"It's been years since I made this," she said afterward, nodding at the pan brimming triumphantly with tater tots.
"It's been years since I had it."
She scooped out a serving for him.
"How is the counseling going with you and Alina?"
He bit his lip, then carefully chewed through a bite of food to give himself time to think about how to answer.
"Not great," he finally admitted.
"We had a fight last week.
I don't even know if she'll be at the session tomorrow night."
She looked genuinely concerned.
"Oh, honey, I'm so sorry."
"Me too.
The stupid thing is that it was all me, being stupid.
She's been wonderful with me.
Very patient.
I need to meet her halfway."
He was surprised to hear himself telling her so much.
"I thought you said before she was rushing you?"
She had good reason.
She's pregnant,
he almost said.
But he didn't want to tell his mom that much.
It would result in too many questions Ian wouldn't have the answers to.
"I think she had good reasons.
And it doesn't matter.
I don't like the way I've been treating her, so it's going to stop."
She had a quizzical look on her face, but she let it go.
Behind her, Jesus gazed on.
"Well, I've been praying for both of you.
I know this has been really hard."
They ate in silence.
Ian wanted to say "thank you," because he knew praying was her way of expressing support, but he didn't want to encourage her, either.
So he said nothing.
"I miss him, too, you know.
Every day," she said finally.
Ian was surprised by this.
He hadn't let Alex near his mother, except on holidays and family events.
The prospect of the boy coming home, spewing some nonsense about how he or his family would be going to hell if they didn't start speaking in tongues, repulsed him.
And he'd known that trying to bring up his reservations with her was a lost cause.
"I'm sorry you didn't get to see him more often," he said.
That was safe, wasn't it?
Even if it wasn't completely true.
She gave him a sad smile.
"He had your father's eyes, you know.
That's where he got that blue."
Ian returned it.
"I know."
She'd told him this theory before.
The whole time growing up, Ian hadn't cared that his father had left them.
It was irrelevant.
The man hadn't been integral to their lives, obviously.
Ian had never met him.
He hadn't harbored a secret grudge, or a fuming inner heart of rage, or an unfulfilled longing to meet him, or any of the other clichés.
He simply hadn't cared.
One night when he'd crept in to check on Alex, he'd promised the sleeping boy he would see him in the morning.
Suddenly, he'd realized what his own father had truly done.
It was like driving headlong off a cliff.
How could you do that?
he had wondered.
He'd gazed at his son, small and vulnerable in the dark, and his heart frothed with outrage.
What kind of asshole would you need to be?
"They still ask about you at church."
He realized he'd been staring at the Jesus picture, and focused again on his mother.
"You remember Jim Bentley?
You used to play with him all the time.
He still asks about you."
Ian had been friends with Jim Bentley when they were six years old.
"Mom..."
"I know, I know."
She raised her hands in mock surrender.
"It's just so hard to see you like this, Ian.
It's like you're adrift at sea.
You need a rudder."
Regurgitated bullshit.
He drew a deep breath.
Let it out.
Not a sigh; a calm step away from a precipice.
"I've been praying for you every day since -"
He'd needed that one moment of space, that instant to center and calm down.
Her invasion of it kicked him off balance.
He snapped.
"Mom, I really don't want to do this.
It's not why I came over here."
"Anyone can see you're in pain, Ian.
I just want -"
"Of course I'm in pain, mom!
My son is dead and my wife left me!
Is Jesus gonna bring Alex back to life?
Because if not, I'm really not interested!"
"He can help you with Alina.
And He can help you with the pain."
Ian put a trembling hand to his forehead.
He felt like an idiot.
What had he expected?
If he wanted good company and quiet reflection, he should've called Derek.
"Mom, I don't want to do this," he repeated, fighting to stay calm.
"Please.
I don't want to fight about this.
I'm thirty-four, for -"
He'd been about to say,
For Christ's sake.
"I've made up my mind.
All right?
And we can't spend the rest of our lives with you hounding me all the time.
You need to figure out how to respect the fact that I'm an atheist."
The word stabbed into the air like a knife.
Growing up, it might as well have been
satanist,
or
serial killer.
He had never admitted it so baldly to her.
"I don't harass you constantly about being a Christian," he went on, trying to rush past the sudden pain in her eyes.
"I can respect your beliefs, even if I don't share them, and I understand that it was hard for you after my dad left, and the church was there for you.
See?
