Aches and Pains

Missing in action.

First published by Mom Egg Review, Volume 17 (2019). Print and PDF.

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Anne’s phone, flat on the conference table, flickers. Her glance lingers and when she looks up, five sets of opposing eyes have engaged hers. She veers back to work and says, “In my opinion, unit price must come in below four dollars.”

Across the table, Ted says, “But that’s not what I’m hearing if we want profit. Cost of goods alone—”

Outside the conference room, Ted says, “Everything okay, Anne?”

She holds up her phone. “The school nurse. Asshole should be dealing with this but he’s MIA.”

“Well, do what you have to,” says Ted, “but would you call in later?”

Anne’s halfway to Edgewood Middle when her phone buzzes and her ex’s soft baritone drifts from the car’s speakers. “My humble apologies, Annie. I just now got to my messages.”

Anne says, “You are supposed to be—”

“I know, of course, but how can I predict that Brendon needs an early pickup.”

“Where exactly are you? Can you get to the school?”

“I’m afraid I’m on a job, out at the beach.”

The car ahead stops for a yellow light forcing Anne to jam her brakes. “Asshole,” she says.

“Now, Annie, is that called for?”

Laugh or cry, take her choice. Anne wonders about the job site, the White Horse Tavern? Buddy’s Cave? “Have you been drinking?” she says. A stupid question, a rhetorical question, the answer the same no matter the level of toxicity.

“Annie, please, give me a break. You think I’d be drinking then picking up our child. I got a chance for some work.” His sincerity flows from the speakers like honey on waffles, engendering a flash of remorse, until Anne remembers past declarations. His standing in front of her, lolling from side to side, lolling front to back, filling the foyer with brackish blasts of alcohol, saying you’re always accusing me. Why are you always accusing me?

The school nurse says, “No temp. He complains of stomach cramps.”

“What do you think?”

“Tylenol. If he keeps complaining, take him into emergency.”

Tylenol. A possible trip to emergency. Brendon leans over his seat belt. “It really hurts, Mom.” He has deep brown hair like her ex, a long face and snub nose, like the same.

“I’ll run the pricing again when I get home,” Anne tells Ted on speaker. “Okay, see you tomorrow.”

Anne opens the front door to the narrow townhouse, living and kitchen down, two bedrooms up. If he asks for a snack, Anne tells herself, or even looks at the kitchen, I swear I’ll swat him. But Brendon takes to the stairs. Anne follows his progress to the upper landing and into his bedroom, then settles at the kitchen table and opens her laptop.

Anne’s ears perk to movement between bedroom and bathroom. She goes back to her spreadsheet.

For five minutes, Anne has heard no movement. She slips away from table and computer, slips up the stairs, and surveys the closed bathroom door. She allows another sixty seconds, then approaches and knocks. “Brendon, are you okay?”

Brendon’s reply comes in high volume and a plaintive whine. “Mom.”

Anne backs away, returns downstairs, returns to pricing. She’s more sure than ever that the units must stay below four dollars.

The toilet flushes. Footsteps: bathroom to bedroom. Anne waits a minute and again ascends the stairs. She taps Brendon’s door and it swings inward half a foot. Another tap and Anne inserts her head. Brendon lies on his bed on his back. He says, “I feel better, Mom.”

Anne wants to ask if he washed his hands but forces herself to let the query pass. She says, “I don’t mean to be nosy, Brendon. I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“I think I’m okay now.”

Anne stands in the doorway for a reassuring ten seconds. As she turns away, Brendon says, “Mom?”

She turns back.

“I’m sorry I dragged you out of work.”

Anne waves her hand. “Oh Brendon. That’s not a problem.”