimmy Carter." George said.
"What?"
"That's what she was screaming about, Jimmy Carter. How her hairdresser is hatching a plot to kill President Carter."
Bobby listened, his head turned away from the window, staring at his father with stunned eyes. Screaming. She'd been screaming. It echoed in his mind. Screaming. Screaming. He realized his father had been right, it didn't matter what she had been saying, all that mattered is that she had been screaming. And he hadn't been there for her.
The house was quiet, 2am quiet. He'd been asleep for an hour or two, but Bobby snapped awake at the knock on the door. He'd become an accomplished light sleeper these last few years. His surroundings were momentarily unfamiliar; he glanced around with the beginnings of panic until he remembered he had stayed the night with a friend. He glanced around again, trying to determine what it was that had woken him up, then he heard it again, knocking, only this time it was softer, and on the bedroom door. A sliver of light fell across the bedroom floor, and into Bobby's eyes. His friend's father stood in the doorway. "Bobby? You're dad's here, he needs to see you." His tone of voice was quiet, sympathetic. Bobby had heard the tone before, and knew it was about his mother.
Throwing his feet over the side of the bed, he pulled on his shoes, cursing himself under his breath for having left her. She'd insisted, promised him she'd be all right for the night. She'd been so much better lately, he'd been able to keep her on her medication and he'd taken her to all her doctor appointments, he had wanted so badly to believe it would be ok from now on. His father's arrival proved to him that wasn't going to be. He shrugged into his jacket and walked into the hall, unable to meet the eyes of his friends' father. The father he wished he had.
"Dad?" Bobby said as he walked into the living room.
"Bob." George Goren stood in the middle of the room, his hands in his jacket pockets, as if he didn't know what else to do with them, or to hide the shaking, Bobby could never be sure. He took them out now, as he approached Bobby, and placed them on his son's shoulders. Bobby fought against his instinct to shrug him off. "Bob." He licked his lips, trying to think of a way to say what he had to say. "She's in the hospital." He paused for a moment, and realized Bobby's panic was rising. "No, no, she's ok. Really, she's ok. But she wants you there."
Bobby only nodded his understanding; he couldn't make his voice slip past the lump in his throat. Silently the two of them walked out the door to the car at the curb. Lipstick tainted cigarette butts littered the ashtray, and Bobby could smell that familiar blend of cheap musk, tequila, sweat, horse manure and an underlying scent of what Bobby would only later know was sex. He opened the window, taking a deep breath of fresh air.
About a block down the road, Bobby broke the silence. "What'd she do?" His father's hands gripped the steering wheel tighter and he glanced over at his son. It was a dark night, no moon, no stars, and Bobby's face was just a shadow against shadows.
"The police told me."
"The POLICE?"
"Yes, sorry, the police. She was walking outside." he paused, considering how much his son needed to know, he took a deep breath when he realized he had to tell him everything. "She wasn't wearing any clothes, Bob." He glanced over again, but was still unable to see Bobby's face; he turned his attention back to the road as he continued. "She was ranting as she went down the sidewalk."
"What was she saying?"
"What does that matter?"
"IT MATTERS, OK?"
The elder Goren took a quick glance in the rearview mirror and slammed on the breaks, bringing the car to a complete stop right in the middle of the road. He threw the car into park and turned roughly toward his son. Off in the distance, a dog began to bark.
"Don't you take that tone with me. I am your father." Bobby let out a noise that was half grunt, half laugh. George sighed deeply, letting the breath out loudly as he sank back into the car seat. He propped his left elbow on the window ledge and rubbed his hands over his eyes. Without realizing it, Bobby too rubbed his hands over his eyes then waited impatiently for his father to start driving again.
"Bobby." George paused, trying to find the words. "You're to young to understand." Bobby interrupted, "Can we just go, please?"
Another deep sigh came from the drivers seat. "Yeah. We'll go."
The next two miles passed in silence. Bobby stared out his window looking at all the dark storefronts and apartment windows, wondering what other people's lives were like. He'd almost hypnotized himself when the sudden sound of his fathers voice made him jump.
"Jimmy Carter." George said.
"What?"
"That's what she was screaming about, Jimmy Carter. How her hairdresser is hatching a plot to kill President Carter."
Bobby listened, his head turned away from the window, staring at his father with stunned eyes. Screaming. She'd been screaming. It echoed in his mind. Screaming. Screaming. He realized his father had been right, it didn't matter what she had been saying, all that mattered is that she had been screaming. And he hadn't been there for her.