I don't believe it, any more, but I can respect it.
I just... can you do the same?
Can we talk, without..."
Without all this bullshit?
"Oh, Ian," she mourned.
"How did you get so lost?"
He felt a tight knot of rage clench in the back of his throat.
He clamped his lips closed around it.
"Lost"?
How the fuck did you get so
stupid
?
You're a smart woman, why do you just devour every ounce of bullshit they send your way?
How did I get "lost"?
How about when Alex was kidnapped less than three blocks away, and raped, and shot in the face?
How about when Alex had to kill the kidnapper himself, since no one was there to fucking help him?
He wouldn't say that, he
wouldn't
, because it would turn him into the classic Wounded Sinner, and she would see hope for him.
She would think she just needed to explain that we can't understand, that God always has reasons, that it doesn't mean God doesn't love us.
He wanted to break things; his hands twitched with the need to do it.
He wanted to rail and scream.
He refused.
He was done with that.
He was
done.
Instead, he said, "Well, let me put it in terms you can understand.
"God told Abraham to kill his own son.
He threatened him, to make him do it.
Abraham took his boy to the top of the mountain and he would've done it.
He would've
killed his own son
, but God finally said, 'Just kidding' and let him off the hook."
She was shaking her head.
"That's not how -"
He kept his voice level, but he raised it to be heard over her.
"I will not serve that God, I will not pray to that God, and I will not acknowledge that God.
I would rather burn in hell."
Silence.
Finally.
"Thank you for dinner," he said, and grabbed his coat.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
He didn't blame her; he blamed himself.
But he was still furious.
His speed inched upwards: sixty, then sixty-five, then seventy.
The limit was forty-five.
Suddenly he remembered his accident, and practically slammed on the brakes until he was at a legal speed.
The drive home took about forty minutes.
By the time he walked in the front door, he'd realized that despite storming out on his mother, he'd held his temper pretty well.
No tantrum, no screaming, no smashing anything.
He snorted as he flipped on the light.
Almost like a grown man.
Of course, he hadn't left on good terms, but what the hell.
Just because he was trying to be more level-headed didn't mean he had to sit there and listen to her bullshit.
He could respect her beliefs; she had to respect his.
It was that simple.
He loved his mom, but he wasn't going back to her church.
It was about quarter after seven.
He paused in the dining room, remembering how he'd been planning earlier to do a little more checking up on Kelly.
But Alex had said,
"It's all wrong
."
So he went back to the living room instead, and tried to find something to watch.
Alex came in around eight, in worn jeans and a backwards t-shirt.
"Daddy," he said, "I think I'm getting so tired."
He'd only ever said that once.
Ian remembered it immediately, because he and Alina had looked at each other as if their son had just announced he'd acquired his driver's license.
"Tired?" Ian asked.
"Do you feel okay?"
"Yeah.
I feel okay.
But I'm only getting so tired.
Is it time for bed yet?"
They'd checked his head then, and found him burning up.
He'd gotten Tylenol, several kisses, and an early bedtime.
But Ian couldn't check his head now.
Despite that, he felt certain he knew what Alex was trying to say.
He wetted his lips, trying to imagine a response that might allow Alex to clarify.
"You can go to bed whenever you need to, pal."
"I need to go to bed soon.
Okay, Dad?"
Whatever Alex wanted Ian to do, time was running out.
When Alex left, Ian went downstairs, and stayed up re-reviewing his notes until he started nodding off at the keyboard.
In bed that night, his thoughts swirled as he waited for sleep:
Donnie went off the road, I don't like that black hat, Where is Mr. Tuskers?
When he fell asleep, his brain assembled dreams to try and fit the pieces together.
Alex asked about Mr. Tuskers over and over, each request growing more urgent, and Ian realized that the toy was critical, though he couldn't imagine why.
Why should he brush off the only concrete request his son had made, the only one Ian could actually comprehend how to fulfill?
There was no harm in finding Tuskers, certainly, and it might be more important than he could understand.
His dreaming self resolved to find the stuffed toy as soon as he woke, if he could.
Later, Alex screamed in the car.
"
What's that noise?"
The sharpness of his shriek made Ian want to scream back, but he realized he had no point of reference for that event.
He could place everything else Alex had ever said, could remember the exact moment the boy had spoken while he was alive, but not that.
What
was
that noise?
It tickled at the back of his mind, but he couldn't grasp it.